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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 KOli LO Author o UOliEHTSON'S OHEAF SEI?,I ' S ed the never-ending stream of bootheel» passing and repassing the dingy panes of glass, aad waxed, from a country-lass of seventeen, to a strong-armed, sallow-faced young woman of twenty-four ; and all the K/ LOST FOR A WOMAN. TomaQoo of life that ever came near he" to brighten 'the dull drab nt every day, waa oontaiaed in the ' awful ' nice stories de- voured in every spare moment left her in the busy oaravanaera of her aunt Samantha Hopkins. The rain patters a^ain<)t the glass ; the twiliirht deepens. Jemima Ann has to strain her eve<4 to catoh the last entrancing gentenoea of chapter tive. The ankles that Bourry past are mudily, the skirts bedraggled. -Jemimi Ann wishes they were fewer ; they come between her and the last bleak rays of light. A melancholy autumnal wind rises, and blows some whirling dead leaves down the area : the gutter just outsiae swells to a miniature torrent, anil has quite the romantic roar of a small river, Jemima Ann pensively thinks Even she can read no more. She lays down her tattered book with a deep sigh of regret, prop^ her elbows on her knees, sinks her chin in her palms, and gazes sentimentally upward at the greenish ca'sement. I c is nearly time to go and light the gas in the front hall and dining-room, she opines. The men will be here directly, all shouting out together for warm water and more soap, and another towel, and — be dashed to you ! Then there is cold corned-beef to be cut up for supper, and broad out iu great slices from four huge homemade loaves, and the stewed apples to be got out, and the tea put to draw, and "ter that to be poured, and after that, and ,e into the weary watches of the night, iiishes to be washed, and the table reset fur to-morrow's breakfast Jemima Ann sighs again, and this time it is not for the patrician sorrows of the lovely Duchess Isoline. In a general way she has not much time for melancholy musings. The life of Mrs. Hopkins' ' help ' does not hold manv gaps for reflection. It is a breathless, dizzying round and rash— one long 'dem- nition grind,' from week's end to week's end. And perhaps it is best that it should be so ; else even Jemima Ann. patient, plod- ding, strong of arm, stout of heart, sweet of temper, willing of mind, might go slowly melancholy mad. * It would be awful pleasant to be like they are in stories,' muses Jemima Ann, still blinking upward at the gray squares of blurr- ed light, • and have azure eyes, and golden Presses, and wear white Swiss and sweeping silks all the year round, and have lovely IKnArdsmen and dukes and things, to gaee at B person passionately, and lift a person's hand to their lips.' Jemima Ann lifts one of her own, a red right hand, at this point, and surveys it. It is not particularly clean ; it has no nails to speak of ; it is nearly as largp, and altogether as hard, as that of any of the foundry 'hands;' and she sighs a third sigh, deepest and dolefullest of alL There are hands and hanrls ; the impossibil- ity of any mortal man, in his senses, ever wanting to lift this hand to his lips, comes well home to her in this hour. The favour'te ' gulf ' of her novel lies between her and such airy, fairy beings as the Duchess Iso- line And yet Jemima Ann fairly revels in the British aristocracy. Nothing lens than a baron^lb can content her. No heioine under the rank of ' my lady ' can greatly interest her. Pictures of ordinary every-day life, of ordinal y every-day people, pall upon the highly seaflimed palate of Jemima Ann. Her own life is so utterly unlovely, so grinding in its sordid tigliness, that she will have no reflection of it in her favourite literature. Dickens fails to interest her. His men and women talk and act, and are but as shadowy r3flections of those she meets every day. ' Nothing Dickens ever wrote,' says Jemima .Ann, with conviction, 'is to be named in the same dav with the ' Doom of the Duchess,' or ' The Belle of Belgravia.' The darkness deepens, the rain falls, the wind of the autumn night si;h< Hookins, I were the lai a vexed w thini;, and that. Rogi says all the and raises miss right says. And he knows ] like to oV)li{ dear little neifhbour 1 furder tirst •Oh, An says Jem in: lady. Nej nun is the st Ty.' ' No I s responds ; own sex ^ started in i — ladies th table boa girls, and One wonia six foundr; iron wante to riace on i gsin a b and findini of the but So I soon I up my mi foundry hi lots of soa hair oil wl let him plenty of he may gr go mussin proper hoi and that's « Did y< ma Ana, i •Mr. R no for an eveuin,' r his Vtreakfast, and though he may grumble about the victuals, he don't go mussin' with his linen at all sorts of im- proper hours. I won't have the circus woman, and that's all about it ' * Did you tell Mr. Rogers so ?' asks Jemi- ma Ana, rather disappointed. * Mr. Rogers is ayidyit ; be wouldn't take no for an answer. ' I'll step round this evenin,' «ays the grinning old fool, ' and bring the lady with me, Mrs. Hopkins. You won't be able to say no to her — no one ever is. I know the supper and six and-twenty foundry hands is lyin' heavy on your mind at the present moment,' says he, ' and your nat'rel Bweetness of disposition,' he snys, 'tis a trifle cruddled by 'em. Yes; I never t-ee such an old rattletongue. But he'll fcp I Let him fetch his Lord sskes, Jemima Ann ! there's them men, and not so much as a drop o' tea put to dror ! Run lik« mad, and light the gas 1' Jemima Ann literally obeys. She flics up stairs like a whirlwind, sees a mntch to the hall gas, and has it blazing as the front door is flung wide, and the foundry hands, Vdnck, hungry, noisy, muddy, troop in. and up stairs, or out back to the general ' WMsh'us ' There is no more time for talking;, for thinkintr, hardly for breathing— surh a multiplicity of things are to be done, and ail, it seems, to be done »it once. Hut water, soap, towels — the tocsin of war rings loudly up stairs and down and in their various chambers. Gas is lit, the long table set, knives rubbed, bn ad cut, meat sliced, chairs placed — all is confusion. Babel condensed. J< mima Ann waits. Coarto jokes rain about her, a dozen voices call on her at once, demanding a dozen different things, and she is - somethin^ed — at intervils, for lacking as many hands as Briareus. But mofHy it all falls harmlesH and balf-r.nheard. Sha is re- gretting vaguely that lost circuR lady. Since she may never be a duchess, nor even, in all human probabdity, a 'my lady,' it strikes Mrs. Hopkins' niece the next best thing would be to turn circus rider, or be- come a gipsy and tell fortunes. To wear a scarlet cloak, to wander about the ' merry green wood,' to tell fortunes at fairs, to shep under a cart or a hed^ie. in the ' hotel of the benutiful stars'— this would he bliss! Not that scarlet is in the least becoming to her, and to sleep under a henge -say, on n night like this— would not be quite unadulterated bliss might even be coniiucive to premature rheumatism. But to go jumping along one's life path through paper hoops, on flying Arab steeds, in ganze and spangles, — oh I that would be a little ahead of perpetual tea- pouring, bread-cutting, bed making for six- and-twenty loud-voiced, rough-louking f undry men. She has been to a circus just once, she re- members, and saw some lovely creatures, in very short petticoats, galloping round a saw- dust ring in dizzying circles, ou the bare backs of five Arab steeds at once, leaping over banners and through fiery hoops', and kissing Hnger-tips, and throwing radiant soules to the audience. wemima Ann feels she could never reach suoh a pitch of perfection .is that. Her legs (if these members may be thus lightly spoken of) are not of that sylph-like sort a- to* o a LOHT FOR A WOMAN. floulptor would piiiH to iminnrtalize in marble. She wears a wide nnmher seven, and her instflp has not the Andalosian arch, under whioh water may ilow. In point of fact, Jemima ia fiat-footad. In no way does the Bvmrnetry of her hoily correspond with that of her mind. Still, it would have been something to have had this lady riifer come. If not the roue heraelf, ahe would at least for a little have lived near that peerless flower ; but the gods have spoken, or Aunt Samantha has, which is much the same, and it may never be. Supper is over, the men hurry out, on pleasure and pipes bent, not to return until ten o'clock brings back the Hrst straggler with virtuous thoughts of bed. Mrs. Hopkins and her niece sit wearily down amid the ruins of the feast, and brew themselves a fresh jorum of tea. A plate of hot, buttered toast is made, some ham is cooked, 'which,' says Mrs. Hopkins, 'a bit of br'iled ham is a tasty thing for tea. and, next to a pickled eyester, a relish I'm un- common partial to, I do assure you.' And bath draw a long breath of great re- lief as they take their first sip of the cup that cheers. 'I'm that dead beat, Jim,' observes the lady of the house, ' that I don't know wheth- er I'm a sittin' on my head or my heels, as true as you're born !' At Mrs. Hopkins in a general way sits on neither, this observation is difficult to an- swer lucidly, so JemiraaAun takes a thought- ful bite out of her toast, with her head plain- tively on one side, and answers nothing. Mrs. Hopkins is a tall, thin, worried-look- ing woman, with more of her b »ny construc- tion visible than is cousidtent with personal baauty, and with more knowledge of her in* ternal mechanism than is in any way com- fortable, either for herself or Jemima Ann. Mrs Hopkins is on terms of ghastly famili- arity with her own liver, and lungs, and spine, and stomach, and takes very dismal views of these organs, and inHiots the dreadful diagnosis on her long-suffering niece. * Aunt Hopkins,' says Jemima Ann, ' I'm most awful sorry you didn't take in that lady from Mr. Rogers. I should loved to a ^n3wed her.' ' Ah I I dare saj', so's you could spend your time gaddin' up to her room, and losin' your morals, and ruinin' your shoes. No, you don't. She'd worrit my very life flfit. not to speak of my legs and temper, in fwo days. And a child, too — a play-actin' child I What would we do with a child in this house, I want to know, among twenty-six foundry hands, and not time in it to say ' Jrtok Robinson'— no, nor room neither '!" Jemima Ann opens her lips toaHmit the point of her knife, laden with orumb and gravy, and to romark that she doesn't want to say * Jack Robinson' — when the door- bull Hharply and loudly rings. ' There I' oriep Mrs Hopkins, exasperated. ' I kiiowed it ! It's her aud him 1 D K>ae take the man, he sticks just like a burr ! Show em up to the front room, Jim,' says her aunt, wrathfully, adjusting her back hair, 'and tell 'em I'll be there. But T ain't agoin' to stir neither,' adds Mrs. Hopkins to herself, resuming her toast, ' until I've staid my stomach.' Jemima Ann springs up, breathless aud radiant, and hastens to the door. And 80, like one of her cherished heroines, hastens, without knowing it, to her ' fate.' For with the opening of the street door ou this eventful evening of her most uneventful life, there opens for poor, hard-worked Jemima Ann the one romance of her exist- ence, never quite to close again till that life's end. CHAPTER II. IN WHICH WB MKET TWO PROFKSSIONAL LADIES. A gust of October wind, a dash of October rain, a black October sky, the smilin>^ face of a stout little n>an, waiting on the threshold — these greet Jemima Ann as she opens the door. A carriage stands jusi outside, its twin lamps beaming redly in the blackness. ' Ah, Miss Jemima^ eood evening t' says this smiling apparition, ' although it is any- thing but a good evening. A most uncom- mon bad evening, I should nay, insteid. How are you, and how is Aunt Hopkins, now that the supper and the six and-twenty are off her mind ? Aud is she in ? But of course she's in,' cays Mr. Rogers, waiting for no answers. ' Who would be out that could be in such a night ? Just tell her I'm here, Jemima Ann — come by appointmenc, you know ; and there's a lady in the ha sk at the door, and a little girl. You go and tell Mrs. Hopkins, Jim, my dear, and I'll fetch the lady along to the parlour. One pair front, isn't it T Thanks 1 Don't mind me ; I know the way.' Evidently he does, aud stands not on the order of his going. 'Run along, Jemimy,' he says, pleasantly, 'and call the aunty. I'll fetci? the lady up stairs. Now, then, mademoiselle,' be calls going to the door of the carriage ; ' it's all right, and if you'll be kind enough to step in out of the ri stairs, please this way.' All this ti and mouth breathless in Mr. Roger Stars and S street, assist door, aud sa a child in hi ily up to tht •This is he says, soil kins' select men ' * Faugh disgustedly smells of CO the three dinners cool And inde like odour passages of those unhai prayers) aso can always in the kitch 'Mrs. H dinner, for i done it for has left me Mam'selle with boiled here, let mt silver. Thi And this i niece, and wart| younj present you -famous ban er, of whon Petite Maf Mr. Ro2( of a court angel, and and bowp, laugh, and a bewilden beautiful h Duch^'ss I feels quite anything I her pathei of a face, i ing out of fuse rippli low on a silk, that seal jackc laughing * flower-fa LOST FOR A WOMAN. out of the rain, I'll carry Petite hero. Up stairs, please. Wait a minute. Now, then, this way.' All this time, Jemima Aon e^'inds, eyes and mouth ajar, looking, listb^iing with breathloHS interest. Mr. llogeri, gentlemanly proprietor of the Stars and Stripes Hotel, further down the street, assists a lady out of the chariot at the door, and says, 'Come alona;, little un',' lifts a child in his arms, and leads the way jaunt- ily up to the 'one pair front.' ' This is the place, Mademoiselle Mimi,' he says, somewhat suddenly. 'Mrs. Hop- kins' select boaiding-house for single gentle- men.' ' Faugh !' says Mademoiselle Mimi, curling disgustedly an extremely pretty nose ; ' it smells of corned beef and cabbage, and all the three hundred and sixty-five nasty dinners cooked in it the past year.' And indeed a most anci'^nt and cabbage- like odour does pervade the halls and passages of thff Hotel Hopkins. It is one of those unhappy houses in which smells (like prayers) ascend, and the lodgers in the attic can always tell to a tittle what is going ou in the kitchen. ' Mrs. Hopkins can get up a nice little dinner, for all that,' says Mr. Rogers. ' She's done it for me before now, \ihen the cook has left me in the lurch. She'll do it for you, Mam'selle Mimi. You won't be served with boiled beef and cabbage while you're here, let me tell you. And she's as clean as silver. This is the parlour ; take a chair. And this is Jemima Ann, Mrs. Hopkins' niece, and the i.iol of six-and -twenty stal- wart| young men, Jemimy, my love, let me present you— Mademoiselle Mimi Trillon, the iamouB bare-back ri ler and trapeze perform- er, of whom all the world has heard, and La Petite Mademoiselle Trillon. the younger.' Mr. Rogers waves his hand with the grace of a court chamberlain and the smile of an aneel, and Mademoiselle Mimi Trillon laughs and bowp. It is a musical, merry little laufi;h, and the lady, Jemima Ann thinks, in a bewildered way, is tho most brilliant and beautiful her eyes have ever looked on. The DuchosB Isoline herself was less fair 1 She feels quite dazzled and dizzy for a moment, anything beautiful or bright is so far outside her pathetically ugly life. She is conscious of a face, small, rather pale just now, look- ing out of a coquettish little bonnet ; of pro- fuse rippling hair of flaxen fairness waving low on a low forehead ; of a dreos of dark silk, that emits perfume as she moves ; of a seal jacket ; of two large blue-bell eyes, laughing out of the loveliness of that ^ flower-face.' ' Oh 1' she says, under her breath, and stands and stares. Mile. Mimi laughs again. Her teeth are as nearly like ' pearls ' as it is in the nature cf little white teeth to be. She can afford to lauirh, and knows it. ' Now. then, Jemimy !' cries the brisk voice of Mr Rogers. *I know you are lost in a trance of admiration. We all are, bless you, when wo first meet Mam'selle Mimi. Nevertheless, my dear girl, busiueds before pleasure, and business has brought us here to-night. Call your aunt, and let us get it over.' ' Here is Aunt Samanthy,' responds Jemima : and at that moment enters unto them Mrs. Hopkins, her 'stomach staid,' and considerably humanized by the mellow- ing influence of sundry cups of tea, and (quantities of hot toast and broiled ham. Mr. Rogers rises, receives her with effu* sion, presents to her the Mesdemoiselles Trillon, mother and daughter, and Mam'selle Mimi holds out one gray -gloved hand, with a charming smile, and says some obarniing words of first greeting. Jemima Ann watches in an agony of suspense. She hopes — oh 1 she hopes Aunt P'^mantha will not steel her heart and bolt her front door against this radiant vision of golden hair, and silk, and seal. But Aunt Samautha is not impressionable. Long years of foundry hands, of straggles with her liver and other organs, of much taxes and many butcher bills, have turned ti bitterness her natural milk of human kindness, and she casts a cold and disapprov* ing glance on the blonde Mimi, and bobs a stiff little courtesy, and sits down severely on the extreme edge of a ohair. ' So sorry to intrude,' says the sweet voice of Mile. Mimi, in coaxing accents, ' dear Mrs. Hopkins, at this abnormal hour. It is really quite too dreadful of me, I admit. But what was I to do ? Mr. Rogers' hotel is quite full, and evep if it were not, there are reasons — a pause, a sigh, the blue bell eyes cast a pathetic glance, first at her child, th?n appealingly at Mr. Rogers, then more appealiugly at frigid Mrs-. Hopkins — ' there is a person at the hotel with whom I cannot posaibly associate. £ am a mother, my dear Mrs. Hopkins ; that dear child is my only treasure. In my absence there woi^ld be no one at the hotel to look after her. I can not leave her to the tender mercies of the ladies of our company. So I am here. You will take compassion upon us, I am sure' — clasp* ng the gray-gloved hands — * and afford us ospitality during our brief stay in this town. i LOiT FOR A WOMAN, BnoM'hall, come h«re. Go direotly to thi« nio« Utly, and Hay, ' How do you do ?' ' Won't 1' HayH Mile. Trillou, the younger —she II a young person uf thn;e or four years — in th« pnttnpteMt way ; 'her'iinnta niuH lady, kltyv'n a uarsy, naray lady !' The child >• almost prettier than the mother, if prettier were possible. 8he is a duplicate in little rose and lily-8kin, Haxen oarli, blue bell eyes, sweet little roay mouth, that to look at is to long to kins. A wilH warned her suuh liberties would not be safe. ' For shame, you bad Snowball I' says Mile. Mimi, shocked, while Mr. Rogerh chuckles in appreciation of the joke, and Je- mima Ann holds out a timid hand of ooncilia- tiou, and smiles her most winning smile. The turquoise eyes turn slowly, and scan her with the Oauw, steadfast, terrible look of ohildhood, from head to foot. Evilutitly the result is unflatisfactory. 8he, too, is a ' narsy lady.' The disdainful pprite lurnR away with a little more of diadain, and at:indH slim and sileut at Mr. Rogers' knee. For Jemima Ann, she has fallen in luve at tirst sight, and from that hour until the last of her life is Mile. Soowbali's abject slave. ' Now, don't you think you oan manage it, Mrs. Hopkins?' says, Mr. Rodgcrs, suavely ; there's such a lot of them at my place, and it may be only for a week ; and. as Mimi says, it is for the child's sake. It won't do to have her running about wild, while mamma is away at the circus, you know-r-eh, little Snowball ? And here's our Jemima oan keep an eye to her just as well as not, while the other's on the dinner. Not a mite of trouble, are you. Snowball T Quite a grown- up young lady in every thing but feet and inches. Come, Mrs. Hopkins, say yes.' ' And I will not stay in the same house with Madame Olympe !' exclaims, suddenly. Mile. Mimi, her blue eyes emitting one quick, ■harp, lurid flash. And here, at last, as it dawns on Mrs. Hopkins, is the ' cat out of the bag ;' the true reason of this late visit and petition. In the circus company are two leading ladies — Madame Olympe and Mile. Mimi — and war to the knife has natural- ly, from first to last, been their motto. They are rivals in everything ; they disagree in everything. They hate each other with a heartiness and vim that border?, at times, on frenzy I All that there 78 of the moat blonde and sprightly is Mile. Mimi ; a brunette of brunettes, dashing, dark, and dangerous, is Madame Olympe. Mimi professes to be French, and was ' raised ' in the back slums of New York. Olympe is French — a soi distant grisette of Mabille. Paris is written on her face. And two tomcats on the tdts, at the re?i!ue. Snowball Hxes her azure uyes on the fr-izen visage ; some fa ■'iii nation is for her there surely, for out rippks all at once the sweet tinkle of a ohilil'H merry laugh ; uhe toddles over to her side, and slips her roiseleaf hand into the hard old palm. 'Not a naray lady. 'Ni)ball likes you. 'Noballseepy. Kei wants to go to bed.' ' BIqib your pretty little heurt ! ' exclaims Mrs. Hopkins, involuntarily. Even Achilles, it will be remembered, had a vulnerable spot iu his heel. Whether Aunt Samauatha'a is in her heels or in her heart, Snowball haF found it. But then to find people's hearts and keep them ia a tri 'k of Snowball's all hor life long. ' Seepy, seepy,' reiterates Snowball with pretty imperiousness. ' Put 'Noball to bed. Mamma, make her put 'Noball o bed.' ' Yon must put us up, you see,' says mam- ma. ' Come, aiy dear madam, it will be iu< human to refuse. It will. Mrs. Hopkins feels she cannot say 'No,' and Mrs. jflopkins also feels bhe will repent iu wrath and bitterness, saying 'Yes.' She casts one scathing glaice at se- rene Mr. Rogers, and says, 'Well, yea, then,' with the very worst grace in all the world. ' Oh, I'm awful glad ! ' cries out Jemima Ann in the fulness of her heart. ' Oh, you little darling, come to me, and let me get you ready for bed. ' • Go tc the nice, nice girl. Snowball,' says Mile Mimi, 'and tell her you will have sotne bread and milk and your hair brushed before you go to sleep. Ever so many thanks, Mrs. Hopkins, though tV"t yea bad rather an un- cordial tone. Rogers," — she uses no prefix — ' the trunks are coming by express : you will find Send then ■upper to •naok at t aH soon We'vn bei tiroil. ' A swift Mile. Mill Aro\)» froi tone lias of "uli^ari fe«'l tiid ' Malve lounge ne ' and don is a p«rfe( don't wai cliil Iren. you're ^ei truly am tell O'yni she m ant llnr m down stai geal-^kiii piny its h net, atret her hostel is fa^t asl •Well, iug a ton^ honour, Bever ! ' • 'Noba bed and pliintivel Jeiiiim: yen; urea • You d have y"Ui t ao miuu never sav my life !' ' Land the youn ' Haiiiso motto th do> 8 han nisht, R sober thi that for 1 get that to lied be'ore t itt' here. And HI in for it beat be Snowbal QuXf.n h« drowsy 1 LOST FOR A WOMAN. is written the tilt*, ely Miini, iiiu; mana* VtM^M of ou know? e to tear I wonder 1 yoii arn. i>i at the ite to call f-nvf hiiir bleat if it upright, y ed^e «i n capital r brow of inexpeot* coineH t t sure oyes ion ia for 1 at once y laugh ; slips her I. ikes you. b«d.' exulaiina Achiiles, able spot lathaV is ball haF 9 hearts ball's all lall with 1 to bed. 3d.' ys mam- dl be iu< ) cann<:t eels bhe I. saying 36 at se- ll, yes, all the Jemima Oh, you me get 11,' says ve 8om« i before 18, Mrs. * an UD- prefix — 38 : you will Hiid a vaii.^'^ and latchel in the cab. Send thi-m up. I won't trouble you for lupoer tonight, MrM. Hopkins ; we had n •nauk at the hotel. Rut uet my n.'om re.idv ax Hoon nn you can. There's a good rouI We've been ou the go ill dav, and I'm dead tired.' A swift and subtle change hat come over Milt). Mimi. Her pleading lady-like manner drops from her as a gitrment ; her present tone has an enHy rin(^ of command, % touch of vulgarity, that, .Mrs. Hopkinn is quick to fe< I kiid resent, but cantiot define. ' .Make up n bed for Snowball nn a sofa or lounge nt>ar mine,' she fays to Jemima Ann, ' and don't let her have too much milk. She is a perfect lictle pig for country milk, and I don't want tier to get fat. I hate Habby cliil Ireii. \nd I'll lie on this c 'oh while you're getting my room ready, 1 really and truly am tit to drop (}ood night, Rogers ; tell O'ympp, with my coniplimunts, I hope she in' auH to g.» to bed Hober this first niyht.' liHr muiiiual laugh follows Mr. Kogtrs down stairs. Then she glides out of her leal-Bikin like a beautiful little serpent slip- ping its nkin, thrown off the coquettish bon- net, atretches herself on the sofa, and before her hostesHi or niece are fairly out of the room is fRAt asleep. ' Wei), I never!" says Mr?. Hopk^s.draw* ing a long breath. ' Upon my word and honour, Jemima Ann, I do as&ure you I Bever ! ' ' 'Noball soepy, 'Noball hungry, want her bed and milk, want to go to bed,' pipes pliihtively the child. Jemima gathers her up in her arms, and venures to kiss the satin smooth cheek. * You dear little pet, 'she says,' you shall have yxur bread and milk, and go to bei in t vo minute!'. Oh, ynu pretty little love ! I never saw anything half so lovely as you in my life !' ' Land's sake, Jemimy Ann, don't spile the young one 1' says, irritably, her aunt. ' Hanioome is as handsome does, is a true motto the world over, and if her or her mar dot^B handsome, I'm a Dutchman. 'Good- night, R:)i^ers, and tell Alimp, to go to bed sober this first night ;' pretty soit o' talk that for a tempffanoe boardin' house. There! get that nUepy baby somethiu' and put her to bed I'll go and Hx Miss Flyaway 's •■oom before the men come in, and tind her sleep- ilk' here, Hud make fooln of themselves." And HO, atdl wrathfiiljand grumbling, but in for it now, Mrs. Hopkins goeH to put her beRt be'iroom id order. Jt^mima carries Snowball down to the dining-room. The fluXt^n head lies against her shoulder, the drowsy lids sway over the sweet blue eyes. the very lips are apart and dewy. Oh ! how lovely she is, how lovily, how lovely, thinka Jemima Ann, in a sort of ranture. Oh ! i( xhe ponbl k^-eo this beautiful baby with her for ever nnd 'ever !' At Hight of the bread and milk '^no^ball Wttkes up enough to partake of that refresh- ment. But she sleepily declines conversa- tion, and the pntty head sways as the long light cm In are being braided, and her clothes taken off, and she ih sound again, when Jummia bears her tenderly 'ip to the little extempore bed Aunt Samantha has prepared. She Rtands and gazes at her in a rapture at she sleeps. * She 1 »oks like a duchess' daughter f She li.wks like on angel Aunt Sanianthy T she sayB, under her breath. ' Ves I' cries Aunt Samantha, in bitter scum. * I never see an angel — no more did you. An»ible signs of the in- ward and tobe-paid-for gruels going on within, are there aH well. Every dead wall, every tenoe all over the town, is placarded with huge posters, anoouDCing in lt»fty let- ters of gorgeous colours, the wonderful doings to be beheld for the small sum of fifty cents, children half pi ice, clergymen free ! Pictures of all the animals, whsee aucea- tora came over in the Ark with Noah and family, together with portraits of the un- paralleled Dauehter of the Desert, Madame Olympe, on her fiery steed Whirlwiu i, of the 10 LOST FOR A WOMAN. daring and fearless tiapezist and tightrope dancer. Mile. Mimi, direct from Pa'-is, of the little Fairy Queen, Snowball, who is to be borne aloft in one hand by the Bounding Brothers of Bohemia, in the thrilUng one-act drama of the 'Peruvian Princess.' The portraits of the rival stars attract much admiration and comment— in rather a coarse and highly-coloured state of art, it must be admitted, but sweetly pretty and simpering all the same, displaying a great redundancy of salmon-coloured bust and arms, and pronounced by those who have seen the fair origin'^ls, speaking likenesses. And now all t'.ie town is to see them, the chariot races, the Bounding Brothers, the Fairy Queen, the Daughter of the Desert, the clown, and the rest of the menagerie. It is a crisp, cool, fresh, yellow twilight; the world looks clean and well washed, after last night's rain. The sky is tur- quoise blue, there is a comfortable little new moou smiling down, as if it, too, had come out expressly to go to the circus. Everybody is in fine spirits, there is much laughter and good-humoured chaffing, the-? •re troops and tvoops of children — children of a larger growth, too, who aflfect to treat the whole affiir with off-hand, good-natured contempt — only came to look after the young oner, you know — old boys and girls, who in their secret souls are as keen for the sport as any nine-year old of them all. An immense throng is gathered on the common, watching with beating hearts and bated breath, for their first taste of rapture, the free sight of Allle. Mimi walking up the rope. And amid this throng, in her Sunday * things' quite ' of a tremble' with joyous ex- pectancy stajids Jemima Ann, waiting with tie deepest interest of all f )r the first glimpse in her public capacity of the fair performer she has the honour of knowing in private life. The band stands at ease giving tbo public tantalizing lifrtle tastes of its o^uality, work- ing up the suspense of small boys to an agonizing pi ch, laughing and talking to one another, as if this magical sort of thing were quite every-day life to them, when suddenly everybody is galvanized, every neck is strained, an indescribable murmur and rush goes through the crow . : ' 01, hush 1 Here she is 1 Oh, my ! isn't she lovely I Oh-h-h I' it is along-drawn, rapturous breath. A vision has appeared — j? vision all gold and glitter, all gauze and spangles, all rosy, floating skirts, a little flag in each hand, "bare white arms, streaming yellow curls, twinkling pink feet, rosy smiling face 1 The band strikes up a spirited strain, and up, and up, nnd up floats the fairy in rose and spangles. Every throat stretches, every eye follows, every breath seems suspended, every mouth is agape. Profound stillness reigns. And up, and up, and up still floats the rose-pink vision ; and no\»' she stands on the dizzy top, a pink star against the blue sky, waving her flags, and kissing hands to the breathless crowd below. Now she is descending slow- ly. Slowly, and slowly plays the band, and the tension is painful to all these good, sim- ple souIp, A sort of involuntary gasp goes through them as with a light buoyant bound she is on terra flrma, bowing right and left, and vanishing into the tent like the fairy she is. ' Oh-h-h I wasn't it lovely I Oh, ma, she is jdst too sweet for anything. Oh, pa, do let us harry in and get a good seat. Was it Olympe? No, it wasn't, it was the other one, Mamzol Mimi. Oh, I'm being scrooged to death. Pa, do let us hurry in — don't you see everybody is going I' Jemima Auu goes with .the rest. It is the rarest of rare things for her to be off duty, but Aunt Samantha has relented for once, and her niece is here, fairly palpitating with expectant rapture. All the boarders, washed and shining with ^ood humour,much friction, and yellowsoap, in brav^ array muster strong, and kindly little Mr. Doolittle has meekly presented * Miss Jim ' with a ticket. So she is swept onward and inward, with the crowd into «he great canvas arena, and presently flnds her- self perched on an exquisitely uncomfortable shelf, her knees on a level with her chin, gazing with awe at the vast sawdust ring and the red curtain beyond, whence it is whispered the performers will presently emerge. Tuen she glances about her — yes, there are the boarders, ther- is Mr. Rogers, there is the butcher and his family, there is the undertaker and his wife, there is the family grocer and his seven sons and daughters, there are quite numbers of ladies and gentle- men she knows. And ail over the place there are swarms of children, childr n be^ yond any possibility of computation. A smell of sawdust and orange-peel, a pervad- ing sense of hilarity and peanuts is in the atmosphere, the band plays as if it would burst itself with enthusiasm, and the evening performance triumphantly begins. Long after this festive uight, Jemima Ann tries to recall, dispassionately, all she has seen in this her first glimpse of wonderland, but it is all so splendid, so rapid, so be- wildering to a mind used only to under* ground kitchens, and the society of black LOST FOR A WOMA^. ll ia rose and •y eye follows, every mouth is ;n8. And up, the rose-pink on the dizzy e sky, waving the breathless cendiDg slow- ;he band, and 3Be good, sim> goes through bouud she is and left, and i fairy she is. Oh, ma, she Oh, pa, do Beat. Was it 'AS the other eing sorooged in — don't you 3st. It is the be off duty, bed for once, pitating with shining with 1 yellow soap, I and kindly ly presented she is swept rowd into «he tly finds her* noomfortable th her chin, lawdust ring ivhence it is ill presently yes, there are gers, there is there is the is the family i dauijhters, s and geutle- it the place childr n be*' jutatioD. A el, a pervad- ats is in the if it would i the evening s. Jemima Ann all she has wonderland, apid, 80 be- y to under- ity of black beetles, and blacker foundry hands, that her dazzled brain fails to grasp it with any coherence. There are horses — good cracious — such horses as one could hardly imagine existed out of the Arabian Nights ; horses that dance polkaa and jigs, that put the 4'kettle on, that listen to the clown, and understood every word he said, horses that laughed, horses that made courtesies to the audience, horses that stood on their hiod legs, that knelt down, that jumped through hoops and over banners. Jemima Ann would not have been surprised to see a peg turned in their side, and behold them spread their wings and soar to the ceiling. Only they didn't And then the clown, with his startling, curious, and white visage, his huge, grinning mouth, and amazing nose, his funny dress, and funnier retorts to the exasperated ring-master — Jemima Ann nearly died of laughing at him Only to hear his jovial ' Here we are again ! ' was worth the whole fifty cents ; so said the good people about her, laughing till they cried, and so with all her heart, said Jemima Ann. But this was only a little of it. When Mile. Mimi appeared, more gauzy, more spangly, more lovely even than outside, careening round and round, ou four fiery bare-backed steeds, in that breathless man- ner that yonr head swam, and yourrespira- tion came in gasps, then the enthusiasm rose to fever heat, if you like. They shouted, they stamped, they applauded the very knobs off their walking-sticks, and Jemima Ann, faint with bliss, shuus her eyes for a moment, and feels she is in the mad vortex of high life at last, feels that she is living a chapter out of one of her weekly * dreadfuls. ' How )Am>iuilia busy|in the kitchen, iSnovirbaU tripping abous, makiog pretty baby questions — a swish of silk, a watt of strong perfume, and Mimi, bright in silk and velvet, laue and juvveileiy preneua her- self. ' How nice and hot it is here,' she says, coming in with a shiver ; ' the vest of the house is as cold as a barn. Why don't you have a fire in your parlour this October breather, Mrs. Hopkins? And how good you smell 1 ' finiliing the warm air, and seating herself in front of the glowing stove. ' What are you cooking, Jemima Ann ? ' 'Johnuy-uake and ginger bread for the men's teas,' responds modestly, Jemima a pan of each. Tne mea like 'em. Ann; ' Do they ? ' says Mimi, laughing, ' Wtiat nice, innocent sort of men yours must be, my dear, judging by their foud ! I should not like ginger- bread and the other thing. Apropos, though (no. Snow* ball, I don't want you ; run awa> ), I should like a hot supper when I come Oack to>iiight. I am always tired, and hungry as a hunter, I always have a hot supper ; cold things make me dyspeptic. Will you see to it, Jemima Ann V Jeuuiua Ann glances apprehensively at Auut Samuntha. Aunt Saaiauthe draws up her mouth like the mouth of a purse, and stands ominously silent. * What time would you like it ?' timidly Teuturea Jemima Ann. ' Oh, about eleven ; I shall not be later than that. Nothing very elaborate, yo'i know —just a fowl, a chicken or duck, ma»hfd po- tat ea, one sweec and one savory. Cotfee, of course, as strong as you like, and cream if it is to be had for love or money. Something simple like that ! And I shall need some boiliug water fur pun— well, I shall need it. I may briug a fneud home to supper. I hale eating alone, so lay covers for two. Don't Serve it lu that big, dismal place you call the diuing-room ; let un have it ooziiy in the parlour. And do lij^Ut a tire , your black grate is enough to 8eniys Mrs. Hopkins, with vindictive emphaaiPy. * after ten o'clock at night — no, not for Queen Victorious, if she begged it on her bended knees.' Mile. Mimi, toasting her little high-heeled French shoes before the fire, turns coolly^ and listens, first in surprise, then in amuse- ment, Cu this tiraiie. * My good soul,' she says, calmly, ' don't lose your temper. You'll hare a fit of some kind, and go off like a 8hui>, if you go on like that. And what do you mean by scandalous proceedings ? You really ought to bo careful in your talk — people get taken up sometimes for ac« tiooable language. It is not scandalous to eat a late supper, is it? I am a veiy proper persou, my dear Mrs. Hopkins, and never scandalize anyboily. If I can't have supper here, I will have it elsewhere it is much the same to me. You will give me a latch-key, I suppose — or do you allow such a demoralizing thing to your artless black lambkins ? Or would you prefer hitting up for me ? I like to be obliging, and I will be back by one.' ' Miss Mimi.' begins Mrs. Hopkins, ' if that's your name,' — Muni laugh — 'this house ain't no place for the likes of you.* Miss M mi glances disdainfully about, and shrugs her shoulders. ' It's a homely place, and we're homely people.' Mimi laughs »gain, and glances amusedly from the hot and angry face of the aunt, to the flushed and distressed face of the niece — a gl»nce that says, * I agree with you.' • Your ways ain't our ways'— (' No. thank Heaven?" says Mimi, sotto' voce) — 'and so the sooner we part, the better, I do assure you. You'll jest be good enough,' ma'am, to take your* self, and your traps, and your little girl, t»ut of this as soon as you like— and the sooner the better, I do assure you.' Mimi looks at h — . There is a laugh still on her rose-red mouth ; there is a laughing light in her blue eyes ; but there is a laugh- ing devil in them, too. ' My good creature,' she says, slowly^ * you labo and yon take me paid you power oi hospitabl And I wi I will in return at on me at no ! don'l «onveniei breaks ol ment at and risei the sooni better, Mrs. Ho gingercal some of me curl ' It is tl -experien( trepid ch most af ri does bhe xvith a b and eye No fit en breath, globe ! ' has been secret so She 8 starlit ni man wai soured a tude anr the boar euthusia lag Mil doubt, a the girl have a Mimi. They fe( fleet glc Samantl declines the bril more sn Jemima •III root,' is she brii house: i kins.' The( Mimi s< circus t Jemin«i pets hei LOST FOR A WOMAN. 18 * yon labour under a mistake. I will not go, and you shall not make me. You agreed to take me in the presence uf witnesses. I have paid >ou a week's board in advauc*', and no power on earth will move me out of this hospitable mansion until it suits me to go. And I will keep what hours I please. And I will invite what friends I like. I shall return at one, and you shall shut your doors on me at your peril. And I will see you — no ! don't cry out before you are hurt — in- convenienced ia the word I will use,' she breaks off, laughing aloud in genuine amuse- ment at the horror ii the face of her hostess, and rises gracefully. ' Now, Jemima Ann, the sooner you bring me up some tea the better, I do assure you,' mimicking per ectly Mrs. Hopkins' nasal tones ; ' and if your gingercake is very good, vou may bring me some of that, too. Come, Snowball, and let me curl your hair.' It is the first time in all her seven years' -experience that Jemima Ann has seen her in* trepid chieftainness taken down. She is al- most afraid to look at her ; but when she does bhe tinds her gazing after her enemy Tvith a blank and stony stare, and rigid lips and eyeballs, alarmingly RU^'gestive uf fits ! No fit ensues, however. Tnere is a gasping breath, a stifled, 'Well, this does cap the globe ! ' and then silence. Aunt Samantha has been routed with slaughter, and in her secret soul Jemima Ann rt-juices. She eofcS home now, through the crisp, starlit night, and finds her stormy kinswo man waiting up with a tongue and temper soured and sharpened by long hours of soli- tude and stocking darning. She is first, but the boarders follow cloBely,noisy,hungry,and enthusiastic in their loud praises of the charm- lag Mimi. Olympe is a fine woman, no doubt, and not stingy of herself, but Mimi's the girl for their money. And thus th'ay have a proud f«)e]ing of proprietorship in Mimi. She is one of the family, so to speak. They feel that her beauty and success re- flect glory on the bouse of Hopkins. Aunt Samantha listens to it all with grim scorn ; declines snappishly to be ent:ertained with the brilliant doings of the night ; declines more snappishly to go to bed, and leave her, Jeminaa Ann, to wait up for Mile. Mimi. * I'll see it out, if I sit here till I teke roov,' is her grim ultimatum. ' I'll see that she brings no troUopin' characters into this bouse: so, hold your jaw, Jemima Ann Hop ikina.' The door-bell rings aa she speaks. Is it Mimi so soon 7 No, it is a man from the oirons with little Snowball, sleepy and tired, Jemin>a Ann takes her tenderly, kisses and fwia her, ondraiMes and puta her to bed. It is midnight, and still Mimi is not here. Grimmer and grimmer grows the rigid face of Aunt Samantha, colder and colder grows the night, drearier and drearier looks the kitchen, quieter and more quiet seems the lonesome midnight btreets. One. Halt past — with her arms on the table, her face lying on theirs, sleep as a garment drops on Jemima, when, once more, sharp, loud, startling the door- bell rings. ' It's her !' cries Jemima Ann; and springs up, • for which, Oh ! be joyful.' She runs up stairs. Aunt Samantha fol- lows. Outsitie there are vuiceH, one the voiceof a man, and loud laughter. The key is turn- ed, the door is opened, Mimi stands before them She comes in laughing aunt and niece fall back. What isthetnatter ? Herfair face is fiushed, her blue eyes glascy, there is a smell, strong, Bul>tle, spiritous. In horror the truth dawns upon them — she is— (it is the phrabe of Jemima Ann) — 'she is tij^nt !' Tney fall back. Even Aunt Samantha, prepared for the worst, is not prt pared for this, iihe is absolutely dumb! Mile. Mimi laugh in their faces — a tipsy laugu. 'Car lamp up stairs, 'Mimy Ann,' she says, indistinctly, *sor' to keep you up. Miss Hopkins. Goo'ui^ht.' Id (lead silence Mis. Hopkins falls back, in dead tilence Jemima Ann obeys — words fail them both. She precedes Mimi to her room, where eweet little Snowball sleeps, pure and peaceful, sets the lamp in a place of safety, sees their hoarder fling o^ hat and jacket, and throw herself, dressed as she is on the bed, too far gone even to undress ! CHAPTER IV. WHICH EECOKDS THE DARK DOINGS OF MLLE. MIMI. 'Cold chicking,' says Jemima Ann — 'that's one, buttered shortcake— that's two, cran- berry sass— that's three, and frizzled beef that's four. Yes, four. I've got 'em all. And tea— that's five. There ain't nothin' the matter with her appetite, whatever there may be with her morals.' The antecedent of this personal pronoun is, of course, M.lle. Mimi, and Jemima Ann is busily engaged arranging her supper on a tray. Up in the parlour, in a pale-blue negligee, and looking more or less like an angAl, with her floating, untidy, fair hair, Mimi is yawning over a fashion magaiine, and listening to the prattle of her small daughter. ' Enter Jemima Ann I' she ories, gayly, springing up, 'laden with the fruits of the earth. Snowball and I were begining to ;1 14 LOST FOR A WOMAN. think that you had forgotten ua. And where is the precious auntie, my Jemima, and ia ■he as far goae as ever, in blackest sulks ?' It is the afternoon succeediog that night, and no thundercloud ever gloomed more darkly than does the countenance of Mr?. Hopkins whenever it turns upon her audaci- oua boarder. ' She is feeling dreadful bad, Miss Mimi,' responds Mrs. Hopkiu'a niece, gravely, ' and no wonder. You really hadn't ought to done it.' Mimi laughs, with genuine, unaffected amuaument, and pinchea Jemima Ann's hard, red cheek, in passing. ' I really haun't ought to done it ! Dew tell ! Here, Snowball, come on — here's a lovely bit of chicken for you. Weil, now, Jemima Aan, I admit I did imbibe a little too freely last night, but what wdl you ? I was dead beat, I was warm and aching with fatigue, and Lacy'a (Jlic- quoG WAS the very best, and iced to per- fection. Did you ever drink iced cham- pagne, my poor Jemima ? Ah ! the wine of lite 18 not fur such as you. If I had to ex- change places with you, and grub down in that abominable kitchen among pots and paud, and wait on dirty, oily fouudrymen, auti be girded at by that virago, your aunt, I would simply cut my throat in a week, and ot two evils think it the least ' ' Aunt ain't a bad sort. Please don't abuse ber,' returned Jemima, still gravely, ' her bark ia worse than her bite. Who is Lacy. Miss Mimi ?' i'ue hrst shyness of new acquaintance is over, Mimi ia a tree^and-easy, lonch-and-go Burt of peraon, easy to grow familiar with, and Miss Hupkina has her full share of fem- inine curiosity. ' Is be that aristocratic-looking gent, with the raven black mustache and diamond atuda a stoppin' at tbe Waabiugton House ?' asks J.miina, in cnnsideri* ble awe, as she assiB.s Snowball to milk anti short-cake. 'Dyed, Jemima— dyed, my dear,' laughs Mimi; 'that mustache gets mangy some- times and purple. But the studs are real, ana he is rich enough to wear a whole diamond shirt front, it he choose. Yes, my Jemima, 'tis he I the gent at the Washing- ton , and a very swell young man he is ! And be is dead in love with me ; but this is a s&jret, mind,' and Mimi laughs again at tbe simple, puzzled face of Miss Hopkins. ' Hd is down here from New York, wasting his sweetness ia Claugville air, for me and for me aioue. I might be Mrs. L» ly to-mor<- row, my Jemima, if I otaose.' ' Aud you don't choose ?' ' No, 1 don't. I have had enough of m«i and matrimony. They're a mistake, Jemima. The game isn't worth the candle. No 1' her face sets and darkens suddenly, ' at the very best, ic's not worth it.' ' Are — are you a widow ?' Jemima Ann ventures, timidly. , There is no reply : Mimi is carving her chicken with a certain vicioua energy, and all the laughing light has vanished from her insouciant face. •A widow,' she says, impatiently. 'Oh, yes, of course I'm a widow — Rogers told you that, didn't he ? Snowball, don't choke yourself with that chicken wing. You little srourmand. Take her aM'ay from the table^ Jemima Ann ; she's had enough.' ' Wasn't had 'nuff,' cries out Snowball, Itstily, clingiog to her plate with both hands : ' s'ant eo. Noball wants more sort- cake' Mimmy Ann. ' Oh, let her have some more,' says Jemi- ma. ' The dear little pet ia hungry.' ' The dear little pet will be as fat as a dear little pig, directly, under your injudici* ous indulgeuce, Miss Hopkins. No, Snow- ball, not another morsel, and no more milk. Leave the table this moment ; you ought to know by now that what mamdia says she me; '18.' She rises and bears Snowball bodily from the victuals. Aud straightway Suowball opens her mouth, and there rises to heaven such a shriek, as it ia to be hoped few child- ren have the lungs and temper to emit. * Tnere ! ' saya Mimi, composedly, 'that is the sort of angelic diapnsition your dear lit- tie pet is blessed with, Jemima. Please open the window if 3he doesn't stop this instant, aud throw her out 1 ' Jemima Ann declines to act on this sum- mary hint. She soothes the enraged child instead, and surreptiously conveys to her a central land wedge of short-cake. ' What an odd name you have given her,' she remarks, clearing away the things ; ' she never was christened Snowball, was she ? Thab'i not a Christian name. ' ' She never was christened anything, my good Jemima,' responds her mother with a shrug. What is the use of christening ? She was a little white. roly>p(dy baby ; white hair, white skin, white clothes so her father used to toss her up and oa 1 her his snow- bird, his snowflake, his snowball, and all sorts of silly, snowy names. As she had to be called something. Snowball it finally came to be, and Snowball I suppose it always will be now. It suits the liltl^ white monkey as well as anythinrr else. Pearl or Lily would be more sensimental, bat I don't profess to be a sentimental person myself. I leave that for Snow ! ' The dot ' Samai you here' The pie face, and matron al the door, around. •Why Ann, 'is Aunt San Do come wautin' t( the cotta^ 'How c smiling re perhaps I She sto on Snowb die on he A start startled p; breathlei^s who has r( •Uhl' manners, Mrc. Tink that boarc Mimi SI teeth, and Mra. Ti and Strang fallen upo sort of pi her eyebrc ' Upon nice mot! Ann?' Jemima The elder) pale as w her heart. Goodn ' Whatevi ♦Oh m had a turt is that la( ' Mamz( don't knu •Oh m; afeared I An actresi ' A tigh Lor ! Mrs faint 1 ' For Mri sudden ai immediat< And Mri Jemima A LOST FOR A WOMAN. Id that for you, romance rtiadiog Jetnima Snow ! ' The door opens as she speaks. ' Samantha,' says a pleasant voice, ' are you here ? ' The pleasant voice belongs to a pleasant face, and both are the property of a pretty matron all in drab, like a Quaker, who opens the door, and stands gazing icquiringly around. ' Why Mrs. Tinker ! ' pxclaims Jemima Ann, * is it you I When did you come ? Aunt Samanthy's jest gone out marketin.' Do come in and wait. I know she's been wautin' to see you, and a tulkin' of going to the cottage all week,' ' How do you do, Jemima Ann ? ' is the smiliug response of the drab matron. ' Well, perhaps I had better — ' She stops suddenly. Her eyes have fallen on Snowball, then on Mimi, and the words die on her lips. A startled look comes into her eyes, a startled pallor falls on her face, her lips part breathlessly, she stands and stares line one who has received a shook. ' Oh! ' says Jemimp, Ann, remembering her manners, 'This is Mrs. Tinker, Miss Mimi. Mrc. Tinker, this is Mamzel Mimi, a lady that boards here, and her little girl.' Mimi smiles easily, shows her small white teeth, and nods. Mra, Tinker tries to bow, but some sudden, and strange and great dread and surprise have fallen upon her — she retreats backward in a sort of panic, without a word. Mimi lifts her eyebrows and laughs. ' Upon my word I ' she exclaims, ' is that nice motherly old party cracked, Jemima Ann?' Jemima Ann hurries out without reply. The elderly 1 it y stands in the passage, still pale as whitewash, her hands pressed over her heart. Goodness me, Mrs. Tinker I ' she cries. ' Whatever is it?' • Oh my dear,' says Mrs. Tinker. ' I've bad a turn, I ve had a turn, my dear. Who is that lady in the parlour ? ' • Mamzel Mimi, Mrs. Tinker. Surely you don't know her ? ' • Oh my dear, I'm afeard I do— I'm sore af eared I do. What is she Jemima Ann ? An actress ? ' ' A tight-rope dancer — a circus performer. Lor ! Mrs. Tmker, you ain't a going to faint I ' For Mrs. Tinker, breathing in gasps, lays sudden and violent held of Jemima, as if an immediate swoon were indeed her intention. And Mrs. Tinker weighs ten stone, and JemiHDa Ann feel that with the best wishes in the \^orld, she is not equal to bearing her to the nearest cold'Water tap. Mrs. Tinker thinks better of it, however, and does not swoon. ' No,' she says weakly. ' No, Jemima, my dear I shall not faint. Oh me ! oh me I to think it shauld come at last. I've always feared it my dear, always feared it. Soouer or later I said she will ftnd us, and she will come. Oh me, my dear mistress. How will she bear this ? ' • Do you mean Madam Valentine ? ' say Jemima Ann, looking sympathetic, and deeply puzzled. 'Does she know Mamzel Mimi ? Good gracious me, Mrs. Tiuker, you can never mean that.' ' Don't ask me any qnestions Jemima Ann, you will bear it all soon enough. Come down stairs, I feel fit to drop, and answer me a few questions. Tell me when this — this person came, and all ab'^ut her.' They descend to Mrs, Hopkins' own par- ticular sittine-room, and Mis. Tinker, btill in a weak and collapsed state, is provided with a fan and a glass of water, which otimu- lants bring her slowly round to calmness and cuhertnce. .Jemima Ann unfolds all she knows of Mile Mimi, which is not very much, but which is lif>tene(i to with pro- found and painful intf i.dity of interest. ' It's the same, it's the same,' 8a>8 Mrs. Tinker mourniully. ' I know it's the same, I never heard the name afore, lity — but Mr?. Tinker rises, a distressed look mu her face, and motions for silence with her hand. ' Mo my dear,' she says, in the same mournful tone. ' I can't tell you. I can't tell any one. I can't stay and see Pamautha. I don't feel fit to talk or anythintf. I've had a blow Jemima .A.nn, a blow. I'll go home my dear, and read a chapter in my fiible, and try to compose my mind.' Jemima Ann escorts her to the door, more mystified than sha has ever been betore in her life, and watches her out of sight, walk- ing sloMTlyand heavily as if*burtiened with painful thoughts, 'i'hen she returns up stairs and into the parlour, where Mimi lies indo ently on the sofa, her little feet ornstied in an attitude more suggestive of laziness and ease than lady-lik« gi aue. ' Well Jemima, has that flustered old per*, son departed 1 And what was the master Iras'* o »■ i 16 LOST FOR A WOMAN. with her T Is she generally knocked over in that unoomfortable manner by the sight nf a flcracger T And she is on her way back to the highly respectable lunatic asylum whence -flhe escaped ? ' ' Miss Mirai, are you sure ? Do you mean to say you never saw her before ? ' • Never, to the beat of ray belief. Why T Dans she seem to ^ay that she knows me ? ' Jemima Ann is silent. There is a mystet y here, and she feels that discretion may be judicious. ' Who is the venerable party anyhow ? She is a nice kindly-looking bi»dy, too, the sort of motherly soul one would like for a nurse or that ' 'She is Mrs. Tinker— Mrs. Susan Tinker.' • Susan Tmker. Euphonious cognomen 1' laughed Mimi. ' What else is she, oh, reticent Jemima Ann ! ' ' Well, she is housekeeper to Madame Talentine, She has been her housekeeper ^or more than twenty years. ' Jemima is just about lifting the tray to go, but Mile. Mimi springs erect so sud- denly, utters an exclamation so sharply that she drops her load. ' Land above ! ' she exclaims in terror, ^ what is the matter with you ? ' * Who did you say ? ' Mimi cries out breathlessly ; ' housekeeper for whom?' ' Madame Valentine— old Madame Valen- tine of the cottage. So then yon do know something of the secret after ail ? ' Mile. Mimi is standing up. A flush sweeps over the pearly fairness of her face then it fades and leaves her very pale. She turns abruptly away, walks to a win- dow, and stands with her back to th« curious Jemima Ann. She stands for fully Ave minutes staring out; but she sees nothing of the dull darkening street, the sky, the few paasers-by, over the way. The blue with a light not good to leaden October the ugly shops eyes gleaming see. ' Don't go,' she says at last, turning round as she sees Jemima Ann gathering up the the tray. ' I want to ask you a question. Who is Madame Valentine ? ' ' Who is she ? Why she is Madame Valentine, ^though why madame any more than other folks I don't know, except that she is very rich — immensely rich and aristo- cratic. Oh, lAy goodness ! ' says Jemima Ann, despairing of conveying any idea of the pinnacle of patrician loftiness and wealth which Madame Valentine has attained. * Rich and aristocratic 1 What in the world then,' aaks Mimi, with a gesture of infinite contempt oat of the window, ' does «hedohero!' ' It ain't such a bad place, Claugvillu ain't,' retorts Jemima, rather hurt; 'but she don't live here. Stie dou't live no. here, Mrs. Tinker says, for good ; she just goes about. She has houses and places evi^ry- where, in cities and in the country. She came here three or tour years ago, au{ht the cottage, and comes fur a month or two every fall since. And ner nephew likes it fur the shooting — partridges and that. She is going away next week, and won't come again till next September.' 'Her nephew?' Mini repeats quickly. ' Who is her nephew ? ' ' Mr. Vane Valentine, a young Eoglish gentleman, aud her heir. Yun ougtiter see him a ridin' through thn town, mounted on a big black horse, as tall and straight as any- thing, aud looking as if everybody he met was dirt under his feet !' cries Jemima Ann, in a burst of euthusiaatic admiration. Indeed ! Mr. Vane Valeutine puts on heirs, does he ? So he is the heir ! I knew there was a British cousin, and an heir to the title. Do you know that high-steppmg yuung gentleman will be a baronet one uay, Jemima Ann ?' ' Yes,' says Jemima Ana ; 'Mrs. Tinker told me. But how do you come to know ? You ain't acquainted with him, are you ?' ' I have nut tnat pUasure —at prettent, I may have, putisibiy, before long. Nu — duu't ask questions ; all you have to do is to answer them. There are only the old lady and this patrician nephew ?' ' Tnat 8 all. Mr. Valentine is dead.' ' Yes. But used there not to be some one else— a son ?' Jemima Ann looks at her with ever- grow ing curiosity. But her back is to the wan.' > ;^' light, and there is nothing to be seen. says, ' that you should ; not many people do. Even Mrs. Tinker hates to talk of it. But, yes — there was a son. ' ' What became of him ?' ' Well, he went wild, and ran away, and made a low marriase, and was cut off, and drowned. I don't know uothin' more — I don't, indeed. I only found that out by chance. And now I must go,' says, nervous- ly, Jemima Ann, ' for it is nearly six, and aunt will be back, and the hands supper is to get.' Mimi makes no effort to detain her ; but when she is alone she stands for a very long time quite still, the dark look deepening and ever deepening in her face. She hears the house door open, and the shrill, vinegar Toioe of Mrs* Hopkins — hears the sweet, 'It's odd,' she know about that shrill sin chanting v ballad of 1 hears the t and still st the night i room, and i But MIU a couple of all the woe and even e hazardou-i daring doii trace of 1 thuughc ha: and at th sparkles h home after usual, witl as furuistiei paid for by For Mr most resjj house in town of C trial of her help herself Hopkins ia i the moat da muddied in( door,' Mrs. ' and here ia thitig in tb bowu the them all. in her face ' don't put J to go wher sooner. I my medical lite I leal is going to ch{ health to prejudices, TJaere is u be strong, the iuevicab the blessed » •Lindo' Bopkius. this 1 Of al low groau tit weak to expi Jemima . scandalized heart of hei ' right good at what shi seated cartia ing past ; at seat, beaiiie LOST FOR A WOMAN. 17 Bhrill singing of her baby daughter otaanting with much spirit and 'go,' the ballad of the 'Ten Little Injun Boys' — hears the ear-splitting workmen's whidtle — and still stands rapt and motionless, though the night has long since fallen, and all the room, and all the street is dark. But Mile. Mimi belongs to the public, and a couple of hours later, flashes before it in all the wonted bravery of tinsel and glitter, and even eclipses herielt in the matter ot hazardoU'i flying leaps on the trapeze, and daring doiaxd on the dizzy slack-wtre. All trace of that darkly-brooding cloud of though c hns vanished from her riante face, and at the after-circus supper she out- sparkles her sparkling self, and returns home after one, flushed and excited, as usual, with the amber vintages of France, as furnished by the Hotel Washington, and paid for by Mr. Lacy. For Mrs. Hopkins, keeper of the most respectable temperance boarding- house in the good New Euglaud town of CUngville, it is the bittuvist trial of her life. And she is powerless to help herself ; the sting lies there. Mrs. Hopkins is total abstinence or she is nothing, the most daiiug foundry hand never returus muddled more than once. 'There is the door,' Mrs. Hopkins, with fltshing eyes, ' and here is you. You git. ' There is some- thing in the Spartan brevity that takes bowu the biggest and blackest hand of them all. But Mile. Mimi al solutely laughs in her face. 'My good soul,' she says, ' don't put yourself in .< passion. I inteud to go when my week it up, not an hour sooner. I require stimulanvs, prescribed by my medical attendant, I assure you. The lite I lead is frightfully exhausting. I am not going to change my Habits and injure my health to af-commodate your old-fashioned prejudices, my dear Madam Hopkins.' Tiiere is nothing for it but to su^er and be strong. Aunt Samantha knocks under to the inevitable, and counts every hour until the blessed one of her happy release. 'Lind o' hope 1' cries out, deaparirg, Mrs. Hopkins. 'Jemima Ann, will yo-i look at this 1 Of all the shameful oreeters '—a hol- low groan fluishes the sentence — words are weak to express her sense of reprobation. Jemima Ann looks. She is not so easily scandalized as Aunt Samantha, and in her heart of hearts, rather envies Mimi her ' right good time,' but even she is startled at what she beholds, Aa open, double- seated cartiage, bright with varnish, is flash- ing past ; and perched high on the drivei's seat, beside the renowned Mr. Lacy, hold- 2 ing the reins, and ' hiing ' to four spirited horses, is Mile. Mimi. An expert whip she evidently is, and remarkably jaunty and au- dacious she looks, a pretty hat setooquettisU* ly on the gildtd hair, a cigarette between her rosy lips, she smokes with gusto while she drives. Behind sits one of the Bounding Brothers and his yovog woman, also witU cigarettes alight, and loud laughter ringing forth, and as they fly past, the whole deeply- shocked town ot (Jlangville seeir.a to rusn lu thHir doors and windows, to catcli a glimpse of the demoralizmg vision. ' 1 knew she smoked,' Jemima Ann re- marks, in a subdued voice : ' she does in hur own room sometimes of an afternoon.' Mrs. Hopkins sinks into a chair, faint with despair. What will this reckless creature ila nfcxt ? * She'll give the house a bad name,' she says, weakly, 'and there don't seem uothiut^ I can do to prevent it. To sit up theie, drivin' two team of rariu', pranciu' horser*, smokin' cigars, and likely's not half tight. I'll go over to Rogers' this very minute aud give him a piece of my mind anyhow.' The landau, with its four laughing, smok- ing occupants flashes one of town, leaving the coal smoke, the noise, and black giiuie of fouuderies and mauutactones far beuinil,, and whirls along a pleasant country roait, treed on every hand, brilliant with crim&ou and orange glories of bright October. ' D jes nybody happen to know a place called The\Jot:age,'a8ks Mimi, 'the residence, ( balieve, of one Mrs. or Madam Valentine ?' ' 1 do,' replies Mr. Lacy, ' I've met young Valentine ; aueced siitt" young prig ; puts ou airs of British nobility— * aw, aon't you know, my dear fellah ' - that sort of thing. Felt like kicking him on the only occaxiou m e met. Sour-looking, black-looking beggar. But he lives right out here, with his graud- mothei, or fairy godmother, or something.' ' His aunt, my friend ; be definitr. There is a painful lack of lucidity in your remarks, Licy,' tays Mimi. ' Well, I want to stop at Tne Cottage. I am going to make a call. Don't ask questions ; it is my whim ; that is enough for you. Madam Valentine is a real graude dame, so they tell me, and I've never had the pleasure of meeting one of tho b. eed. So 1 am going to call, and see for myself. I may neve'* have another chance. ' You have the audacity of the devil,' says Mr. Lacy, with artless admiration. ' By George ! I should like to see the old lady's face when you announce yourself, judging from what I hear, and from the look of that black- vieaged uephew, she is more like a venerable empress run to seed i,..;ar! Sim a 18 LOST FOR A WOMAN. than aa every>day, rich, old woman. Shall we all call, or will you go it aloutt ?' Mtiiii responds that she will go it alone. Her cigarette is smoked out. Mr. Lacy lights her another, as she pulla the four prAiiuiug bays up at the gates uf The Cot- tag*j. Her pretty face is slightly paler than usual ; her lip) are set in a tight line ; a sombre light, that bodes no good to the lady Hhe proposes to visit, is in her blue eyes. 8he aits a moment, and scans the house and gronntis. • N-it much of a place,' remarks Mr. Lacy, sliglitingly ; ' only a shootin'-box for the bluok boy— I mean the nephew. Lots of space though ; could be made a tip-top enuutry seat if they liked. Want to get down ?' Miiui waves his hand aside, and leaps lightly to the ground. • Wait for me here,' she says, and out of her voice all the »nap aud timbre have gone— * or no ; drive on, aud come back in half an hour. 1 will be ready for you then.' • Wish we had an old shoe to throw after vou for luck, Mimi,' calls out the Bounding brother. ' Don't let the ogress of the castle eat yon alive if you can help it.' • And don't fall in love with the high- [ t ued nephew,' says the young person by his bide. • Or, what is more likely, don't let the high- toned nephew tall lu love with >ou,' adds Mr. Lacy. * Sure to do it once he sets eyes on you. "a, ta, Vlimi ! Speak up prettily to tbe'ola lady. Don't be ashamed of yftur- self.' She waves her cioarette, opens the iron gaten, and enters. The carriage and four-in- hand whirl on— vanidh. With the yellow afternoon sun sitting down on her through the lofty niapks and larches, Mimi, with head defiantly erect, . ai>d blue eyes dangerously alight, walks up to the iroat of The Cottage. CHAPTER V. IK WHICH WE VISIT MADAM VALENTirK. It is an unpratettouB building, as its name implies, alow, wuite frame structure, with a 'stoop,' or veranda, running the whole length of its front ; set in wide, wild grounds, and nothing anywhere to betoken that the lady, who is mistress there, is a lady of great wealth, and still greater dignity and social distinction. There are great beds of gorgeous, flaunting dahlias, Mimi notices, and ofier beds of brilliant geraniums ; no other flowers. .T«ro great dogs start up at her approach, and bark loudly ; otherwise it is all as still, in the afternoon hush, as the oastle of the sleeping beauty. But human life is there, too, and not asleep. A lady, slowly paciug up aud duwn the long stoop in the warm suasiiiiie, pnuiies. turun, stands, looks, and waits for the visitor to approach. It IS Madam Vi«leutine herself. Mimi knows it at a glance, though she has never seen her before. But she ha» seen her picture and heard her desurihed, ah ! many times. She is a tall, spare olil lady, with silvery hair, combed high over a roll, a la Pompa- dour, silvery, severe face, made vivid by a pair of piercing dark eyes. She wears a dress of soundless, lusterless black silk, that sweeps the hoards behind her. She looks like one born to rich, aoundles silks, and priceless laces, and diamond rmgs. Many of these sparkle on the slender white hands, folded on the g'^ld knob of her ebony cane, as she stands and waits. A lofty, stately figure, her trained robe trailing, her jewels gleaming ; but her mnjesty of bearing is altogether lost on her daring and dauntless visitor. With her fair head well up and back, her blue eyes alight, smiling defiance in every feature, aud still smoking, 8trai>;ht up and on marches Mimi until the two women stand face to face. The dogs, at a sign from their mistress, have ceased barking, aud crouch, growling, near. The cottage rests in its afternoon hush, the long stiadows of the western sua fall on and gild the two faces — one so fair, so youthful, so bold, so reckless ; the other so stern, so old, so ret, so prond. Madam Valentine breaks the silence flrst. ' To whom have ^ the pleasure of speak* ing ?' she asks, her voice is as hard as her face, deep and strong almost as a man's. ' Vou don't know me,' Mimi says, airily ; ' well, that is your fault. I never was proud. Still, you might recognize me, I think. Look hard. Madam Valentine ; look again, and as long as you like. I am used to it ; it's in my line of business, you know ; aud tell me did you never see any one at all like me »» She removed her cigarette, knocks off the ash daintily with her little tinger-tip, and holds it poised, as she stands at ease, a smile on her face, and stares straight into Madam Valentine's eyes. ' I do not know you,* that lady answers in accent of chill disgust. ' I have no wish to know you. If you have any business, state it and go. ' ' Hospitable !' Mimi laughs, ' and polite. So you do not know me, and have no desire to know me ? Well, I can believe that. No, you do before, you hav your eld she look Mada sudden < den wih has chat dam Vtt •My ' is it- 'Geo^ Jaw. M iry V world LOST FOR A WOMAN. 10 vou do not know me. You never met me before, but I have every reason to believe you have heard a ^reat deal of me. I think your eMwrly housekeeper knows who I am ; she looka aa if she did yesterday afternoon.' Madam Valentibe takes i* step back, a sudden change paeies over her face — a sud- den wild feir comes into her eyes. And it has chanced to few people ever to see Ma- dam Valentine look afraid. ' My God 1' she says, under her breath, ' is ic — is it ' ' Creorj^e's wife. Yes, my dear mother-in- law. You behold your daughter ! I am Miry Valentine— known to the circus-going world as Mimi Trillon. For professional rea8ons a French name has hitherto suited me best, but my reputation is made now aa a dashing trapizist, and tight-rope dancer, and I aiu tired of sailing under false colours. 1 propose from this day forth assumi j; my O.VD name. '"Mrs. George Valentine ' will look well on the bills, I think, and sounds solid and respectable. Unless — unless,' — she pauHos, and the blue eyes flash out upon the black ones vith alookof epiteand hatred not good to see. ' I owe ) ou something these la!>t eight years, Madam Valentine, and I have vowed a vow to pay my debt. But I am willing, after all, to forget and forgive — on one condition. Do you know I have a chili ?' There is no reply. Abhorrence, hatred, disgust, look at her out of Madame Valen- tine's dark, glowing eyes. ' A little girl of tl|i-ee years and three months — George's daughter — your only grandchild, madam ; the heiress, if right is done, of every farthing you possess. I love my child , provide for her, provide for me ; you count your wealth by millions ; I drudge like a galley slave. Buy me otf ; 1 don'c u.-.e tine phrases, you see, and I have my price. Buy me off from the circus. It is not half a bad life for me, but for my little girl's sake, and for the honour of the highly re- spectable familv I have married into, I will quit it. But at a fair price — a carriage, ser- vants, diamonds, a fixed and sufficient an- nuity — all that. And you may take your granddaughter and place her at school ; I ghali not object, mothers must sacrifice their own feelings for the good of their children. Do all this, and I promise to forget the past, and trouble you no more.' She pauses. Madam Valentine still stands, but more erect, if possible, her hands resting one over the other on the top of her cane, her face as set as steel. ' If you have finished,' is her ioy answer •go r A flush of rage orimaons Mimi'a face. She and oomes a step plants her little feet, closer to her foe. ' I have not finished 1' she cries, fiercely ; ' this is one side of the mei'al — let me show you the reverse, llefune — treat me with scorn and insult, as you have hitherto done, and by this light I swear I'll make you repent it I I'll placard your name — the name you are all so proud of — on every dead wall, on every fence, in every newspaper, the length and breadth of the laud ! I'll proclaim from the house-tops whose dau^hteriu-law I have the honour to be, whose wife I have been, whose widow I am ! For you know, I suppose, that your son is dead ?' The haughty, inflexible old face changes for a moment, there is a brief quiver of the thin, set lips — then perfect repose again. ' Yes, he is dead,' goes on Mimi, 'killed by your hardness and cruelty. He was your only son, but you killed him with your pride. It must be a consoling thought that, in your childless old age 1 But you have your nephew — I forgot — he is to have poor George's birthright. He perished in misery and want. Madam Valentine, and his last thought was for you. It will comfort you on your death-bed, one of these days, to re- member it. Now choose — will you provide for my future and for my child's, or shall I proclaim to the world who I am, and what manner of woman are you ?' * Will you go ?' repeats Madam Valentine, m the same voice uf icy contempt, ' or must I set my dogs on you to drive you out ?' ' If you dare !' cries Mimi, her face ablaze. ' I defy you and your dogs ? I shall remain in Clangville until Saturday — this is Thurs* day — I give you until Saturday to decide. If I do not hear from you before I leaVe this place, look to the consequences I The whole country shall know my story ; the wasld, shall judge between us. My story shall go to be told in every way in which it is pos> sible to teli it, the story of the wronged wife, and the mother who murdered her only son 1 You are warned ! I wish you ^ood-day, and a very good appetite for your dinner, Madam Valentine !' She takes her skirts after the stately old fashion, and sweeps a profound and mocking courtesy. Then singing, as she goes a snatch of a drinking song, and walking with an ex- aggerated swagger, she marches back to re- join her friends, by this time waiting at the gate. Madam Valentine stands and looks after her, a lofty, lonely, dark, draped figure, in the yellow waning light. So still she stands, her hands folded on the top of her gold and / 20 I,OST FOR A WOMAN. black o»ne, that it u nearly halt aa hoar befnre the wfkea from her trance. Tho lengthy aftcruooa ahadowa are at their longest, the October wind aigha fitfully through the trees, the air grows sharp nnd frosty, but she feels no chill, sees no change. The dead seems to have arisen, her drowned sou has c »me from his grave and spoken to her through this woman's lips— this low-born, low-bred, violent creature, this jumper of horizontal bars, this rough rider of horsps ! This is the wife he has wedded, the daughter he has given her, the mother of the last daughter of the house of Valentine ! If vindictive little Mimi, laughing, jesting, smoking, driving four-in-hand, louuly and recklessly all the way back, could but read the heart she has left behind, even her vengeance would ask no more ! CHAPTER VI. WHICH INTRODUCES MB. VANE VALENTINE. She rouses herself at last, and goes in, shivering in the tirst consciousues she has yet ffelt of the rising wind. It is dusk al- ready in the hall, but the sitting-room she eaters is lit by a bright wood tire. The last pale primrose glitter of the western sky shows through the muslin curtains of the one bay-window — a window with no womanly litter of bird cages and flower-pots, or fanny work. And yet it is a cosy room, a suf- Bciently home-like, with an abundance of books and magazines strewn everywhere, many pictures on the papered walls, and half a dozen chairs of the order pouf. She pulls the bell-rope in crossing to her own particular seat, and sinks wearily into i its downy depths, in front of the fire. Sha 1 still rests upon her cane, and droops a little \ forward, but the stern old face keeps its Tlnifil frigidity of look, and shows little more trace of suffering than a fac<> cat in gray stone. • Jane,' she says, quietly, to the woman who appears, ' send Mrs. Tinker to me.' Jane says ' Yes'm,'and goes. The dark, resolute eyes turn to the tire and gaze into its ruddydepths, until the door re-opens, and the house-keeper, fluttered and nervous, enters. She has caught a glimpse of the visitor, and stands almost like a culprit before her mistress. Madam Valentine eyes her for a moment as she stands smoothing down her black silk apron with two restless old hands. ' Susan,' she says, in the same quiet tone, ' I have had a caller. You may have seen lier — you may even have heard her, she spoke loudly enough. She mentioned you incident- ally in something she said— spoke of your recognizing her, or something of the kind. Do you know who I mean ?' ' Mistress, I am afeard I do.' ' You have seen this— this person, then — where ?' * She lodges with my cousin in thn town, ma'm— leastways she was poor, dear Tinker's cousin afore he departed ; she keepn a board- iu' house, which her name it is Samautha Hopkins, — ' Madame Valentino "^ her hand im- patiently — a hand ..ashes in the ti'e light. Samantha Ho^.a than nothing to her. ' She lodges in Clangville, and you have seen her. Have you spoken to her ?' 'Oh, no, ma'am, no— not for the wor d And — and I didn't know she knew me-' • How did you know her ?' ' Mistress,' in a low tone. ' I used to see — I often saw — her picture with — with Master ' Again the white, ringed hand flashes in the tire-light, quickly — angrily, this time. ' Stop 1 I want to hear no names. Do you know who she claims to be V ' Mistress, yes, ' still very low. ' Do you believe it ?' the voice this time sharp with angry pain. ' Oh, my dear mistress, I am afeard — I am afeard — I do !' A pause. The tire leaps and sparkles, and gilds the pictures on the walls, and brings out in its vivid glow the faces of the two women, mistress and servant. The last gray light of the waning d&y lingers on these two gray old faces — one so agitated, bo tear-wet, BO strinken with sorrow and shame — one in its chill, pale pride, showing nothing of the agony within. ' You recognized hor at first sight, ' says Madam Valentme, mastering her voice with an effort — it is hardly as well trained as her face— 'without a word— from the photo- graphs you see ?' ' I did, ma'am.' ' Then 1 suppose there can be no mistake. I would not have believed that — that person's word. You know there is a child V ' I saw her madam. Oh, my dear mistress, I saw her !— Master George's own little child ! Oh I my heart ! my heart I' She breaks down suddenly, and covering her old face with her old hands, sobs as if her heart would break. Madam Valentine's face changes, works, and turns quite ghastly as she listens and looks. ' Oh, forgive me I' Mrs. Tinker sobs, ' my own dear mistress. I have no right to cry and distress you in your sore trouble, but I loved him so I And to see her- that pretty, pretty lit d»'ad, my wan his uh to break , me, I am < in my arn own flesh than my o • You n She spe coldly nor ' And ; mistress, < Jjdned, at 'I am Tinker. When Mr once.' ' He is 1 in the 'all. A slow, ible, and utter dusl 'Ye?,'s come in 1 dress for ( ' Shall ] 'No-n eaough.* Mrs. T and her once agaii g'ze. tJAll her woman ha and in thii training ai He wou moment ci her still fa< a passional tyrdom of this hour, the man m whom she He i8\ man, a ne] last male : to a bare Katherinc Hamilton He is a i over twen aquiline n< a thin blac parted doi Thinnes present sti salient pc certain ex whole face LOST FOR A WOMAN. 91 pretty little' one, and to know that he ia dt'ad, my bright, bouny boy, and that ahe wan his ubild— oh ! my miatresa, itgoea near to break ^my heart. Don't 'ee be argry wi' tne, I am only an old woman, and I held him in my arma many and many a time, and my own flesh r.iid blood could never be dearer than my own Master George.' • You may go, Huaan.' She Bpeaka with meaaured quiet, but not coldly nor impatiently. ' And you are not angry wi' nie ?' Oh I miatresB, don't 'ee be angry — don't ee, now ! ladeed, and in very deed, I ' 'I am not angry. You are a good aoul. Tinker. I have a great respect for you. When Mr. Vane cornea in aend him to me at once. ' ' lie is here now, ma'am. I hear his ateps in the 'all.' A slow, rather heavy step, is indeed aud- ible, and a man's voioe calls through the utter dusk for somebody to show a light. ' Yep,' says madam, listening, 'tell him to oome in here, befure he goes to his room to dress for dinner.' ' Shall I send in lamps, ma'am ?' ' No— not until I ring. The twilight is eaough.' Mrs. Tinker, wipiug her eyeky ia all alight with stars. Mr. V'lino Val«Mitino glancefi approvini^ly upwardn aa he liijhtB a cigar, and opiuctt he will have a pleasant night for hiM return walk. His step ringn like steel on the hard ground, and rt-auht-s the ear of nia(iani, sitting alone and lonely before thf Hre. She glances after him — a tall, slender ti>.'ure — andin that look, for one instant, there tltshea out something strange- ly akin to aversion. P\>r he stanlen- tine who had ever demeaned himfself. They had been free-booters, raiders, hard fighters, hard hunters, hard spendthrifts , had been soldiers, sailors, rectors, lived hard, died hard, distinguished thet.nselvc's in many ways, but tradesmen none nf them had beer, until young Austin threw off the traditioi » and shackles of centuries, emancipated him- self, took this new departure, demeaned him- self, and made his fortune. It was time, too, for the Valentine guinoan had come to a very low ebb Riotous living is apt to empty already depleted coffers. Sir Rupert, with every inch of land mortgaged, the manor rented, wandering about the Ci>d« !)inent, striving drearily to make the nlo^'<; of nothing, was perhaps a greater objtct of compassion than Austin in the shipping ]>u»\- n^ss and fur trade, w'ih wealth roUint; in like a golden river, a millionaire alreadv iit; thirty years. But Sir Rupert did not think so. From the heights of his untarnished poai- tion, as one of the oldest baronets of the baronetage, he looked in horror from thw first, on his only brother's decadence, spoke of him always as ' poor Austin,' and to do him justice declined to avail him.self in any way of such ill-gotten gain. Auscin laughed ; he was philosophical as well as shrewd, went ou the even tenor o: his we^ilthy O 24 LOST FOR A WOMAN. way, and finally at three and-thirty looked about him for a wife. He fne uiy Lady Valen- i ne. On this October night Aual in Valentine has lain for years under the turf, while the hypocondriacal elder brother is still on it, and likely indefinitely t'ere to remain. They returned to Tor.>nto and tet up house- keening on a princely scale. Katherine Valentine amply ren;iinerated herself for the dingy jears of her maiden life. She spent money^aviahly, extravagant- ly, on every whim and capiice, until evei generous Austin winced. Bat he signed the big chf qutis and laughed. Let it go— she did honour to him, to his name, to their position as leadets of society — her tastes were eeithetic, and sesthetio tastes are mostly expensive. Everything turned to gold in bis hands, he was a modern Midas without the ass' ears. Let her spend as she might the coffers would still be full. And then after ten years a son was born. When a prince of the blood is born, can- nous boom, bells ring, and the wcrld throws up its hat and hoorays. None of these things were done wheu Katherine Valentine's son came into the world, but it was an event for all that. Toronto talked,'there were feasting below stairs, there were congratulations from very august quarters, a governor-general and an earl's daughter were his sponsors, the chris- tenina presents were something exquisite. Sir Rupert wrote a very correct letter from Spa — a weak little pean of rejoicing, but very warmly welcomed. He looked on the boy as his success^T, hoped he would grow up to be an honour to the name of Valen- tiue — had no doubt of it with such a mother, trusted he inherited some of her beauty, must be excused from sending anytliiug more substantial than good wishes, the dis- tance, eto. Tney named the ba,by George, after his paternal grandfather — George Hamilton Valentine it stood on the recurd, and the haupiaess of Austin and i.vatLerine Vakn- tine was complete. Surely if ever a child cam.3 iuto this world with the traditional silver spuon in itsniouth, it was this one. He dia iinherit his mother's statuesque beauty — he was an uncommonly handsome child, healthy, merry — a boy to gladden any mother's heart. . Years passed— there was no other child. It can be imagined, perhaps, the life this ' golden youth' led, it can hardly be deecrib- ed. And yet he was not spoiled. Idolizing his mother might be, but judicious she was also, and very firm— firmness was a silent point of her character. But she loved him, he was the one crcatuie on eaith she had absolutely loved— she loved him with all her heart aud strength, and miud and soul, as sail be loved, human id<| even here pair. An( ception. abr>>ad to wished hii English la(] 1 ut ncithi ttteir darl^ himself wia fearless litt laughing ej hair, the laugh in thl a prince bl heirship, h^ with that smile and riti^ht of tfa face— he w would still heir to fabi more easy was in the He grew for every ology undei his dogs, ai studied, or hearts of a mostly he s he had his < aud what it came into l tutor, besid taste for m until his Itioz^rt, di( painted a 1 Laiiu verse German, shot up lik eighteen hi much embi Ai a m though eig man Co go Bat the tr looked an dark brigh all the woi teen-yeai'-( enough to He wal out a cho aang de.li( the art of boating, a he did m aud a-half LOST FOR A WOMAN. 25 soul, as sainta love God, as He ab^ve should be loved. No human heart can make a human idol, and not pay the penalty even here below, in heart-break and des- pair. And Madam Valentine was no ex- ception. She would not ,have him setit abr<)ad to school. Hi* uncle, Sir Rupert, wished him to go to Eton and Oxford, as an English lad, and a future baronet should, 1 ut neither father nor mothe:' oould bear their darling out of their sif^ht. The boy himself wished it ; he was a bold, bright, fearless little fellow at ten, with big, blauk, laughing eyes, a curly crop of black brown hair, the whitest teeth, the most genial laugh in the world. Even if he hid not been a prince by right divine of his b«rth and heirship, he would still have been charming with that frank bonny face, and winsome smile and glance. He was born a prince by rii^ht of that kingly brow, and handsome face— he won all hearts— even a beggar he would still have been barn tv conqueror. As heir to fabulous wealth, to a title, it is again more easy to imagine than describe what he was in the provincial city of Toronto. He grew and prospered ; he had masters for every lanG;uage, every science, every ology under the sun. He had his horse, ana his dogs, and he drove and he rode, and he scudieti, or let it aloue, and made glad the hearts of a doting man and woman. But mostly he studied, he was fairly industrious, he had his own notions of noblesse oblige, and what it became a prince to know ere he came into hia kingdom. He had a resident tucor. besides these masters, he had a pretty taste for music, played the piano and sang, until his mother thought him a modern ]\Iuz^rt, did himself credit on the violin, painted a little, sketched a great deal, wrote Laiiu verses with fluency, spoke French and German. With it all he grew and grew ; shoe up like Jack's beanstalk indeed, and at eighteen ntood tive-feet-eleven, in his very much embroidered velvet slippers. A4 a matter of course he broke hearts, thuugh eighteen is full youug for a geutle> man to go energetically into that businefls. But the truth is he could not help it. He looked and — played the mischief 1 Those dark bright eyes that laughed so frankly on all the world, wrought sad havoc with six- teen-year-old hearts— indeed with hearts old enough to know better. He waltzed — ' oh I like an angel I' cried out a chorus of young soprano voices. He sang dftlioiously. He was past master of the art of croquet, of flirtation, of billiards, buatiog, archery, bane-ball ; what was there he did not do to perfection 1 At eighteen and ahalf, his mother was not the only lady in the Canaf^ian universe who thought the Buu aioue with his rising, and set when his bewitderine presence disappeared. And just here, when Elen was at its fairest, sunniest, sweetest, the serpent came, and after ii'itr* — the deluge ! • Mother,' said George Hamilton Valen- tine, one day at breakfast, ' I think I shall take a run over the border, and spend a week or two in New York. Parker can come, too, if you think the wicked Gotham- ites will gobble your only one up alive. Too prolonged a course of Toronto is apt to pall on a fiivolous min-l.' Of course, she said Yes. He did pretty much as he pleased in everything l)y this time. Even her gentle, silken chain was felt as a fetter, and rebelled against. He took the discreet resident tutor, Mr. Parker, and a drawing-room car for New York. But he did not return in a week, nor in two, nor in three ; and at the end of five, Mr. Parker wrote a letter, that fell like a bursting bomb into the palatial mansion at home, and caused a message to Hash over the wires with electric swiftness, summoning the wanderers back. Tney came back. Nothing was said. A glance of intelligence passed between madam and the tutor ; then she looked furtively, auxioauly at her son. He was precisely the same as ever, in high h&alth, Hue spirits, and full of his recent flyiaj:! trip. The mother drew a deep breath of relief. There was no change that she could see. Only Mrs. Tin- kftr, whohadwashtd Master Gborgie's face at tive years old, and combed his hair, and kis8i,d him vo the point of extinction, saw a change. She did more ; she saw her photo, graph. A oontidant George must have ; and after a bundled extorted vows of secrecy, reducing Mrs. Tinker almost to the verge of tears with protestations of eternal silence he forced from her, he showed her the photo- graphs. And Mrs. Tinker looked at them, and shrieked a shriek, and covered her shock- ed old eyes with her virtuous old hands. For — for the hussy had no clothts on, or next to none, or what Mrs. Tinker considered none — I^ver having seen the Black Crook, or a ballot, or anything enlightened or Panaiaa in her stupid old life. ' Oh ! Master (ieorge, my dear, how cau you ! The wicked, improper youug — young person !' cried .N.rs. Tinker, in strong repro- bation ; ' take them away. Master Georgie, my dear— do'ee, now. I wonder at you for showing me such things I I do, indee. forbids ; she cannot bring herself te tell tales of her boy. So she says nothing, but fears much, and tru$>t8 to time to fet crooked things straight, and to absence to make this youthful swain f )rget. But he does not for&;et , neitner does the professional lady he met in New York, do- ing the Hying trapeze, For one day, some two months latter, in pulling out her band- kerchief, he pulled a letter out of his pocket, and quit the toom without noticing it. It is hiu mother who chances to pick it up. The peaky, school -girlish looking scrawl sur- prises her. ' Dear old Georgie,' it begins, and the sig- nature is ' Your ever loving little Jumping Jack ! Madam Valentine, inexpressibly horrified reads it through, her face flushing with haughty amaze aud disgust. Then another feeling — fear — comes, and turns her white to the very lips. Illy spelt, illy written, vulgar in every word, it is yet a love-letter — a love- letter in which a promised marriage is spoken of. The signature puzzles her. George has told his beloved Mrs. Tmker's fancy name for her, and it has tickled the erratic humour of the vivacious Mimi. She has adopted it. ' Some horrible pet name, no doubt,' the lady thinks.. ' Gracious Heaven 1 what a strange infatuation for George !' Nothing is said. Mr. Valentine is con- sulted, is shocked, is enraged, is panic stricken, but his wife is convinced it is not yet too late. She will take him away, and at once— at once ! They will go to Europe ; he shall make the tour of the world, if necessary, with Sir Rupert ; he shall never return to Toronto. What a mercy — what a direct interposition of Providence — that this letter fell into her hands when it did ! George is told that the wish of his heart shall be gratified. He shall throw up study and travel for the next three years. Uncle Rupert wishes it so much I She will go with him to Spa, where Sir Rupert at pre- sent 18, will spf^ud the winter in Italy, aud return home delighted ? George d months ago change in si: and a good c room and v takes it to t Preparatii week they \ two ditya be blow falls, night and — moonlight fl well filled ] border and trapezist, tl girl gradual back slums i He is gon< for two wee! marriage is t a copy of th( notice, heav petitioning I of his beaute ress — ho wa come to the It matters n — as stiiinles been, it wot has befalldn d ning can I in these ga youth, and i but still bn been cherisb feet thing That radiau Now there c ruin, utter them as a gi curse him in He is worse worse. Th( his name fr( from sight . ever belong* to atoms — t] ashes, and ^ them to for J stirred to it a nine days' baled breatl patrician fan a day. And BO Gi LOST FOR A WOMAN 27 ntly. He picture he c while he ks for her But she's ia all the ck 1' cries )S8 of her ig Jack at goes, too, (ia her tell loyalty to mot bring I she says ts to time to absence b. !r does the York, do- day, some her hand- lis pocket, ing it. It it up. The icrawl 8ur- id the sig- Jumpiug horrified iiDg with another sr white to en, vulgar Br — a love- ;e is spoken jreorge has aucy name tic humour adopted it. luubt,' the I what a ine is con- is panic ed it ia not away, and ;o Europe ; world, if shall never y — what a — that this lid ! ' his heart w up study rs. Unole \he will go )ert at pre- Italy, aud return home in the spring. Is not George delighted ? George does not look delighted. Six months ago he would have done t.o, but we change in six months. He looks reflective, and a good deal put out, and goes up to his room and writes rather a long letter, and takes it to the post himself. Then he waits. Preparations begin, go on rapidly ; in a week they will be ready to start. But just two days before the week ends the terrible blow falls. He goes up to his room one night and — is seen no more ! He makes a moonlight Hitting, with a knapsack and a well tilled pocket-book. He is * o'er the border and awa' wi' — Mimi Trillon, the trapezist, the tight-rcpe dancer, the ' fair girl graduate with i^olden hair' from the back slums of Ndw York 1 CHAPTER VIII. *:■. .'■•■■'' .-• LOST FOR ^A WOMAN. .lii. Ir^.j He is gone ! They do not hear from him for two weeks, and long days before that the marriage is an accomplished fact. He sends a copy of the Herald containing the marriage notice, heavily inked, and a lengthy letter petitioning forgiveness — a long pean of praise of his beauteous bride. He calls her an act- ress — ho wants to let them down gently, and came to the circus and the trapeze by degrees. Ic matters not — were she a queen of tragedy — as stainless as some queens of tragedy have been, it would still matter not. Utter ruin has hef.-illdn, disgrace so deep that no con- d ning can be possible. He might have died lu these gallant and golden days of his youth, and their hearts might have broken, but still broken proudly, and his memory been cherished as tbe one beautiful aud per- fect thing of earth— too perfect to last. That radiant memory would have consoled. Now there can be nothing of this. Black ruin, utter misery, deepest shame, covers them as a garment — it is in their hearts to curse him in the fi.-st frenzy of their woe. He is worse than dead, a thousand times worse. They burn his portrait, they erase his name from the family Bible, they hang from eight and existence everything that ever belonged to him, they tear his letters to atoms — they would cover their heads with ashes, and wear sackcloth if it could help them to forget. The world of Toronto is stirred to its deepest depths ; it is more than a nine days' wonder -it is whispered with baled breath, and awe-stricken faces, in very patrician families indeed, for many and many a day. And so George Valentine gives the world for love, and his pkce knows him no more. His father and iiother live and bear their misery and shame, and after the first blow show a brave front to the world. It is in their nature. They hold themselves more defiantly erect if possiblo, but he W( uld be a brave man who would venture to name their son to either of them. And years go by, and richer and still richer Austin Valentine grows, and Sir Rupert wri';es from Nice in a despondent strain, that hf is breaking fast and that the actresn st'mds a chance of w.riting herself Lady Valentine all too soon. Lady Valentine she may be — curse her ! Austin Valentine mutters, for he, too, is a broken man — but never h»'r to his millions. He bethinks him all at once of a youthfnl cousin, also a Valentine, half forgotten until now, very poor, and living in a remote part of Cornwall, and sends for bim at once, with the ansurance that if he pleases him he shall be his heir. Vane Valentine comes, wondering, and haraly able to realize his fairy future. He has been brought up in poverty anil obscurity — has never expected anything else. Three lives stand between him and the baronetcy. Sir Rupert, Austin, George— what chance has he ? Take away these three lives and give him the title— what is tl ere for him to keep it upon? No, Vane Valentine has hoped for nothing, and Fate vbrusts fortune in a moment into his hand». He comes — a slim, dark youth of twenty, with good manners, and not much to say for himself. A little stiff and formal, his uncle (so he is told to term Mr. Austin Valentine) finds hii^^^ — a contrast in all ways to the heir who 'i lost. All the better for that, perhaps; no chance trick of resemblance will ever make their hearts bleed. It is a young man this, who will never do a foolish, or a gener- ous, or a reckless, or an unBel6»)h thing ; who will weigh well the name and status of the lady he marries, whose heart will never run away with his head. 'The heart of a cucumber fried snow,' quotes contemptuously. Madam 'We need not be a pompous young afraid of prig the m Valentine, him. What little fool is ! But Vane Valentine never dreams of the estimate these rich relations of his hold him in. He thinks exceedingly Will of himself, and infers, with the complacent simplicity ot extreme con- ceit that all the world does the same. The Valentine blue blood runs in his calm veins, hid manners and morals are of the beat, his temper well under aontrol, his taste in dress verging on perfection, his health good with- out being vulgarly robust, his education 0. n 28 LOST FOR A WOMAN. leaves nothing to be desired — what more will you ? * He accepts with complacent ease the gold- en showers Fortune rains upon him, does not oppress his benefactress wich words of grati- tude, feels that Destiny has come to a sense of her duty, and that the ' king has got his own again.' He writes long letters to Ccrnwall to hi*; sister Dorothea, who has trained hiin since the death of his parents in early boyhood, and to a certain Cousin Camilla, of whom he is very fond, and whose picture he wears ip a locket. And Austin and Katherine Valentine ac- cept him for what he is, and make the most of him ; and kll the time the aching void is there in their hearts, and achea and acheb wearily the long year round. Mr. Valentine visibly droops, breaks, re- tires from business, and begins that other business in whose performance we must all one day engage — the business of dying. The name of the lost idol is never spoken between this father and raother. If the waters of Lethe were no fable, thay would drink of it greedily, and so forget. But they remember only the more, perhaps, for this unbroken silence. Six months after the arrival of Vane Val- entine his twentieth birthday occurs, and for the first time since the thunderbolt had riven their heart-i, a party is given at Valen- tine House, in honor of the occasion. Ic is a dinner party, to which, in addition to the young people invited to meet the heir, muny very great personages are bidden and come. It is a dinner party "that Mrs. Tinker for one, never forgets. Something ocours that night that is marked with a white stone forever after in her life. No one has mourned the lost heir more deeply, more despairingly than she. Hers is gentler grief than that of the parents, it is unmixed with anger or bitterness — her tears flow at first in ceaseless streams. She has loved her boy almost as dearly as his own mother, only with a love that has in it no pride, no baser alloy with its pure metal. She has loved and she has lost. She is a stout, unromantic-looking old wo- man, but to love and lose is as bitter to her faithful heart, it may be, as though she were a slim, sentimental maid of sixteen. Her handsome Mastei George, her bonny boy, the apple of her eye and the pride of her life —what was the world without him I And on this night of the birthday fete some bitter drops rain from the royal old eyes at the thought of the days and the heir forever gone. She has reseated the coming of this young usurper from the first, but she has resented in silence, of course — she has never liked him, she would feel in as trea^ ou to her lost darling to like him even if he were likeable. But be is not, he is black- a- vised, he is 'aughty, he has a nasty stiff way with servants, he is stingy, he loves money. Yes, he loves money Mrs. Tinker decides with disgust, he has been brought up to count every penny he spends, and he counts them yet. He will not let himself want for anything, but he never gives away, he never throws a beggar a penny, nor a servant a tip. He is profuse in bis 'Aw thanks,' but this politeness is the only thing about him that he is lavish of. So on this night of the dinner party, when Mr. Vane is twenty', and all the city is called upon to feast and rejoice, Mrs. Tinker sits in her own comfortable little room, and wipes her eyes and her glasses, and looks at the fire and shakes her head, and is dismally retro« spective. It is a March night, and the wildest of its kind. It is late in the month, and March is going out like a lion, roaring like Bottom, the weaver, ' so that it would do any man's heart good to hear him.' It might, if the man were seated like Susan Tinker at a cheery coal fire, a cup of tea, and a plate of buttered toast at her elbow, but ifhe were breasting the elemental war, as was the man who slowly made bis way to the side entrance of the great house— it also might not. A tall man, in a rough great-coat, and fur cap, striding along in the teeth of the wind and sleet, over tb'^^ slippery city pavements, and who rang the bell of the side-door, and shrunk back into the shadow as it was an- swered. One of the nien-seivants opened it, and peered out into the wild 'wackuess of the night. •Well, my man,' he said, espying the tall, dark shadow, and ' what may yuu want, you know ?' ' I want to see Mrs. Tinker. She lives here, doesn't she ?' the shadow replied. ' Well, she do, ' the footman admits, lei- surely ; • but whether she'll want to see you — what's your business, my good follah ?' •My business is v ih Mrs. Tinker. Just go and tell her I have a message for her, I think she will be giad to hear — my good fellah,' in excellent itnitatior of the pomp- ous tone of Plush. ' And look sharp, will you. It is not exactly a balmy evening in June. * • Well, it's not,' says Plush, reflecting as if that fact strikes him now for the first time. 'I'll tell her,' and gues. w The shadj door and stairs, and n tion are on. where, long moment, jtai and looks w these gleamii "I note the Like the flo\ But deal iu n Forever and For never a, In No eye looks On ! aweut be dreanid, Undt r the b The sweet-see A strange, ^Oh, God forgotten ! and I — well, mother— but hearts are wr always more both her lov Forgotten 1 than to be foi * You want gentle voice, well, and a so it again aftei under the viso Tinker. She man has been No one is neai ' Hush !' he not scream, forgotten me, He lifts bis upon his face, never, never ! a worldless sol stands with di utterable, mafc ' Dear old f r It is your Master Georgii ' Oh, my des Mrs. Tinker c wrinkled chee beyond all woi own dear, deai He takes t! worn, and kiss •(Always my old friend 1 T bers me. It i —more than I ' Oh, my owi bright, beautif that ! Don't'e« ieart. Oh, Ma LOST FOR A WOMA^. 29 resented er liked her lost likeable. ;d, he is ay with 'y- ., r decides it up to le counts waDt for he never mt a tip. ' but this a that he ty, when ia called er aits in nd wipes it the tire Uy retro- leett of its March is ttom, the in 'a heart ited like a cup of ler elbow, ^1 war, as ay to the —it also and far the wind vementa, oor, and was an- it, and of the the tall, v&nt, you 5he lives led. itp, lei- see you ah?' r. Jnst ar her, I my good pomp- w ill arp, (reniug in ectinc as the first The shadow le<»n8 wearily against the door and waits, Dinner is over above Btaira, and music, and cotfee, and conversa- tion are on. Some liner he has read, some- where, long before, and for>;otten until this moment, dtart up in his mind, as he stands and looks with tired, haggard eyes, up at these gleaming and lace draped windows : "I note the flow of the weary years Like the flow <«f this flowiiii; river, But deat in my heart are its iiopea and fears Forever and forever ! Fur never a light in the distance gleams. No eye looks out for the rover. Oh ! Bweet be jour sleep, luve, sweet be your dieanid. Undt r the blossoming clov< r. The sweet-scented, beu-hauuted clover I" A strange, sudden pang rends his heart. ' Oh, God !' he cries out, ' am I indeed forgotten ! They feast and make merry, aud I — well, I have earned it all. Even my mother— but mothers forget too, when their hearts are wruug aud broken, and she had always more pride than love. And through both her love and piide, I stabbed her. Forgotten ! what other fate have I deserved than to be forgotten.' • You wanted me, my friend ?' says a gentle voice, a dear old voice he remembers well, and a sob rises in his throat as he hears it again after long years. He looks from under the viaor of his fur cap, aud sees Mrs. Tinker. She is alone, the tall, plush young man has been summoned to upper spheres. No one is near. He takes a step forward. ' Hush !' he says ; ' do not be alarmed — do not scream. Look at me — have you, too, forgotten me, Mrs. Tinker?' He lifts his fur cap ; the gas-flare falls upon his face. Forgotten him !l Oh ! never, never, never ! 8he claps her hands, there is a worldless sobbing sound, not a suream. She stands with dilated eyes, and joy— joy un- utterable, making the old face beautitui. ' Dear old friend, yes, I see you remember. It is your suane-grace — your runaway Master Georgie come back.' ♦ Oh, my dear I my dear I my dear !' is all Mrs. Tinker can say. And now down the wrinkled cheeks tears roll — tears of joy beyond all words. ' Oh 1 my own boy ! my own dear, dear, dearest Master Georgie 1' He takes the old hand, wrinkled, toil- worn, and kisses it. •[Always my friend— my true, good, loyal old friend ! Thank God ! some one remem- bers me. It is more than I deserve though —more than I ever expected.' ' Oh, my own love ! my owh dear, brave, bright, beautiful boy I don't'ee talic like that ! Don't'ee, now— it do nigh break my heart. Oh, Master G-iorge ! Master George ! I'm fit to die wi' joy. I know'd you'd come back to see the mother some day — 1 always said 80. Thanks and praise be I But come in, come in. It's your own house, and I'm keepin' you here.' ' My own house, Mrs. Tinker !' he says, with a dreary laugh. ♦ xdy gooil soul, I h *ve not a garret in the world I can call my own.' But he lets her lead him, and shivers as he passes out of the bleak bleety uighc. • Oh, my dear, how wet you are, and how pale, aud thin, and fagged-out like, now that 1 see you in the li«ht ! My dear, my dear, my own Master Gdorge ! how changed you are 1' ' Changed I' he says. ' Good heaven, yes I If you knew the life I have led But we canuoc stand talking here — some of the ser- vants will be passing, and 1 must not be seen. Take me somewhere where we can talk undisturbed, aud where I mav get warm ; I am chilled to the bone.' Her eyes are luuniug over again. The change in him ! On, the change ;u him ! — so worn, so jaded, so hollo\« -eyed, ao poorly clad, ho utterly fallen from his high estate ! S^e leads the way to her liccie sitting- rooi.\, aud he sinks wearily into the easy chair she places for him beioro the fire, aud places his hand over his eyes as if the leap- ing cheery light dazzled aud blinded him. 'Sit thee there Master George, and don't 'ee talk for a bit. Best and get warm, and I'll go and fetch summat to eat.' Ho is well disposed to obey ; he is worn out m body and mind. He has been recent- ly ill, he has eaten scaioely anything all day, he h«s hardly a penny in his pocket, and ' the world is all before him where to chose.' He sits and half sleeps, so utterly weary is he, so sweet to him are the rest and the waraith of the tire. But he wakes up as Mrs. Tinker returns laden with hot cotitse, chicken, meats, bread and wine. His eyes lignt with the gladness of " hard grinding hunger. * Thanks, my dear old woman I you have not forgotten my tastes. By Jove I I am glad you brought me something, for I am un- commonly sharp set.' She watches him eating and drinking with the keen delight women feel in minister- ing to the bodily wants of men they love. He pushes the things away at last, and laughs at her rapt look. ♦I wonder if Ne'er-do-well ever had such a loving old heart to cling to him before," he says ; 'the world is a better place, Mrs. Tin- ker, for having such women as you iu it. I wonder if 1 might smoku in this matrou- ly bower without deseoraticn now t ' a •■■N 30 LOST FOR A WOMAN. It is aa anci-climax, bat it does Mrs. Tiaktti-'a htiart Kood. Smoke! Yea, from now UQtil Bunriae if he likes. • Weil, not quite so loug as that. By sun- rise 1 expect thiit I and the Belle O'Brien will be wtill ou our way to — but never mind where — ^f you don't know you can't tell. I've a berth as fore mast hand, being a friend — after a fashion— of the captain's, and am ^o* iug lo work my passage out to— never mind Where again, Mrs. Tinker. If I live and prosper, and redeem the past one there, 1 11 come bauk and see you one day, and make a clean bieasD of it. If not— and it is more than likely not— I will have seen you to-uii{ut at least. But I'm off in an hour or two, and that is why I am here — to take away with me a last look of your good, plump, mother- ly old face — bless it 1 Because you bee, in the words of the song," it may be for years, and it may be forever." And very likely it \* id be forever, for I'm an unlucky beg- gar, and like Mrs. Gummidge, 'thinks >;o couciary with me.'" He laui^hs ; it is almost like the mellow laugh of old, but it makes faithful iSuuan Tinker's heart ache. • Oh, my dear ! my clear 1 You a sailor ! You in want of anything, and hun — that there young upstart — ' • Ah ! 1 know about that,' George says, quickly, ' I heard down yonder in the town. It is his birthday, and' there are high jinks in consequence up stairs. What's he like — this successor of mine ? ' ' He's black and stiff, and that high* stomached, and proud of himself, and I can't abide the sight of him. He's not fit to black your shoes, that he ain't, Master George. Oh I my d*iar, it is not too late to come back and do well. Let me go up and tell my mistress — ' But he stops her with a motion of his hand. *No, Tinker, you shall tell no one. I have not returned to whine and beg. Not that I would not go down on my knees, mind you, to crave their pardon for the heart-break I have caused them if that were all. But it would not be all— it would be misunderstood. I might be repulsed, and — and I know myself — that might awake the devil within me. I would be thought to have returned for the money — a comfort- able home — I could not stand that. I wrote again and again that first year to ask their forgiveness — I never asked, nor meant to ask for anything besides, and they never answered me. A man can't go on doing that sort of thing forever. iSome day — months from this — you will tell them if you like, and if you think they would care to hear. Tell my mother I ask her pardon with all my soul ; tell her I love her with all my heai-i;. Tell her I would give my life — ay, twice over, to undo the past. But tell nothing to-night. I was home- ficK, Mrs. Tinker ; I wanted to see you — I really think I wanted to see you most of all. Think of that — a fellow being in love with you — and you fifty-five, isn'c it ? ' Ue laughs aKain, but the dark bright eyes that look at the fire see it dimly, as if through water. In the pause comes the sound of singing from up stairs — a man's voice — a tenor, tolerably strong and tuneful, but Mrs. Tinker listens with a look of much distaste, and makes a face, as though she were tasting something very nasty indeed. ' It's him i' she says, iu explanation, and George smiles ; he knows she means Vane Valentine. ' Le roi est mut — vive le roi,' is evidently not your motto- you foolish old person,' he remarks ; ' don't you know a live dog is belter than a dead lion ? Be wise in your advancing years, my dear old nurse, and cultivate Mr. Vane Valentine. He is to be a baronet, and a mdlionaire, and a very great personage one day, let me tell you.' He rises, puts his pipe in his pocket, and stretches out his hand for his hat. She rises, too, with a sort of cry. * Not going ! Not like this I Oh, Master George, uear Master George, not like this 1' ' Like this, my friend. See 1 I am weak as water already — don't unman me altogether — don't make it harder foi. rae than yon can help. It uiust be. I have seen you. and I am satisfied. Tell them by and by — ' He stops, for she is crying as if her very heart would brekk. ' Ah, me 1 ah, me !' she sobs, ' how shall I bear it? How can I ever let him got Master George, Master George! Oh, my boy, that I have rocked in these arms many and many a time — that has gone to sleep ou my breast, that 1 love like my own tlesh and tlood ! Oh, my heart ! how will I let him go?' She cries fo dreadfully that he puts down his hat and takes her in his arms, and tries to soothe her. His own eyes are wet. She cries as if indeed her old heart were break- ing. ' I muat go,' ^he says, at last, almost wildly. ' My dear, dear nurse, have a little mercy ! Stop crying, for Heaven's sake ! I can't stand this.' There is such desperate trouble in his tone, in his face, that it pierces through all her sorrow, and checks its flow fur a moment. In that moment he snatches up his hat. ' Good by, good by !' he exclaims, ' God "688 you, come ^'Hck »ny one «!» A(jii liio iug down t of Vaue ^ door opens, 'Forfhefer vale. And there's la 1 With a' F But thei Tnn ling dc and shuttin is alone, a against the through tt there is the murmur of Valentine h The dim does the n pose of mai and consid training. Mrs. Tin! keeps her b< face very j observes, wl tioued as t( turns her : silently flow The stori day ; there along the co days after. narrated th O'Brien, ant Tt is item below stairs s electrified women, who Tinker, to Mrs. Tinker led with Wi and I r ju^ht when she it a mad won is, sciea hand out for her n self generaljj Htr misu turned out Tinker nevet is told. * hands ' whe the ill fated Blood tell Madam liste wide, horror- famts nor scr LOST FOR A WOMAN. ii r pardon her vfith give my iie past, aa hume* lee you — a most of iiz iu love it?' •ight eyes ily, as if 3omes the — a mau'a d tuaef ul, t of much hough she indeed, ation, aud eana Vaue evidently person,' he ive dog ia ae in your nurae, and He IB to be nd a very ill you.' locket, and hat. She Oh, Master like this r am weak altogether lau you can ^ou, and I >y— ' ,t her very how shall st him got Oh, my irms many to sleep on ■a desh and 11 1 let him puts down , aud tries wet. She irere break- last, almost Lave a little ^'b sake ! I ible in his through all ' a moment. lis hat. tins. ' God less you, faithful, loving old friend. I'll come ^'Hck t /e look ), BWeepa between Jemima ■ome as one of the heroes of your novelg — tall, dark-eyed, finely educated, and tie heir of millionB, falls in love with her ; runs away from home and friends for her ; marribs her. What would you say ? ' ' That she was the very luckiest and happiest creeter on airth,' responds promptly, Jemima Ann. ' But was the love all on his side ? Didn't she love him too? ' Ah I ' says Mimi, ' that is what I have never been abletofindcut. I — don't — know . She didn't act as if she did ; it was more like hate sometimes, but she never could bear him to look at one else. She drove him to his death any* way. The love- story ended in a tragedy. Snowball, you have got that pas all wrong. Look here, little dunce ! ' She rises lazily, draws her skirts up a little to display two trim feet, and executes the step to which Snowball aspires, makes her little daughter repeat the performance until she has it quite correctly . Then she flings herself again on the lounge . Jemima Ann looks on in perplexity — this erraticly acting and talking Mimi has been her puzzle from the first — puzzles her more than ever to-day ; in one breath talk- ing of the tragical death of the young hus- band, who felt all for her, and with the words still on her lips, absorbed ia teaching Snowball a ballet step ! The simple soul of Jemima Ann is upset. ' No,' says Mimi, going back to the start- ing point, ' no one is happy. Kven animals are wretched. Look at the horse — beaten, loaded, worn out — look at the cow — what melancholy meditation meets you in her big, pathetic eyes. The pig is the only con teuted looking beast I know of ; a pig wallowing in mud, surrounded by ten or so dirty little piglings, is a picture of perfect earthly feli- city 1 If in the transmigration of souls — if that is a correct big word — mine is permitted to return and have its choice of a future dwelling, I think we will be a fat little white porker and be happy ! Oh 1 there is Lacy, and I am not dressed. Take away Suow- ball, Jemima, like a good girl. I'm due at a dinner to-day — Mr. Lacy gives it at the hotel, and here he comes after me.' jgJShe springs to her feet and runs up stairs. ' Tell him to wait, Jim, ' she calls ; 'I will be ready in half an hour. ' Miss Hopkins delivers the message, and bears Suowball to the regions below. Mr. Lacy takes a seat at the parlour win- dow, calling familiarly to Mile. Trillon, up stairs U tittivate and be quick about it for rest are waiting and the banquet is ordered for five sharp. 3 It is late when Mr. Vane Valentine reaches the circus. He has dined leisurely and well, as it is in his nature to do all things, and the brass band is banging away inside the monster tent, whep he leaches it, and the first of the performance is over. Still he is not the only late arrival — a few others are still straggling in, and one man leans with his back against a dead wall, his hands in his coat pockets, waiting at his ease for his turn. Something familiar in the look of this man, even in the dim light, arrests Vane Valentine's attention ; he looks again, looks still again, comes forward, with a sud- den lifting in his dark face, and lays his hand on the man's shoulder. ' Farrar 1' he exclaims. ' My dear fellow, is it yon or your wraith ?' The man looks up, regards the speaker a moment, after a cool fashion, and holds out his hand. ' How are you, Valentine ? Yes, it is I. You wouldn't have thought it, would you I But the world is not such a big place as we are apt to think it, and Fayal, though some distance off, is not absolutely out of the universe.' ' Well, I'm uncommonly glad to see you, old boy.' says Vane Valentine, and really looks it. * Have you come all the way from , the Azores to go to the circus ?' • What would you say if I should say yes?' • Kegret to finding you falling into your second childhood at fiveand-twenty, but no . end glad to see you again all the same.' ' I should think, after a very few weeks of this place, you might be no end glad to see almost any one,' says Mr. Farrar. * Fayal i may be dull, but at least-it has beauty to re- , commend it- But this beast of a town * i • It is a beastly place,' asserts Vane Yalen- j tine, 'but I am not staying in thetowa> itself. We live in the superbs, my aunt and « I not half a bad spot in the month of Sep- i tember. We go to Philadelphia next week. ;•/ Madam Valentine has a house there that she likes rather, and where she stays until she I goes south in the winter.' • She is well, I trust ?' • She is always well She 1 a woudtrful old lady in that way — no headaches or hysterics, or feminine nonsen:o8 of any kind about her. But are you reaLy going to the circus, you know V inquires Mr. Valentine, I smiling. t •Most undoubtedly. Behold the opea-r sesame,' showing his tickets. ' And yon — it is about the last place of all places I should expect to find the fastidious Vane Valentine. ' .-.m ^ n 34 LOST FOR A WOMAN. Vale Valentine shrug* hii shoulderi, but looks rather ashamed of himself, too. • I don't come to see the thing, don't you know ; I come on — business. I want par* tioularly to see one of the performers.' ' Ah I' remarks, in deep bass, Mr. Farrar. • Pshaw ! my dear fellow, nothing of the •ort. You mii{ht know me better. I have never set eyes on one of these women yet.' •Austere young aristocrat, I ask pardon I If we are go-ngto see anything of it at all, we had better not linger longer here, for the rare-eshow is half over by this time.' ' Where are you stooping ?" young Valen- tine asks, as they turn to go in. ' They put me up at the AVashington— not a bad sort of a hostelry. Have I ever spoken to you of my friend, Dr. Maodonald, of Isle Perdrix ? 1 am on my way to give him a week or two of my deieotable society.' ' Somewhere in Canada, among the French, isn't it 7 Yes, I remember. Stay over to- morrow, though, won't you, and come and dine with me ? I haven't seen a soul to ■peak too for three weeks I A civilized face is a godsend here among the sooty aborigines of Clangville. ' You are a supercilious lot, upon ray word, Valentine,' observes Mr. Farrar. *You always were. Here we are at last, in the thick of the tumblers and merry-go-rounds. I fell like a boy again. I have not been in- aide a circus tent for fifteen years. They were the joy of my existence then.' They take their seats, and become for the flpace of five seconds the* focus of several hundred pnirs of exaiii^'uog eyes. Madame Olympe is oavortina; round the ring on four bare-backed chargers at once, ' hi-ing,' leap- ing, jumping through lighted hoops, startl- ing the nervous systems of everybody, and the several hundred eyes return to the saw- dnat circle. The two new-comers look suffi- ciently unlike the generality of the crowd around them, to attract considerable atten- tion, if it could be spared from the perform- ance. Vane Valentine, dressed to perfection; with just a suspicion of dandyism; very erect, very stiSf, and contemptuous of manner ,glanc- ing with a sneer he takes no trouble to con- oeial, ^t the simple souls around him; all agape at the amazing doings of the magnificent Olympe. Mr. Farrar, tall, broad-shoulder- ed, with a look of great latent strength, that lends a grace of its own to his well-knit figure; a silky brown-black beard and mustache, hair olose-oropped and still darker, atraight heavy eyebrows, and a pair of brilliant brown eyes. He is also a man of commanding presence, looking far more thoroughbred than his companion, distinctly a handsome man — a man at whom most women look twice, and look with interest. He laughs, and strokes his brown beard, as he watches the astonishing evolutions of Olympo. f Is it she ?• he asks ; ' if you want to take lesions in rough li.ling you could hardiv have a more accomplished teacher. A hana> some animal too.' ' Which V asks Vane Valentine, '. the woman or the horse ?' 'Both. How does she oall herself? Ah, Olympe, the daughter of the Desert Which desert — this is vague. Wliew — that was a leap — what superb muscles the creature must have. Now she has gone. What have we next ?' •Mile, Mimi on the tightrope,' reads Vane Valentine. ' Aatoniahiug feats on the wire — sixty feet in the air 1 Oh, here she is!' He looks up with vivid interest, and levels his plass. Far above, a shining small .igure is seen, all white gauze, spangles, gilded hair, balancing pole. A shout of applause greets her. Mimi has beootae a favourite with the circus-going public, in the last two or three days. Vane Valentine looks long and intently— his glass is powerful, and brin£ out every feature distinctly. He lowers it at last, and draws a deep breath. ' Take a look,' he says to his companion, ' and tell me what you think of her.' Mr. Farrar obeys. He, too, looks long snd steadily at the fair Mimi, balancing far up in that dizzy line — going through a per- formance that makes more than one nervous head swim to look at. He also drops the glaas after that prolonged stare, in silence. ' Do you think her pretty ?' Valentine asks. ' There can be no two opinions about that, I should think. She is exceedingly pretty.' Vane Valentine shrugs his shoulders. ' Who knows ? These people owe so much to paint and powder, and padding and wigs, and so on. In this case, too, distance lends enchantment to the view. I dare say nearer, with her face washed, and half these blonde tresses on her dressing-table, we should find our ;fair one a blowsy beauty, with a greasy skin and a pasty complexion. She does her tight-rope business well, though. By Jove, it looks dangerous 1' ' It is dangerous,' the other answers, ' and — I may be mistaken — but there is something the matter. She nearly lost her balance a moment ago. Good I good t there 1 she nearly lost it again 1' CPThe words nave scarcely passed his lips when a hoarse, terrible cry arises simultane- ously from a hundred throats. There is a ludden up t.ieir feet never to b rings — thei every he;ir1 ful, siokui glittering the air, a broken, se and rilihoi and hhattui And no' a stampede Above it i imploring t disperse, only chanc leave her in any caa the perforr The aud: obey, but confusion, chilly night heap is lift< er, and th one has aln Valentine, pushed his ' This gei physician, 1 ml. Farra see if anytb Mr. Farij and Vane sight of bl( ing quite maoh that moment hie what a lot money it w There is looks pale moment, io Mr. Farrar when he lo( fair, so ful mangled, di feebly at t heart. 'She is3 9ays ; ' she It is utterl With all ti concussion never reco\ meut. He grave, looks She prono lie do^pn stretcher. — -j^lances at LOST FOR A WOMAN. 35 n mmt interest. e»rd, as tioDB of ; to take . hardly A haad- e, 'the If? Ah, Which kt was a creature hat have I, ' reads bs ou the here she sat, and ng amall spaDgleSi shout of )eoottie a ic, in the :ine looks irful, and dy. He breath, mpauion, >ok8 long kncing far gh a per- Q nervous drops the iileuoe. Talentine >out that, y pretty.' era. so much and wiga, ace lends ly nearer, se blonde ould find a greasy does her By Jove, ers, 'and lomething balance a )re 1 she d his lips imultane- There ia a nndden upheaval of the whole multitude to t.ieir feet. Over all, pierciug, frightful, never to bu forgotten, a woniaa'a nhriuk rings — then a nilenoe, a pauiM s» awful that every heart stands still. Then— a dull, drea«l> fnl, aiokuiiing thud, something white aud glittering hao whirled like a leaf through the air, aiul lies now, crushed, bleeding, broken, aenaeless — a tumbled heap of gauze, and rilihoua. and tinsel, aud shiring hair, and (^hattured flesh and blood. Aud now there rises a chorus of aoreama, a atampede of feet, coufuaion, uproar, chaoa. Above it aounda the voice of the manager, imploring them to be orderly, to be silent, to diaperae. M'Ue Mimi iaaenoualy hurt. Uer otdy chance is for the audience to go, and leave her to the care of her f rienda. Hera, in any caae, was to have been the close of the performance. The audience are aoiry and horrified, and obey, but alowly, aud with much talk and confusion. Tbey pour out into the bright, chilly night ; and that crushed and bleeding heap is lifted somehow, and laid on a stretch- er, and the company crowd around. Some one haa already gone for a doctor, | when Vane Valentine, who, with Mr. Farrar, has already pushed hia way into their midat, apeaka : ' Thia gentleman, although not a practising physician, haa etudied medicine, aud is akilU ml. Farrar, look at the poor creature, and aee if anything can be done.' Mr. Farrar is already bending over her, and Vane Vsdentine, who has a horror of the eight of blood and wounds, turns away, feel- ing quite sick and giddy. But it is hia sto- mach that is tender, not his heart. In this moment hia firat thought ia, ' If ahe ia dead, what a lot of trouble, and what a pot of money it will save, to be sure 1' There is a profound silence ; even Olympe looks pale and panic-stricken in thia first moment, in the face of this direful tragedy. Mr. Farrar is quite paie with tho pity of it, when he looks up at last. A moment ago, so fair, so full of life and youth ; now, this mangled, dully moaning mass. For it moans feebly at times, and the sound thrills every heart. ' She iaj insensible, in spite of that,' he 9ays ; ' she is terribly, frightfully injured. It is utterly impoaaible for her to recover. With all theae compound fractures, there is concussion of the brain. She will probably never recover consciousness, even tor a mo- meut. She will die.' He pronounces the dread fiat, pale and grave. He stands with folded arms, and looks doien at the motionleaa form on the stretcher. Olympe — a judge of a fine man —glances at him, even in thia tragic moment, with an approving eye. Time and opportun* ity favouring.Bhe would like to cultivatttMon* sitiur lu Medicun'a acquaintance, she thinks. * Can ahe be moved ? ' the manager asks. ' Poor little Mimi 1 poor little aoul I I'm sorry for this. I've known her for years, and in spite of her little failings I always likef her lying up there all crushed and iistigured. It's too horrid. And it's dneced hard on me, by George I Ain't there no hope, doctor ? You are the doctor, ain't you ? ' 'I am not a doctor,' Mr. Farrar answers, * but the doctor is with her. No — there is no hope. ' He does not look contemptuous on these womanish tears, and this foolish little speech. A sort of compassion is in the glance that rests so gravely on poor love- stricken, grief- stricken Mr. Lacy. ' How — how long will she ' Mr. Lacy applies his handkerchief to his riage again and again— and he is rich. That eyes and walks away abruptly to one of the she has not married him has surprised every- windows. body ; but Mile. Trillon has always been j ' She may last the night out. She will not know that. Sh He pau A litth dress the flaxen hai rsaebud fi • Sehen ben,' singi wide open She esp] oariously. • What • Want yo Mr. Lac • Want Snowball, conscious € • Oh I Si Mr. Lacy, knew I ' • Where unmoved wants her J ' It is hei silent Fan know. I h of this litti like her. j He is ove Mr. Fan child. ' Come h( She looki a moment, over, clinibt bearded lips ' You is I ball likes where is mj ' She wii up stairs. ' He puts the baby fac 'Yes, yo ' you are ' Snowball.' Snowball she cuddles confidingly the blue 03 He |sits an long pretty 1 in search cot. It is a nigl Hotel Hopki the six-and-t' abnormal hou rebuked. Mrs. Hopk hersalf for th LOST FOR A WOMAN. 87 and h«r i(llhed at ith two dinnflrt, I ci^iret- stepperi, loy,' she 'a no end le Prince me.' ou did/ arry me, andra a*' le flying Mrs. Au- [imi Tril- I, but not ater than i8h with r has re- id for the imi too is ich she is i^ht that preach to too much iount that 1, and he But how ever have He iea in the lorse, and later, and at grave, der. oung man ly fond uf ed her if wouldn't. there all horrid. George I a are the answers, —there is on these ish little [B in the )oor 'love- ief to his one of the She will not know yon or any one — she is past all that. 8ho will never apeak again.' He pauses. A little child comes in, a fairy in a blue dreis the colour in its ««yes, with fluffy, flaxen hair, falling to its waist, and a lovely rsaebud face. * Sehen ittle Injuns nebba board ob heh- ben,' ain({8 the fairy, looking about her with wide open, fearless eyes. She espies Mr. Lacy, and peers up at him oariously. ' What yau oryin' ffor, Lacy ? "she 'asks. • Want your supper ? ' Mr. Lacy is too far t(one to reply. • Want go to bed ? ' persists inquisitive Snowball, the two sole wants she is ever conscious of uppermost in her mind. ' Oh I Snowball, Snov/ball 1 ' says poor Mr. Lacy. 'Little Snowball, if you ouly knew I ' ' Where Mimy Ann ?' Snowball demands, unmoved by this apoRtrophe. ' Noball wants hor Mimy Ann. Want go to bed. ' ' It is her child,' Mr. Lacy explains to the silent Farrar. 'She was a widow, you know. [ haven't an idea what will become of this little mite now. And she is very like her. It's dueced hard, by George 1 ' He is overcome again. Mr. Farrar holda out his hand to child. ' Come here, little Snowball,' he says. She looks at him after her fashion a moment, then still quite fearlessly over, climbs upon his knee, and kisses bearded lips. 'You is a pritty man,' she says. 'No- ball likes pritty men. Does you know where is my Mimy Ann ? ' ' She will be here presently. She is busy up stairs. ' He puts the flaxen hair back from the baby face, and gazes long and earnestly . ' Yes, you are like her,' he says, 'you are very like her, my poor little Snowball.' Snowball is sleepy, and says as much ; she cuddles closer, lays her fair baby head confidingly against his breast, closes the blue eyes, and instantly drops asleep. He Isits and holds her, lifting lightly the long pretty hair, until Jemima, coming down in search of her, bears her off to her cot. It is a night never to be forgotten in the Hotel Hopkins. No one goes to bed. Even the six-and-twenty hands stray afield until abnormal hours, and ireander in and out, un* rebuked. Mrs. Hopkins retires, it is true, to freshen heriidlf for th<) labours of the dawning new the for goes his day, which promises to be one of the busiest of her busy life. Jemima Ann retires not. She is up stairs, and down sMirs, and on her feet the weary night through. Mr. Lacy cannot tear himself away. Mr. Vane Valen- tine sends a message to the cottage, and he, too, lingers to see how the poor creature fares, and wins golden opinions from hero- worshipping Miss Hopkins. So much good- ness of heart, so much condesueniion in so great a personage, she wouldn't a-thought it, railly. She falUi partly in love with him in- ueecf, in the brief intervals she has for thut soft emotion, during her rapid skirininhing up and down stairs ; would do so wholly but that her admiration is about equally divided between him and his friend Mr. Farrar. This latter gentleman remains without offering any particular reason, but in a general way, in case he can be of auy further aRsistance. For Mimi, she lies prone, not v-)pening her eyes, not stirriufr, only still moaning feebly at intervals. Up in her cot, in Jemi- ma's room, little Snowball sleeps, her pretty cheeks flushed, her pretty hair tossed, and dreams not that the fair frail, young mother in drifting out further from this world, with each of those dark, sad, early hours. The night-light burns low, the sick- room is very still, the street outside is dead quiet ; Jemima Ann sits on one side of the bed, her numberless errands over for the pre- sent, dozing in the stillness, spent with fatigue; Mr. Farrar paces the corridor with- out, coming to the bed at intervals to feel the flickering pulse, and see if life yet lingers. Mr. Lacy slumbers in a chair in the parlour, and Mr. Valentine has stretched his slender limbs on the sofa, where poor Mimi was wont in after-dinner mood to recline, and smoke, and cbaff Jemima. The belated sixand. twenty have clambered up to their cots at last ; only the black beetles, the mice, and Mr. Paul Farrar are thoroughly awakj in the whole crowded household. Four strikes with a metallic clang, from the big wooden clock in the hall, and is taken up by a time-piece of feebler tone, far down in the underground kitchen. He pauses in his restless walk, enters the sick- room, glances at the quiet figure on tho bed, walks to one of the windows, draws the cu .-tain, and looks out. The moon has set, she morning is very dark, a wild wind hudders down the deserted street, with a whistling sonnd, inexpressibly dreary. He remembers suddenly it is the first of November, the eve of All Souls' Day ; the moaning of the sweeping blast sounds to him like the wordless cry of some of these dis- embodied souls, wandering up and down for- o 38 LOST FOR A WOMAN. -#- lornly, the places that knew them once. Another houI will go to join that ' silent maji»rity ' before thv? new day dawnu. The thought makes him drop the curtain and sends him back to the bedside. Tne change has come. A gray shadow, not there a moment since, lies on the white face, a clammy dew wets it, the Hutttriug of the heart can hardly be detected now, a? he bends his ear to listen. Jemima Ann, waking from some uncom- fortable dream, starts up. He lifts one warning hand, and still bends his ear downward, his lingers on the flicker- ing pulse. ' Oti ! what is it ? Jemima says, inaterri' fied whisper ; * is she worsft ?' ' Bush — she is dying. No !' he cries out, 'she is dead !' The shock of sudden emotion is in his tone. He drops the wrist and stands quite white, looking down upon the marble face. A shudder has passed through the shattered iimbg, through the crushed frail, pretty little body ; then, with a faint, fluttering sigh, she is gone. ' Dead !' says Jemima Ann. She drops on her knees with a sobbing cry, and looks piteously at the rigid face. ' Oh, dear 1 oh, dear 1 oh, dear 1 she sobs, under her breath ; • dead ! and only this afternoon, only this very afternoon, she lay on the sofa down stairs talkin' to me, and laughin', so full of life, and health, and strength, and everything ; so pretty, so pretty, so young ! Oh, dear 1 oh, dear ! and now she is dead — and such a death ! She was talkin' of years ago, and of her husband — poor, poor thing !' says Je- mima Ann, rocking to and fro, through her ) lining tears, ' tellin' me how handsome he V !is, and how he loved her, and how he ran away with her from his home and riches and ail. And now, and now, she is there— and dead — and never, never, will I hear her pretty voice again !' Mr. Farrar lifts his eyes from the dead woman, and looks across at the homely, tear- wet, honest countenance of Mrs. Hopkins, niece, and thinks that beauty is not the only thing that makes a woman's face lovely. • You are a good girl,' he says. ' You are sorry for this poor creature. You do well. You*"? will be the only tears shed over her — poor t. 'fortunate little soul 1' ' Did you know her, sir ?' asks Jemima. ' I know of her. Hers has been a pathetic life and death — the saddest that can be con- ceived. Poor pretty little Mimi 1 And she talked to you of her early life — and her hus- band ? What of him ?' •Oh, he is dead— drowned — so sho said. But I guess he treated her bad— at least I think it w&a that, I ain't sure. Mr. Lacy wanted to marry her, but she wouldn't. Ah I poor little dear. She'd had a dose already, I reckon. What's to be done next, sir ?' There is so much to be done next, it seems, that .I'emima Ann is forced to call up her aunt. Monsieurs Lacy and Valentine, aroused from their matutinal nap, are informed, and start up to hear the details. ' Gone, is she ?' says Mr. Lacy, the first sharp edge of his affliction a trifle blunted by slumber. ' It's -it's deuced hard on me, by George ! I'll never be so fond of any one again as long as I live. ' ' Did she speak at all ?' inquires Valentine, with interest. ' No, she has not spoken. ' Mr. Fai.-ar turns abruptly away as he an- swers, but lOoks over his shoulder to speak again as he goes. • I see no reason why you should linger longer,' he says, roughly, to the heir of many Valentines. 'She is dead. There is nothing you can do.' ' Are you sure — nothing ?' 'Nothing. You had better go. I suppose they will lay her out in this room. She will be buried I infer from this house.* Vane Valentine is not used to being thus summarily dismissed, but he wants to go, and does not resent it. Bat why Mr. Paul Far- rar should speak and act asone having author, ity is not so clear, except that his masterful character is rather apt to assert itself where- ever he goes- 'And you,' he says : 'I mast see you again, Farrar, you know, before you leave. ' ' I shall not leave for a day or two. I shall wait until after the funeral. I am in nu particular hurry.' ' At the Washington put up ? Very well, I will go now, and look in on you later. You ought to turn in for an hour or two — you look quite fagged with your night's watch. Good- morning.' Through the bleak chill darkness of the the dawning day, Vane Valentine hurries home, full of his news. It is a very bleak and nipping morning, it tweaks Mr. Valen- tine's thin aquiline nose rosy led, and pow- ders his weak young mustache with white rime. The blast he faces seems to cut him in two, a sleety rain begins to pelt frequent- ly, and he has no umbrella. He cannot but think that it is rather hard he should have to undergo all this, for a trapeze performer, and the consummate foolery of his cousin George seven long years ago. But he has slept well, is a good pedestrian, and gets over the ground with rapid strides, not willing to admit even to himself how thoroughly well satisfied he nser. He 1— at least I Mr. Laoy luldu't. Ah I ,08e already, xt, sir ?' xt, it seems, I oall up her tiue, aroused iformed, and ,cy, the tirst e blunted by rd oa me, by of any one BB Valentine, v&y as he an- der to apeak should linger heir of many ;re is nothing ;o. I suppose )m. She will to being thus nts to go, and Ir. Paul Far- aving author- his masterful ; itself where- nast see you re you leave. ' ly or two. I A, I am in nu ? Very well, 3U later. You r or two — you light's watch, rkness of the jntiue hurries } a very bleak ks Mr. Valen. led, and pow- he with white ois to cut him pelt frequent- ~e oannot but hould have to lerformer, and cousin George las slept well, rer the around to admit even 1 satisfied he LOST FOR A WOMAN. 39 is with the way in which fate has cut for him his Gordian knot. It has all been very shocking and tragical, and of course it is all very sad. poor creature, but then — but then, on the whole, perhaps it is as well, and it simplifies matters exceedingly. Hure is the child, of course, but the child will be easily disposed of. With Mimi huf. died probably all trace of that one blot in the spiitlees Valentine shield. Yes, on the whole it is as well. He lies down for an hour when he gets home ; then rises, has his bath, his morning coffee and chop, and then sends word to his aunt that he will like to see her at her earli- est convenience. Her earliest convenience is close upon noon, for she is not an early riser. He finds her in the sitting room of last evening seated ia front of the fire, wrapped in a puffy white shawl, and with the remains of a breakfast of chocolate and dry toast at her side. She glanci!S indifferently up at him, mur- murs a slight greeting, and returns to the fire. 'Good morning, my dear aunt,' Mr. Vane Valentine says, with unusual briskness of manner. He looks altogether brighter and crisper than is his high-bred went. • I trust you slept well. I hope the — aw — unpleasant little recontre of yesterday did not disturb you at all ? ' • You have something to say to me,' she responds, abruptly. ' Have you seen that woman ? ' I have ee^n her. That woman will never trouble you or me any more.' She looks up at him again, quickly. Some- thing in his look and tone tell her a surprise is coming. • What do you mean ? ' sharply and im- periously ; • fiiieak out.' •Shois dea.l.' There ia a pause. Even Madam Valen- tine—cold inipeuetrable, hard- ia dumb for a moment. Dead ! and only yesterday so full of strong, insolent young life. She catches her breath and looks at him with eyes that dilate. • Dead ! ' she repeats incredulously. ' Dead ; and after a very sudden and dread- ful manner ; and yet, after a manner that might easily have been expected.' And then he begins, and in his slow, for- mal way, but with a quickened interest he cannot wholly suppress, tells the story of the tragedy at the circus. ' And so it ends,' he concludes ; • and with t all the trouble for us as well.' And so it ends. Ay, as troubles of life and the glory thereof shall one day end, even for you, Mr. Vane Valentine — for us all, O my brothers— in the solemn wonder of the winding sheet. In the warmth and glow of the fire he sees his aunt shiver, and draw her white tloecy shawl close. And so it ends — in another traji^edy. G(H)rge, lying benenth the bleak, sandy hil- locks, in hJM wind-swept, sea-side grave — his wife lying with life maigled and beaten out of her, aoout to be laid by strangers far from him in death as in life. So it ends, the pretty love idyl, as so many other love idyls of a summer day have ended — in ruin and disaster, and death. ' It is very sad — it is terrible,' she says, a sudden huskiuess in her voice — all the wo- manhood in her astir. ' Poor creature — she had a beautiful face.' There is pity, very real, very womanly in her tone. ' And George loved her,' she thinks. 'Oh ! my son, my son.' ' Yes, it is sad,' breaks in the hard metal- lic tones of Mr. Valentine ; ' but not sur- prisir.g. She will be buried from the house where she has been boarding — a wrenched place rilled with grimy working men. My fiiend Farrar was with her at the last.' She looks up once more. It is ho very un- usual to hear the young man apply the term friend to any human being, but a faint, angry, incredulous smile crosses her face. ' Who is your friend Farrar ? ' ' Oh, no one you know. Man I met in Fayal last year — manager of an immense place there, VPiy good sort of fellow, a Bo- hemian rather, but a thorough gentleman. Stopping here for a couple of days on hi-s way to Canads*. Capital company, Farrar — no end a riue fellow, but not distinguished in any way. Except by the notice of Vane Valentine — And the child,' After a pause, ' what of it ?* * Oh— aw— the child. Exactly. What I was about to ask. But need we trouble ? ' hesitatingly. 'No one knows anything — aw — at least I infer not.' Her eyes blaze cut on him for a moment, a flash of black lightning. * She is my son's child - my grandchild. Do you wish her sent to th«* workhouse. Mr. Vane Valentine ? ' • . ' My dear tuut ' The flash is but momentary. She sink) back wearily in her chair, and draws her shawl still closer around her. ' It is a very cold morning, I think — I can- not get warm. Throw on another log. Vane. Something must be done about the child — she must De provided for.' ■■:jat1 o. 40 LOST FOR A WOMAN. Vane Valentine turns pale under his swarthy skin. He bends over the fire and arranges it with some precipitation. ' What do you wish ? ' he asks, and in his ^ voice there is ever so slight a touch of sul- ' lenness. 'Nothing that can affect you— do not fear it.' she retorts, scornfully. ' I have no de« sire that the world should know that this child of an unfortunate tight-rope dancer is anything to me— has any claim upon the name of v^alentine. At the same time she must be provided for. I do not ask how, or where, but you must see that she is suitably cared for and educated, and wants for no- thing. Have you tact enough to manage this without exacting suspicion ? ' ' I hope so,' Mr. Vane Valentine responds, rather stiffly. ' It seems a simple matter enough. You are a rich lady ; as an act of fmre benevolence you compassionate the for- orn condition— aw — of this little child, and offer to provide for her in that — aw — state of life in which it has pleased Providence to Elace her. No one else has any claim that I ear of. I will go and see about it at once. ' * Whom will you see ? ' Mr. Valentine strokes his youthful mous- tache, and looks thoughtful. * The manager, I infer ; it does not seem quite clear to whom the little one belongs now. I can find out, however. Fanar will help me. He is a wonderfully shrewd fel- low and that. •Very well, go.' Mr. Vane Valentine goes and tries his hand at diplomacy. Mr. Farrar looks a little surprised when his young friend's mission is made known to him, but is ready with any assistance that may be needed. They see the manager, and find that that gentleman has no claim on the little Trillon, aor, so far as he knows, has any one else. * The little one is totally unprovided for,'he says, 'I know that. If nothing better offered I would keep her myself for her poor mother's sake, and get one of our women to take charge of her. But this is better. Ours is but a vagabond life for a child. It is very good of your aunt, sir. She is a pretty little thing, this Snowball, and will grow up a charming girl. Is it Madame Valentine's intention : j a^lopt her, or anything of that Bort, Mr. Valentine?" ' If my aunt takes her she will be suitably provided for,' says, in a stiff way, Mr. Vane Valentine. ' No doubt, sir. Well, I see no reason why your aunt shouldn't. Little un's father is dead ; her mother had no relatives that I ever heard of ; she is as n.uch alone in the world, poor little thing, as any waif and stray can well be. Still she should never have wanted. Wait until after the funeral, the girl at that boarding-house is good to her, then take her away.' ' When is the funeral ? ' ' To-morrow. No time for delay. We are off Monday morning. I look after the bury- ing myself ; all expenses, and so on. She got her death in my service. Hope you will attend the funeral, gentlemen, both. ' They p •omise and go, both very thought-' f ul and rather silent. Mr. Farrar was the first to speak. ' This is V iry good of your aunt,' he says ; ' it speaks well for her kindness and gentle- ness of heart. ' 'Well, 'Vane Valentine replies, dryly, 'kind- ness and gentleness, in a general way, are not Madam Valentine's ciiief characteristics, but as you say, this is good of her — the more so as she is not fond of children — or poodles, or cats, or birds, or things of that kind. She is what is called strong-minded. The little one has fallen on her feet, though, all the some. Best thing that could have happened to her ; that trapeze woman was not fit to bring up a child.' 'Don't agree with you,' says Mr. Farrar, shortly. ' It is never best for a child to lose its mother, unless sh3 is a monster. There are exceptional cases, I grant you, but I do not call this one. I hope the poor baby will be happy, whatever comes.' 'Come home and dine with me,' says Vane Valentine, who is in good spirits. He does not much fear the child, and a large sum of money has been saved. ' You will not see my aunt, very likely, but I shall be deucedly glad of your company — and that. After the rirst flush of partridge shooting, it's confound- edly slow down here, let me tell you ' • So I should infer. But you must excuse me to-day, and to-morrow you must dine with me instead, at the hotel.' ' But why, you don't pretend to say you have such a thing as an engagement at Cluig* ville ?' incredulously. ' No. Still you will be good enough to excuse me. You will think it queer, I sup- pose, and squeamish, but the death-bed scene of this morning has upset me. It would be unfair xo >ou to inflict myself upon you. So good day, my dear boy — here is Mrs. Hopkins'. I shall drop in for a moment. Will you come ?' ' Not for the world,' says young Valentine, with a glance of strong repulsion. ' It up- sets me to look at dead people, and — ^that sort of thing. Until to-morrow, theu, ' au revoir.' ' The two men part, and uuconscioui little LOST FOR A WOMAN H Snowball's fate is thus summarily settled, and Vane Valentine goea home through the melancholy autumn afternoon to tell his -aont ,, CHAPTER X. , IN WHICH SNOWBALL IS DISPOSED OF. There is u. f Uueral next day from the Hotel Hopkins, such a funeral as the quiet little town of Clang ville has rarely turned out to see. The 8ix-and-Twenty attend to a man ; the circus people are all there ; there, too, are Mr. Farrar and Mr. Vane Valentine. It is a gusty November day — the stripped brown trees rattle in the bleak blast, an overnight fall of snow lies on the ground, and whitens the black gulf dow n which they lower the coffin. It looks a desolate resting- place, cold, wet, forlorn — Vane Valentine turns away with a shudder — death, graves, all things mortuary are horrible to him. _ Perhaps they remind him too forcibly that his turn too must come ; that all the wealth of all the Valentines will not be able to avert it one hour. Mr. Farrar stands grave and pale—an impressive figure in the scene ; standing with folded arms — dark and tall, looking down at the wet sods, rattling rapid- ly on the coffin lid. Poor little Mimi ! Poor little frail, reckless butterfly I What a hol- low sound the frozen clay has as it tumbles heavily down on the shining plate. What a tragic ending of a shallow, selfish— psrhaps sinful life ! It is over. As the dusk of the short November'after- noon shuts down, the two young men — friends, as Vane Valentine terms it, though, perhaps, it is hardly the correct term — finds themselves back in Mrs. Hopkins' parlour, with that severe lady, still moist and tearful after the funeral, and Jemima Ann, with eyes quite red and swollen from much sympa- thetic weeping. Little Snowball is present, too, and it is little Snowball, and her future they are there to discuss. The child has on a black frock and black shoes — things she has never worn be- fore, and she eyes both with much disap- probation. ' Narsy, narsy,' she remarks, with some asperity. Narsy black dress ; narsy black shoes. Noball not like 'em. Take em off. Mimy Ann." ' No, deary,' says Jemima Ann, wiping her red eyes. ' Snowball must wear the poor little black dress. It is for mamma, Snow- ball knows.' ' Where my mamma gone ? When her turn back r This inquiry causes Jemima's tears to flow afresh. Snowball eyes them with consider- able disgust. ' What you cwyip for ? What you always cwyin for ? Want see Noball dance ? Forthwith Snowball flirts out her sombre skirts and cuts an infantile pigeon wing — that last ballet step poor Mimi taught her bantling. If anything can comfort Jemima Ann, and stem the torrent of her tears, Snow ball is convinced this must. ' Look at that child,' says Vane Valentine, much amused. ' Blood tells, doesn't it ? Do what you please with her that fairy change- ling will grow up like her mother before her — a thorough Bohemian.' Mr. Farrar is looking, and thoughtfully enough, at Snowball's performance. She dances wonderfully well for such a baby, every motion is instinct with lithe, fairy- like, inborn grace. The cloud of pale flaxen hair floats over her shoulders like a banner, the black dress brings out the pearly tints of the milk-white skin, the sweet baby face is like a star set in jet. 'She is a lovely little creature,' Mr. Far- rar says. ' She bids fair to become a beauti- ful woman.' ' Ten to one she grows up blowsy or freck- led,' replies Vane Valentine, in a hold-cheap voice ; ' these very blonde girls often do. But yes — she is pretty at present. Let as hope judicious training may eradicate some- what the wild vagrant strain that flows in her veins, and turn her out a civilized young woman.' Mr. Farrar looks at him — a look half amused, half sardonic. ' You abominable young prig !' is his thought. ' Let us hope so, he says, aloud, dryly, ' to w hom do you pro- pose confiding that herculean task? Does Madam Valentine intend taking her in hand herself V ' My aunt ? My dear fellow, you never saw my aunt, did you ? She would as soon take in hand the training of a young gorilla. I told you she detests pets — poodles and little giris included. No ; whatever is done with the waif, it will not be that. ' 'And yet, I should have thought, after her offer to provide for her — adopt her, after a fashion — she would like, at least, to see her. We mostly are interested in that for which we provide. But perhaps I have mil- understood. It is your intention to take her home with you to-night ?' " My good Farrar,' retorts Vane Valen- tine, with a very marked touch of impatience — 'no ! My aunt has expressed no wish, none whatever, to see this little girl. How could it be possible for her— her — to be interested r- ■sn ^ 42 LOST FOR A WOMAN. in the cliilrl of a strolling acrobat— '* vagrant by professiou ?' • Mile. Mimi is dead, Mr. Vane Valentine,' taya Mr. Farrar, with a sudden dark Hash leaping angrily from his eyes. * Your patrici- an feelirgs are rather carrj ing you away I ' Beg pardou. I speak warmly — the idea is so p'^epoHterous. It was bad form all the same.' Mr. Valentine turns away, at his stiffest, but decidedly discomposed. He speaks warm- ly, becaube, although it is true in the letter, ttiat Madam Valentine has expressed no distinct desire to see Snowball Trillon — to have George's daughter brought home — be is perfectly conscious that she does desire it, that she tlesires it strongly, that it is only her pride that prevents her putting the desire in words. And Vane Valentine is horribly afraid of any such consummation. Who knows what may follow ? This "imaU girl — as George's daughter, and owned as such — has a claim on the Valentine millions far and away bet' er than his own. And she is 80 perilously pretty — so winning — so charm- ing — with ail her infantile sweetness and grace, that — oh ! that is out of the question, quite out of the question to let Madam Valentine set eyes on her at all. She is not in the least like the family, that is something, the Valentines are all dark and dour, as the Scotch say— this chili is fair aa a lily . • It is the dickens own puzzle to know who what to do with her,' he says, gnawing at the and of his callow mustach.^, • she cannot stay in here, I suppose, and she cannot come to the cottage, that is clear. She might go to a boarding-school, or a nunnery, or — or that,' helplessly. ' What would you do, Farrar ? You are a man of resources .' ' It's rather like having a white elephant on your hands, is it not ? Poor little elephant— that a man could take up be- tween his linger and thumb— to be such a dead weight, such an Old Man of the Sea, on any one s shoulders ! Are you really serious in that question, Valentine ? I know what you could do, but will you do it ? It would be a capital thing for the child too.' ' My dear fellow, speak out, I will do any- thing — the little thing'sggood, of course, be- ing paramount.' 'Of course,' dryly. • Well— you might give her to me.* • What !' • Not to adopt— not to bring back to Fay- »1 — only to take oflF your hands for the pre- sent. I will make a handsome sacrifice on the altar of friendship, my boy, put your ■mall white elephant in my overcoat pocket, and tuke her 'over the hills and far away.' Vane Valentine stands and stares at him, half in anger at his ill-timed jesting — half in doubt whether it be jesting. Farrar is a queer fellow, full of whims and odditiec, but, also, as he has said, full of re- sources. ' Don't stand there looking as if you thouEht I had gone idiotic!' exclaims Farrar, impatiently. ' Have I not said I don't want the little one for myself. Look here, Val- entine, I am going to my friends, the Mac* donalds. Dr. Macdonald lives on an island in Bay Chalette, if you ever heard of such a place. Isle Perdrix is the name. He is an old Scotchman, his wife is a young French Canadian lady, and the sweetest woman that ever drew breath. That is saying a good deal, ain't it?" ' 'They have two sons, little chaps of six and nine. There is no girl, and the desire of Madame Macdonald's heart is a little girl. ' She will take this one, and b.-ing her up in the very choicest French fashion ; if there is any possibility of changing and improving that Bohemian's nature, you so deeply deplore, she is the lady to do it. * As they are by no means wealthy, you will make compensation, of course. The flourishing township of St. Gddas is over the river from the island, and there is an ex- cellent convent school, when she attains the age for it. I start to-morrow morning ; it you think well of this. Petite shall be my travelling coinpanion. There is my otter.' ' My dear fellow !' cries Mi. Vane Valen- tine — • my dear Farrar !' He is not generally effusive, it is not ' form ;' but he grarps his friend's hand now, or tries to do so — for Mr. Farrar stands with his hands in his pockets, and is slow to take them out. ' I accept with delight ; take her, by all means ; nothing could be better. You say you will start to-morrow. Sorry to lose you, of course. These good women will see that the child ie ready. The qiiestion of ample, of liberal compensation, we will arrange later. Nothing in the world could be better than what you propose.' ' Madame Valentine will be satisfied ?' ' Perfectly satisfied. She will amply pro- vide for the child. ' Had youf not better put it to her ? as it is she who is virtually Snowball's guardian now, should you not ?' ' My dear Farrar, I can answer for her. It is not necessary ac all. I have full power to act for her in this matter. She does not want to see the little one, or be annoyed with question B about her.' , have a > •Not ladies ready t '"w eni in cold would days anc than my Thus page for Its lights ing. its LOST FOR A WOMAN. 43 * It would annoy her, would it ? That makes a difference, of course. Come here little white elephant— such a poor little helpless elephant 1 and tell me if you will leave your Mimy Ann, and come with me V He lifts the fairy to his knee, with infin- ite tendernesb, and puts back with gentle tiugera tha falling, flaxen hair. • Will you come with me, little Snowball ? I want to take you to the kindest lady in the world — a pretty new mamma, who will love little Snowball with all her good heart ?' The child puts up her two snow-flake hands and strokes the cheeks of her bis; friend. you,' man. she says You IS Foball will give you 'Noball like a pritty, pritty a kiss. ' Which she docs, au emphatic lit*;lc smack right on the bearded lips. ' * Flattering, upon my word,' says Vane Valentine. ' Don't you like me oo, Snow- ball ?' ' No,' says Snowball, curling her mite of a nose. * You is not a pritty genpyman. You is very narsy.' * By Jovel' says Mr. Valentine, and stands discomtited. , . .. ,^^ Mr. Farr&r laughs. ^ ' And you will come riih me, Snowball V * Yes,' nods Srjowball. ' Noball tum wiz yoQ. May my Jklimy Ann tum, too ?' * Well — no — not unless you wish it very much. Miss Trillon. And you Mimy Ann, I take it, cannot be spared.' * You will want some one,' suge;e8ts Valen- tine. * You cannot travel with that child alone, Farrar ; think of the dressing and un- dressiui?, and feeding and sleeping, and all that. Y^'ou couldn't manage it. You must have a woman. ' * Not if I know it. There are always ladies travelling — nice matronly ladies, ready to interest themselves in helpless manhood and childhood. They will attend to Mademoiselle Snowball's infantine wan'^s and wardrobe. St. Gildas is only two days off. I am willing to risk it. No woman, Valentine, my boy, an' thou lovest me.' * Wretched misogynist,' laughs Mr. Val- entine. 'Some one must have used you shamefully in days gone by, Farrar. I wonder why — you are a tall and proper fel- I'^w enough. You must haye been jilted in cold blood. Well, as you like it, only|I would mther it were you travelling two days ancl nights with a girl- baby in charge than myself.' Thus it is settled, and life opens on a new page for little Snowball. The circus, with its lights and its leaps, its riding, its danc- ing, its danger, and its wanderings, its fla- vour ot vagabondism, is to be left behind forever, and seclusion, and respectability, and training in the way she should go a la Francais, begins for the motherless waif, afloat like a lo«t straw on life's great tide. .\ll is speedily settled. Mr. Farrar is eminently a man of promptitude and dis- patch. Vane Valentine is only too anxious to get it all over and have the child out of the town. His aunt will shut up the cot- tage, and depart in a day or tw o. Money matters are arranged, and are as liberal as young Valentine has promised. He shakes hands with his friend late that evening full of self congratulation that a knotty point han been so well and easily gotten over. ' If she had seen the youn« one,' he says to himself, thinking of his aunt, ' no one knows what might have happened. Shut out of the world on this far-away island, she she speedily forget, I trust, all about her. It shall be the business of my life to compel her to forgjt. Until the fortune is actually mine, I am daily in danger of losing it^ un- le8s she forget her son's daughter.' Early the next morning the first train bears away among its passengers Mr. Paul Farrar and Miss Snowball Trillon. Jemima Ann weeps copiously at the parting. A glimpse of romance has come to brighten the dull drab of her existence, and it goes with the going of Snowball. ' Good-by, goodby,' she sobs. ' Don't, eh ! don't forget poor Mimy Ann, little Snowball !' V de- tear with an expres- Noball don't now ' What you cwyin' for mands Snowball, touching a one minute finger, and ssion of much distaste, like cwyin'. You is always cwyin' What ynu want to cwy some more ?' Snowball cries not. Her small black cloak is fastened, her little black bonnet tied under one delicious dimple, she is kiss- ed, and departs in high glee, and even the memory of good Jemima Ann waxes pale and dim before the first hour has passed. Mr. Farrar has been right. All the way, ladies take a profound interest in pretty Snowball. Her deep mourning, her ex- quisite face, her feathery, floating hair, her blue, fearless eyeSj her enchanting baby smile, her piquant little remarks, captivate all whom she neets. • Isn't she swcet ?' ' Oh, what a pet 1' Mr. Farrar hears the changes rung on these two feminine remarks the whole way. Snowball fraternizes with every one — she does not know what bashfulness means ; she flits about like a bird the whole day long. Perhaps, too, some of these good ladies are o 44 LOST FOR A WOMAN. a trifle interested in the tall, silent, bearded, handsome gentleman who has her in charf;e, and who is not her father, brother, uncle, anythiiig to her, so far as they can find out from the small demoiselle herself, whose name she does not even know. She comes back to him once from her peregiinations, replete with cake and questions, perches her- self on his knee, gives one bronzed cheek a preliminary peck with her rosy lips, and puts this leading question : ' Is you my papa ?* *No, Snowball, I don't think I am.' ' Is you my uncle ? ' ' Nor your untie. * 'Is you my broder?' ' Not even your brother.' ' What is you. den ? Tause de lady she art NobalL* * The lady had better not ask too many questions. A thirst for knowledge, you may inform her, has been the bane of her sex. And Snowball must not distend her- self like a small anaconda with confection- ery. The lady means to be kind, but per- haps Snowball has heard of people who were killed with kindneiss ?' To which Snowball's reply is that she is sleepy. And then the flaxen head cuddles comfortably over the region of Mr. Farrar's heart, and the blue eyes close, and the dewy lips part, and Snowball is safely in the land of dreams. The close of the second day brings them to St. Gildas. Cold weather awaits them, in this Canadian seaport. The snow lies deep, winds blow keenly. Snowball shivers under her wraps in Mr. Farrar's arms. They spend the night at a hotel, and after break- fast next morning, cross the St. (lildas river to Isle Fedrix. There an amazed and joyful welcome awaits them. Snowball's reception is all Mr. Fa' rar has predicted, both from the elderly Scotch doctor and the youthful French wife. They accept the charge with delight, the two boys of the household alone eyeing the intruder with dubious eyes, as it is in the nature of hoyt> . nder nine to "egard small girls. But nature is sometimes out- }j;rown. Mr. Farrar remains ten days — ten days of transport to the two Macdonald lads, who worship him, or thereabouts, ten days of gladness to their parents, ton days of much caressing and infantile love-making on the part of Snowball, ten happy, peaceful days. Then he goes back to Fayal, out there in the Azores, and ^o the monotonous life of the manager of ^ large estate in that dullest of fair tropical islands. And Snowball re- mains, and life on its new page, a breezy and charming and healthful life on the sea-girt isle, begini. IPA.R.T SECO'^r>. Don Carlos.—' All things that live have some means of defence.' Lucas—' Ay, all— save only lovely, helpless woman,' Don ' Jarlos.— ' Nay, woman has her tongue armed to the teeth.' CHA-PTER h ISLB PBRDRIX. Far away from grimy New England manu- facturing towns, from coal smoke, and roar- ing furnaces and brisk Yankee trade and bustle, from circuses and flying trapeze, there rests, rock-bound, and bare and bleak, a green dot -in a blue waste of waters — Isle Ferdrix. Lonely and barren it rears its craggy head- land, crowned with stunted spruce and dwarfed cedars, aud runs out its sandy spits and tongues, like an ugly, sprawling spider, into the chilly watert of Bay Chalette. Through the long snow bound Canadian winter, with the fierce August sun beating and blistering it, with dark sea-fogs mapping it, with whirling enow-storms shrouding it. Isle Fer- drix rests placid, unchanged, almost un- changeable, the high tides of Bay Chalette threatening sometimes to rise in their might and sweep it away altogether, into the stormy Atlantic beyond. Long ago, when all this Canadian land was French, and the beautiful language the only one spoken, it had been christened Isle Fer- drix. Later with Irish, and English and Scotch immigration, to confound all names, it became Dree Island ; otherwise it is un- altered since fifty, sixty, more years ago. Its headland light burns as of yore, a beacon in dark and dangerous Bay Chalette — its resi- dent physician is still resident, as when in that far off time it was a quarantine station, and men and women died in the long sheds erected in the sands of ' ship-fever ' faster than hands could bury them. It is an island undermined with graves, haunted by ghost- ly memories. The :vorld moves, but it moves languidly about Dree i^laud. It is a quarantine 8tatio.n still, but its hospitals have stood empty for the past decade of LOST FOR A WOMAN. 45 sea-girt D. ye have helpless )r tongue kd manu- sind roar- rade and trapeze, id bleak, )f waters barren crowned dwarfed pits and ier, into Through ter, with tlisterin^ it, with Isle Per- lost nn- Dhalette iir might into the land was the only sle Per- ish and names, it is nn- ago. Its )eaoon in its resi- when in station, ng sheds ' faster ,n island )y ghost- but it ad. It hospitals cade of years ; emigrant ships oome rarely now to dull St Oildaa, and Dr. Maodonald finds his office pretty well a sinecure. He lives there still, though, a sort of family Robinson Cru- soe in his cottage, practises as he gets it over in St. Gildas, and brings up his two boys in their breezy homa, and would not change his secluded, peaceful, plodding life to be made viceroy of all Her Majesty's domin- ions. I Dr. Macdonald's island castle is a cottage ^ — a long, white cottage, only one storey and ; an attic high. But though low, it is lengthy, and contains some nine or ten pretty rooms, and always a spare chamber for the pilgrim and the stranger within its gates. They come sometimes to sketch, and tish, and shoot — I bronzed and bearded pilgrims, artists f'-om [ the States officers from Ottawa and Mci ;1, and go away charmed with the doctor, the house, the cuisine, the sport, the sea. He would be difficult indeed whom Dr. Angus Maodonald's genial manners, and Madame Aloysia's cookery would fail to charm. Most kindly of hosts, most gentle of gentlemen, is the dreamy doctor, and in her way 'Ma'am Weesy ' — so the children shorten her stately baptismal — is a cordon bleu. The cottage sits comfortably in a garden, and the garden is shut in on the north and east by craggy bluff's, that break the force of the beetling Atlantic winds. Behind is a vegetable garden, with currant and goose- berry bushes flourishing among the potatoes and cabbages ; in front is a flower-garden — such flowers as with infinite coaxing will con- sent to blossom in so bleak a spot. Hardy, old-fashioned poppies and dahlias, London pride, queen of the meadow, bachelor but- tons, and lilac trees — these, with southern sunshine and western breezes, brighten the island-garden for three or four months out of twelve. A great picturesque trail of hop- vine and soarlet-runner drapes the porch, and twines in pretty festoons round the win- dow of the doctor's study. Take it for all in all, the bearded artists, who carry away so many sketches of it in their portfolios, may be sincere enough in pronouncing it one of the most capital little hermitages the round world holds. It is a July morning — forenoo: rather — for elevenj has struck by the doctor's clock. Peace roigbs on Isle Perdrix, a peace that may almost be felt, a great calm of wind and sea. The summer sky is without a cloud ; it is blue, blue, blue, and flecked with roll- ing billows of white wool — a languid zephyr, with the saline freshness of the ocean, just stirs the hop vines, but faintly, as if it too were a-weary in the unusual heat. Little baby waveletf) lap with murmurous motion upon the gray sands— the gulls that whirl and circle round the island do not even shriek. Peace reigras too within the cottage, the doctor is from home, the boys are at St Gildas, and the other distributing element of the household is— well. Ma'am Weesy does not exactly know where, but where she will remain she devoutly hopes, for another hour or two. Vam hope— as the thought crosses the old woman's mind, there comes the sound of shriJJ, sweet singing, a quick rush and patter of small feet, a shout, and there whirls into the cottage kitchen a girl of twelve, out of breath, flushed with running, but singinff her chorus still — * " •Here's to the wind that blows. And the ship that goes. And the lass tbat loves a sailor.' ' Oh, Ma'am Weesy 1 ' cries this breath- less apparition, ' where is Johnny ? ' She stands in the doorway directly in the stream of yellow morning sumhine, her sailor hat on the back of her head— a charming head 'sunning over with curls,' and looks with twc eyes as blue and bright as the July sky itself, into the old woman's face. She 18 a charming vision altogether,' a tall, slim girl, in a blue print dress made sailor-fashion, and trimmed with «rhite braid, a strap of crimson leather belting it about the slender waist. Long ringlets of flaxen fairness fall until they touch this belt Iheface is bewitching, so fair, so spirited! so full of life and eagerness, and joyous healthful youth. It matches the blonde hair and sky-blue eyea— it is all rose-pink and pearl-white. „Ma'am Weesy pauses in her work' with a sort of groan. She is peeling potatoes for dinner, and throwing them into a tin pan o* cold water beside her. The sunny kitchen 18 a gem of cleanliness and comfort ; Ma'am Weesy herself is a little brown old person of fifty, as active and agile as a young girl, and housekecsper for fifteen years m the doctor's cottage. She is monarch of all she surveys at present, for Madame Macdonald is dead and an autocratic ruler. That kitchen ' in- tenor • is a picture, everything it contains glows and gleams again with friction, tin- ware takes on the brillance of silver, the rows of dishes sparkle in the sunshine. In the place of honour in a gilt frame, hangs her patron, that handsome young Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, to whom in all her diffi- culties, culinary as well as conscientious, she 13 accustomed to promutly, not to say peremptorily, appeal. She casts an imploring glance at him new, for this youthful person is the one of all tue family, who rasps and exasperates her ^ ..-*' 1 46 LOST FOR A WOMAN. moat, but Aloyaius continues to regard them with his grave smile, and responds not. 'Where is Johnny?' repeats impatiently the vidion in flaxen curls and sailor suit ; ' is he up stairs ? I can't tind him. He isn't anywhere, and ho said — you heard him your- self last night, Ma'am Weesy ' — in shrill indignation — 'you heard him say he would take me out in the Boule-de-ueige this fore- noon. And now it is past eleven o'clock, and I can't tind him. Johnny ! John-ne-ee 1 ' the shrill tones rise to an ear splitting shriek. •Ah, Mon Dieu I' cries out old Weesy, and covers her ears with her hands. 'Mademoiselle leave the kitchen — leave directly, I say ! I will not be deafened like this. Yuu must not come screaming at me like a sea-gull, it is not to be borue ; your vuice is worse than the steam whiHtle down at the Point in a fog. Master Jean is not here — is not here, I tell you. He went to St. Gildas right after breakfast, and has not yet returned.' ' £o St. Gildas?' repeats the young per- son in blue, and an expression of blank despair crosses the sunny face. Then she looks at Ma'am Weesy and brightens a bit. • I don't believe it ! ' she says, promptly. ' It is true, nevertheless, ma'amselle. I wanted coffee and sugar, and he offered to go. But he must be back by now — it is hours since he went. Go down to the Point and call. M'sieur Kene at least is sure to be there.' ' I don't want M'sieur Rene,' says mademoiselle in an aggressive tone. ' I want Johnny. I think it 'is horrid of you Ma'am Weesy, to go sending him for sugar and things, when you might know I'd want him. You might have sent old Tim. And now it is fourteen minutes past eleven, and the best of the day gone'. You wait until you want me to shell peas for you, or rake olams, and you'll see.' With which dark threat this young per- son crushes her saUor hat with some asperity down on her pale gold curls, and turns despondently to go. Ma'am Weesy looks after her with a chuckle ; it is not always she can get rid of her thus easily, and a gad flyabout the kitchen would be less of a torment over her work than mademoiselle. Mademoiselle, m<)antime, recovers her spirits with great rapidity, the moment she ii out of the house, and starts off at racing speed, despite the blazing sun, to the point. It is a lofty peak, at the extreme outer edge of a projecting tongue of land, overlooking the bay and the town, across the river, and all boats passing up and down. If the missing Johnny is on sea or shore, made- moiselle is determined he shall know she awaits him and hastens his lagging steps. So standing erect on her lofty peroh, over- looking the vasty deep, she uplifts her strong young voice, and Johnny I Johnny-y I Johnny-y-y !' pierces the circumambient air. Even the seagulls pause in constiernation as they lis- ten. ' Good heavens 1' cried a voice, at last. 'Stop that awful row. Snowball. Your shrieks are enough to wake the dead.' The speaker is a youth of sixteen or so, stretched in the shadow of the great rock on which the girl stands, his hat pulled over his eyes, trying to read. Vain effort, with those maddening cries for Johnny, rending the summer silence. Snowball glances down at him, and her only answer is a still more ear-splitting and distracted appeal for the lost and longed-for 'Johnny.' 'They may wake the dead if they like,' she says, disdainfully, ' but they need't wake you. I don't wan't you. I want Johnny. ' 'Yes, I hear you do.' retorts the reader. ' You always do want Johnny, don't you ? You want Johiisy » good deal more than Johnny ever wants you. ' It is an uncivil speech, and, it may be re- marked just here, that the amenities of life, as passing between M. Rene Maodonald and Mile. Snowball Trillon, are mostly of an acid and acrid character. Open rupture indeed is often imminent, and is only avoided by the fact that the young lady is constitution- ally unable to retain indignation for over five minutes at any one time. Her reply to this particularly ungallant speech, is one of her very sweetest smiles- a smile that dances in the blue eyes, and flashes out of two rows of emiill pearl white teeth. ' Look here, Rene,' she says, ' I wish you would come, too. You'll make yourself as blind as a bat, if you keep on over your books forever and ever. I think I see John- ny and the batteau coming aoroes, and we're going to Chapeteu Dieu for raspberries. Do — do put that stupid book m your pocket,' impatiently, 'and come.' ' It isn't a stupid book,' says Rene Mac- donald, 'and berrying is much too hard work this scorcher of a day. You'll inveigle Johnny into a sunstroke if you don't talce care.' 'Look here !' repeats Snowball, and comes dashing down the steep side of the cUff like a young chamois. The last five feet she akea with a flyins; leap, and lands like a tornado Shep — a ma whips o; tenta. 'Sand ' made o thin — CO from Ma blueberr packed i the raspl on the B and says jam, and cake eve week — tl She is apeaks, 1 her whol flusfied. catches i berry she raspberry tion stag( ' Do coi and lips, prayer, that bese beauty, n the obdur of shortct • VVelI,1 don't care iog than nie to ke whenever Be is I French-lo Canadian and yet broad, pa nous eyes ^oat behi "J is quit4 head boy Gilda«i, M dents. •There' accents of basket am ' Johnny 1 looking fo I am hoar horrid as me?' 'Hadn'l resting; o^, ' Boule-de ceries in n though ; \ John Ml LOST FOR A W0MA1<. ren the aey lis- at last. Your n or BO, rock CD over his th those ling the and her t;iDK and Dged-for By like,' r need't I want i reader. I't you? ore than ay be re- a of life, nald and I an aoid indeed »ided by ititution- or over reply to is one of at dances iwo rows wish you mrself as ver your jee John- ,nd we're en. Do- pocket,' ene Mac- 00 hard 1 inveigle >u't take nd comes cliff like f«et she Is like a tornado at the lad's aide. ' Just look here !' She produced from a hiding-place a basket — a market-basket of noble proportions^ whips off the cover, and displays the '.^oa- tents. 'SandwichiS,' she says, with unction, ' made of minced veal and ham, lovely and thin — cold chicken pie, pound cake — all stolen from Ma'am Weeay, Rene I— biscuits, and a blueberry tart ! The basket ia full— full— I packed it myself. It's for our lunch. And the raspberries are thick — thic :, Rene, over on the Banens. Johnny was there yeaterday, and says so. And Weesy is going to make jam, and says we can have raspberry short- cake every evening for a week. For a week — think of that!' She ia fairly dancing with eagerness aa she speaks, her great blue eyea flash like atara, her whole piquant apirited face, aglow and fluabed. Even Rene — Rene the phlegmatic — catches a little of her enthuaiasm. Raap- berry shortcake every day for a week— and raspberry jam forever after I His resolu- tion staggers — he hesitates — he is lost ! 'Do come !' reiterates Snowball, and eyes and lips, and clasped hands repeat the prayer. She looks lovely as she stands in that beseeching attitude, but it is not her beauty, nor her entreating tone that moves the obdurate Rene— it is the sweet prospect of shortcal'- and jam. * Well,' he Bays, condeacendingly, ' I don't care if I do. It's always easier yield- ing than rowing with you, and papa told me to keep you and Jack out of mischief whenever I got a chance.' He is a slender, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, French-looking boy, very like his dead Canadian mother — not exactly handsor.e, and yet sufficiently attractive, with that broad, pale forehead, and those dark lumi- nous eyes. All sort of misty, dreamy ideas '^oat behind that thoughtful-looking brow ; ^ J is quite a prodigy of industry and talent, head boy of St. Francis College, over at St.. Gilda*i, where h-' and his brother are stu- dents. ' There's Johnny now !' cries Snowball, in accents of exquisite delight. She drops the basket and bounds away as fleet as a fawn. ' Johnny ! Johnny !' she calls, ' I've been looking for you everywhere, and calling until I am hoarse. How could you be so awfully horrid aa to go to St. Gildas and never tell me?' 'Hadn't time,' responds Master Johnny, resting; on the gunwale of his boat, the ' Boule-de-neige.' * Weesy wanted her gro- ceries in no end of a hurry. I'm here now, though ; what do yon want ?' John Macdonald is fourteen years old, and is at this moment, perhaps, the handsomest boy in Canada. His face is simply beauti- ful. He is handsomer even, in \m boyish fashion, than the pretty girl who stiiDds be- side him. He is not in the least like hia brother ; he is taller at fourteen than Rene at sixt^en — he is fair, like his Scottish fore> fathers, with sea gray eyes, and a face, per- fect enough, in form and colour fur an ideal god. His hair light brown, jtrofuse and curling, his skin is tanned by much exposure to sea and sun and wind, and a certain simplicity .ind unconsciousness of his own good Ivioks, lends a last charm to a face that wins all hearts at sight. ' What do I want ?' repeats Snowball, fix- ing two reproachful eyes on the placid countenance before her ; ' that's a question for you to sit there and ask without a blush, isn't it ?' 'Don't see anything to blush about,' re- torts Johnny, with a grin ; ' it's too hot to go to Chapeau DieUj if that's what's the matter. The sun is a blazer on the water :et me tell you.' ' Oh, Johnny,' in blankest disappointment, ' dearest Johnny, don't say ao. And after all fcne trouble I've had, too — fixing the love- liest lunch — chicken-pie, tarts, and every, thing ! Oh, Johnny, don't back out at the last minute.' Tears spring into the blue, bescchin';; eyes, the hands clasp again, she stands a picture of heart-broken supplication before h an. 'Oh, all right,' says Johnny, v/o hates tears. ' I wouldn't cry about it ;f I were you. Where's Rene ? Shinning up the tree of knowledge, as usual, I suppose.' • He's coming too. Johnny, you're a darling !' cries SnowbaU,in a rapture ; 'don't let ua lose a minute ; the lunch basket is here. It is half-past eleven — we ought to have been off tM'o hours ago. ' ' I must go UP 'uo the house with| the things,' says Johnny, unmoved 'oy all this adulation. ' T/ou and Rene can pile in and wait. I won't be a minute. ' ' Don't, trill Weesy where we're going,' calls Snowball after him ; * she hates me to go berrying, because I tear my clothes and stain my stockings. And, for goodrTS sake, hurry up. It will be two o'clock now before we get there. Do your best. ' ' Which I'm not going to do it, in the yitsavnt state of the thermometer,' responds Johnny, leisurely taking up bis parcels, and leisurely departing. He is never in hurry, this boy, and is thereby a strik'iig contrbst to Snowball, who always is. Extremes meet indeed, in their case, for they are as utterly unlike in moat ways, aa boy and girl can well be. In all cocflict of opinion 'C^ k^'' 7 1 48 LOS FOR A WOMAN. between them, it may be added, mademoi* aelle invariably cornea of victorious. It ia al ways easier, as Rene haa aaiii, and as Johnny knows, where ahe is ooDcerned, to yield than to do battle. Not that Ptene ever yields— he and Snowball Bght it out to the bitter end, and Reno will be minded, or know the reaaon why. The batteau is large for that sort of boat, carries a small aail, ia a beauty in her way, and the idol of young John Maodonald's heart. • She walks the water like a thing of life,' he is fond of quoting, gazing at her with glistening eyes, and it is the only poetry he 18 ever guilty of quoting. She ia painted virgin white, is as clean and dry as old Weesy's kitchen, and carries her name in gilt letters on her stern, • Boule-de-neige.' Th-5 original Boule-de-neige, with Rene, • plies in ' according to the skipper's orders, and, with the precious basket stowed away, sit and wait his return. Snowball taps im- patiently with one slim, sandaled foot. Rene impassively reads. ' What tiresome book have you got now ?" demands Snowball, ia a resentful tone. ' I do think, Rene, you are the stupidest boy that ever lived, and read the stupidest books that ever were printed. ' • Thanks 1 — I mean for self and books," re- torts Rene,' 'you, who never open a book, are a judge, of course.' • What is that ?' ' Shakespeare's tragedies, mademoiselle. ' ' There will be another tragedy in this boat in five minutes if you don't put it in your pocket. Look at that sky, look at that sea, feel this velvety wind freshening, and see yourself, a great hobbledehoy, who can sit and read dull old English murders in the face of it all I I suppose you are at Macbeth ; I think Lady Macbeth would have been a splendid v,ife for you, Rene.' Rer.e grunts, assent or dissent, as she likes to take it, and reads on. ' Stern, and sulky and horrid. Oh, Renel be good-natured ' >r once— only for once — by way of a change, and shut up that book and talk like a Christian— do. ' Like a noodle, if I talk to you. It is po- lite to adopt one's conversation to one's com- pany. And I would rather not. It is triste to talk rubbish. Speech is silver, silence is gold.' ' Here is Johnny,' cries Snowball, joyfully; ' now we will have a little rational conversa- tion — for which Dieu luerci I I sometimes wonder what I should do without Johnny. If I had to live here — if I had to live on this island alone with you, Rene, do you know what would happen ? ' •*■ ' That vou would drive me to jump over UeadUnd Point to escape yon r everlasting clatter, I dai '^ say,' say a Rene. ' That you would drive me into melancholy madness with your silence, and your dismal books. Fancy youraelf stalking alxmt like your favourite Hamlet in a black velvet dreas- iug-gown, and me like a gloomy Ophelia, with a wreath of sun-flowers and sea- weed in my hair, trailing after, singing tail ends of songs out of tune.' Something in this picture tickles the not too easily aroused sense of humour latent in Dr. Macdonald's elder son. Rather to the surprise of Snowball, who does not mean to be funny, he throws back his dark head, and laughs outright. And Rene Macdonald has a wonderfully pleasant and mellow laugh. ' What's the joke ? ' asks Johnny, bearing down upon them rapidly. ' Got the basket, Snowball ? Yes, I see. Bear a hand, Rene, old boy. Hooray, off ahe goes .' The boat slips easily off the shelving beach, and out into the shining waters of Bay Cha- lette. A fresh breeze has sprung up, and tempers the fierce heat of the noonday aun. The sail is set, and away the pretty Bould- de-neige flies in the teethfof the brisk breeze. Johnny is past master of the art of hand- ling a boat ; ne and his batteau are known everywhere for miles along the coast. He has been a toiler of the sea ever since he was seven years old. 'You didn't tell Weesy, did you ? ' asks Snowball, as they fly along at a spanking rate. ' She didn't ask me,' answers Johnny. ' I told her we were going out for a sail, and would not be back until dark. She cast a grateful look at St. Aloysins, over the chim. ney, and murmured a prayernf thanksgiving. Have you brought tin pails for the berries ? — yes, I see — all right ' They fly along. And presently Snowball, lying idly over the side, her sailor hat well back on her he^d, defiant alike of sun and wind, breaki> into song, and presently Johnny joins in the chorus. It is a sailor^s song— a monotonous chant the French sailors sing along the wharves of St. Gildas, as they coil down ropes, and the two fresh young voices blend sweetly, and float over the summer waters. And.still a little later Rene pockets his book, and his clear tenor adds force to the refrain as they rapidly increase the distance between themselves and Isle Perdrix. * Where are you going to land, Johnny ?' he asks at length. ' At Sugar Scoop beach, I suppose ? ' ' No, don't, Johnny,' cuts in Snowball, who is nothing if not contradictory, ' land at Needle's Point, like a good fellow^.' • Shan' to ntove Nee LOST FOR A WOMAN. 49 •Shan't,' returns Johnny. 'I don't want to ntove a hole in the bottom of the batteau. Needle point, indeed ! the worst bit of beaoh all along Chapeau Dieu. Catch me ! ' ' But I flay you shall t ' oriei Snowball, Hitting up. nnd violently excited all in a mo- ment. ' You must. Never mind the bat- teau — a« least she won't get a hole in her. If you land at Suj^ar Scoop wo will have two full miles to walk to Rispberry Plains — two — fall — milee,' says iiademoiaelle, gesticulatinur wildly, * in ihis blazing hot sun. Wiiereas if you land at Needle's Point ' • The Boulfl-de-neije is rained for lifs' interposes Rene. ' D^a't yon mind her, Johnny, she's always a little cracked.' ' You must mind me, Johnny I If you land at Sugar Scoop I— I'll sit riglit here ! ' eric? Snowball, vindictively. I'll never stir. And I U keep the lunch basket — it's mine anyhow- T put it np. And I'll eat every- thing ; I Wv,'\'t walk two miles. It's nearly two o'clock nf^w ; it would be four when we got there. We would just have time for u.. ' 'ook at the berries, aud then march back aoain I You shall land at Needle's Point ur yoi needn't land at all. Theu 1' Johnny shrugs his shoulders resignedly. When ttie current of Snowball's angry elo- quence dooda hiiu after this fashion, Johnny always gives up. Anything for a quiet life, is hid peaceful motto. But the belliiiereut tire awakes withiu the leas-yielding Rene. 'Johnny,' he says, in an ominously quiet tone. Met us put her ashore,' indicating mademoiselle by a scornful gesture, ' at her beloved Needle's Point, and you and I will take the boat round to Sugar Scoop beach. It will be madness to run tae batteau up on those rocks.' Snowball starts to her feet, de.fianoe flashing in the azure eyes, flushing the ro^e- pipk cheeks to angry crimson. ' Yes, Johnny,' she cries out, 'put me ashore at Needle's Point, put me ashore here, anywhere, but mind ' — wildest wrath flaming upon Rjne — ' I keep the basket. No matter what you do, or where you put uie, 1 keep the luuuh basket. ' * Oh, stow all that 1 ' says the badgered but pacitic Johnny. ' Sit down. Snowball ; do you want to upset yourself and your pre- c oua lunch basket iuo the bay? Let her alone Rsne, it's never any use Hghting with her ; you know she'll have her way if she die9 for it. I'll land you at N.eedle's Point, or on top of Chapeau Dieu, if you like. Snowball, only for goodness sake,, don't make such an awfill row.' ' Very well,' says Reue, ' it is you who will repent, not I. Tne batteau li yours. If you like to scuttle her ' His shoulders go up for a moment expres- sively ; then he pnlla out his book, and re< lapses into dignity — and Shitkespeare. * I guess it won't be so bad as that It will be high tide when we get there, and I'll manage to run her up." Thus hopefully SAVS -Johnny, and thus, in silence, the rest of the voyage is performed. Chapeau Dieu — ao called from its fancied resemblance to a cardinal's hat~>is a moun- tain of ponderous proportions, %* to oiroum' feronce, though nothing remarkable as to heii{ht. Its baxe is the t<)rror of all mariners and ooa'Hters— rock-b'iun<1- beetling, under- miued with sunken reefs ; i» spot marked : dangerous on all charts ; a plac«) to be given the widcHt possilde birth on a duil: night or a foggy day. Many, many gooe pails,' he aays, gruffly, and rather snatches them than otherwise. Bat there is no time Saowball feels for re- bake ; Johnny is boauding up the diffd in agile leaps. * Here is a place,' says the small vixen, * perhaps you'll stop being sulky, M'sieu Bene, and help me to lay the tninga. ' Rene obeys in dignified silenoe, the twain work with a will, and spread obicken pie, and pound cake, arid sandwiches in a tempt- ing way. Here is a twinkling tin cop to dnnk out of, and a spring of ice cold water bubbles near, so theirs is a feast for the gods. They fall to, with appetites natorally healthful, and set painfully on edge by two hours and a half of salt sea air. Ijancheon has the soothing effect of clear* iog the moral atmosphere — they eat and drink, and lau^h, and talk in highest good humour. Indeed, lest you should think too badly of Mademoiselle Snowball — that tte have c(ot hold of a youthful virago in fact, it may be said, that she only quarrels with Rene on principle, and for his good. She feels he needs pulling down, and she puts him down aooordiagly. It is rather a motherly — a grandmotherly if you like — sort of thine. And she never (hardly ever) quarrels with anyone else. And her wildest outburst of inaignation never last, as has been stated, more than five minutes at any one time. It is a constituiioual impossibility for Snowba to retain anger. For Johnny — she loves him and bullita him— is his ohuin and comrade, would die for him, or box|hia ears with equal readiness. She ia nev«r ahouether h»ppy away from him, while Master Jean in a gen* eral way sees her no with a sense of profound relief, and nev«r wholly dare call his soul his own in hur whirlwind pre- sence. At the present stage of his existence he feels her overpowering atTeotiou a little too much for him, and oi>ultl cheerfully dis- pense with — say two-thirds of it, with all the plessure in life. ' Now, I call this splendid,' save Snowball, gatheriufi up the fragments of the feaat. ' Rene, yeu have a watch, what'a the time T' ' Quarter past three,' answers Rune, lazily, lookiiig at his gold repeater, a last birth day gift from hia father. * If you intend to get any raspberries to-day, it strikes me it is time you and Johnny were at it 1' ' Me and Johnny I' crieit Snowball, shrilly, ' and you, for example — what of you, my friend ?' ' I,' says Rene, pulling out the obnoxious Shakespeare, * will lie here and look at you, and improve my mind with Richard the Third.' Snowball makes one flying leap, pounces upon Shakespeare, and hugs him to her breast. * Never I' she cries, ' never, while life beats ia this bosom I Johnny, you help me. Will you oome and pick, sir, or will you not ?' * Not,' say* Rene ; much rather not. Qive me back my book, Snowball !' in quick alarm. ' Stop 1' She stands on the dizzy edge of the oliff, and Shakespeare is poised high — perilously high— above her head. ' Promise,' she exclaims, ' promise to pick, else here I vow over the ciilf Stiakespeare goes, full fifty futhoms under Buy Cbalette. Promise, or never see him more. ' Snowball I You would not dare V in angry would dare — has And •or eyes •If alarm : for he knows she dared more darins deeds than this. Johnny stands ana grins approval. ' Chuck it over Snowball,' he says, make him help us— I'll back you up.' * One I — two 1 * cries Snowball, and cheeks aglow with wicked delight. I say three, over it goes. One I— two t Do you promise, or ' ' Oh, confound you I yes, I promise. Give me my book I ' says enraged Rene. ' I woald like to throw you over instead— I will, some day, if you exasperate me too far.' ' The spirit is w.lling, but the flesh is weak. You daren't, Rene, dearest,' laughs Saowball. She hands him the book as she. LOST FOB A WOMAN. 61 ) lovM him 1 oninr»de, with eqaal tier httppy 1 in A g«n- • ■eoaa holly dare Iwind pre* I exiiteooe ion • little irfully dis- >, with all Saowball, the feMt. the time 7' ine, lizily, birth day end to get I me it ia Jl, shrilly, ; you, my obnnzioui ok at you, jhard the p, pounces m to her 9 life beats me. WiU I not Y not. Give in quick f the oliff, perilously le to pick, akespeare Cbatette. in angry are — has And 18. la p, or all, eyes iht. 'If wo 1 promise, .ene. ' I istead— I me too flesh is ' laughs ok as she ■peaks, knowinK well ha will not break his word. " ' Come on. mr merry men all. We will to tae tfreun wood hie t ' " ■he sings, fi^.eefully, and snatches up one of the tin p&ils and bimatis away. Rene ooaiif^ns hi« cherished volume to his pocket, picks up a tin pail, and prepares to follow, when a cry from Johnny — a low, hoarse, agonieed cry —makes him stop. Ha looks. His brother stands, every trace of oolour fading from his faofl, his gray eyes wide with dismay, one llickerinK finger pointing seawartl. llene follows the Anger, and gszen, and sees— yards away, floating oat with the turning tide, farther and farther every second — tbe Boule-de-neige ! ' Mon Dieu 1 ' he cries, and stands stun* Bad. It is a moment before he can take in the fall magnitude of the disaster. The boat is gon^, past all recall, and they are here, lost on Ohapeau Dieu. ' Good Heaven ! ' R)ne exclaims, under his breath ; 'Johnny, how is this ? ' ' I did not make her fast,' Johnny answers, huskily. ' I thought I did, but it was a hard place, and Suowoall was calling. I did not make her secure— and now she is gone, my Baule-de-neige, and I may never see her cgain ! ' There is agony, real agony, in hi' voice. Not for himself, in this Hrsc momeut^ does ha care — not for the misfortune that has come upon them that may end in darkest disaster — but for his darling, hia treasure, the joy of his heart, his white idol, Boule-de- neige. Bene says nothing ; ha feels for his bro- ther's bereavement too deeply, and coaster- nation is in his soul. So they stand and gaae, and farther, and farther, and farther away, with the swelling tide, flv>ata the faith* less Boule-de- neige ! •f CHAPTER II. ■ !! CHAFEAT7 DIE0. « And it is all Snowball's fknlt !' It is Rane who speak* ihe words, passion- ate anger in his voice— the first words that break the long silence. Far o£f, the batteau is but a white drifting speck, after which they strain their eyes until they are half blind. Johnny's eyes are dim. ' It is all Snowball's fault 1' oassiouately repeats Rene. Far away ancl faint, her ■weet singing reaches them, broken now and then as the fruit sba picks finds its way be- tween her rosy lius, instead o£ into the shining pail. The sound is to his wrath, as ' vinegar upon nitre.' ' It is all her fault. She would coma to Chapeau Dieu, she would land here and no- where else. Johnny, it serve* you right I You yield to her in everything. Yuu should not have let her force you to land hare.' Johnny says nothing. * His heart is with his eyes, and that is far away ' — far away, to where Boule-de*neige, beautiful, traitoroua tioule-de-uetge, floats out to the open sea. *She is a tyrant. E veryone spoils her — you all do— papa, Weesy, and yon, Johnny, worst of alL You let het^ have her way in everything, and noaood ever can come of it. Now, we are here, and here we may remain. And it's all her doing from first to last.' 'It's no use talking now,' says Jonnny, huskily, ' the batteau's gone— gone 1' 'Yes, I see it's gone,' bitterly, 'and I hear her singing over yonder still I You had better go and tell her, and see if she will not change her tune 1' Johnny turns away — not to tell Snowball, however. The boat is quite out of sight now, gone forever it may be, and Johnny feels hia voice is not to be trusted, with this great lump rising and falling in his throat. The is a pause. Rene stands, a statue of angry grief and despair, and still strains his eyes over the blue shining sea. No boats are to be seen ; far off on the horizon there are sails, but none of these sails will eyer come near. All craft steer wide of fatal Ohapeau Pieu. P' What are we to do f ha bursts oat at length ; ' look here, Johnny, it's no time to sit down And cry. ' * I'm not crying 1' retorts Johnny, angrily, looking up, but his eyes look red as he says it, and hia voice breaks short ' The batteaa's gone,' pursues the relentless Uene, ' and wa are here. Now, how are wa to get off?' * Wait until lomething comes along and takes us off, I suppose.' ' And how long may that be ? Nothing ever comes this way— no one in their seuite ever lauds atj Needle's Point. You know that. Unless a storm drives a fishing boat or a coaster oat of their coarse, nothing will ever come within miles of us. Then what ate wa to do f 'They will miss us, and search for as,' says Johnny, waking ap somewhat to a sense of personal danger. 41* Will they ? No one knows where we are. More of Snowball's doing — she wouldn't let you tall Ma'am Weesy. Weesy will not mias us until bedtime— then who is to search ? She and old Tim are alone on the ") 02 LOST FOR A WOMAN. island, and be can't leave the Light. If he feels ia the humour, he may go to St. Gildai to-morrow, and give the alarm. Then, by noon, some one may be ready to start in the search, but where are they to look? You and Snowball go everywhere, up and down the coast for twenty miles— a wide circuit to search over — and no one will think of Chapeau Dieu until every other place has been given up. That may be for days, and in three days papa will be back again. How do you suppose he will feel ?' * By George !' says Johnny, blankly. ' I suppose we will not starve,' goes on Bene, suil bitterly ; ' there are the berries we came for, and here is a spiing. Anu it won't hurt us to sleep on the ground. We can rough it. But our father — it will about kiUhim.' ' And Snowball,' says Johnny, pitifully, ' poor little Snowball. She can't rough it. What will become of Snowball ? * Nothing she does not richly deserve. Let us hope that it will be a lesson to her — if Bhe — we— aiiy of us leave this mountain alive. It is her doing from first to i ast. Let bnr take the consequences ! I, for one, don't pity her.' 'Poor little Saowball,' repeats Johnny, softly. He never argues, but he is not easily convinced. Even the loss of Boule-de neige is forgotten, in this new state of things. ' I'm awfully sorry for Snowball.' ' You're an idiot, Johnny 1' savagely ; think 01 yourself.' ' Well — I do. I can't help thinking of her, though, too. Poor little thing, how is she to sleep on the turf? And she is not strong. And she never meant any harm. Don't be so hard, old fellow.' The gentle sea gray eyes look wistfully up - the brown, bright, angry eyes look down. 'Have a little pity,' the gray eyes say. And * You're a good fellow, Johnny,' the brown eyea answer. They soften as they turn away. ' It's an awful tix, though !' he mutters, and L oks seaward again, and I e 'ins to whistle. There is a stifled sob behind, but neither hear it. Then like a (guilty thing. Snow- ball creeps away. It is not her went to ad- vance unheard — she can ma^e noise enough at any time for a dozen — but the turf has muffled her steps, and raspberries have stop- ped her mouth. And she has come upon them, unfelt, unseen, and overheard all. All 1 Kene's scathing words, Johnny's re- gretful pleading. An awful panic of re- morse falls upon her. The whole situation as exposed by Roue opens before her, and it is all her doiug— hers — her willfulness, obsiiucy, seltishuesB, ircm first to las t They may perish here. And Dr. Macdooald' will break his heart. And she is the cause of it alL She would come, she would land at Needle's Point, where no boat could be safely moored ; she would call to Johnny to hurry ! Kene is right— it is all her fault, from beginning to end. She nings herself on the ground, and hurries her wicked face in the grass. AH the misdeeds of her life — neither few nor far be- tween — rise up before her in remorseful array, but pale into insignificance before this crowning crime. She licj prone, be- dewing the dry furze with her despairing tears, and so, half an hour after, when he quits his brother, Johnny finds her. He looks at her ruefully and uncomfortably — even at fourteen he has a genuine masculine ho/ror of crying — and touches her up gently with the toe of his shoe. ' I say !' he nay a, with an attempt at ^ruffaess, ' stop that, will yon ?' 'I'wo lovely, blue eyes look np at him, pathetic with heart-broken despair. ' Oh, Johnny 1 ' she cries out in anguished tones. Johnny has nothing to say to this; indeed, the situation qui^e goes without saying. He stands gnawing a raspberry branch, and looking still more uncomfortable. Bu^ Snow* ball must talk — if death were the penalty, Snowball would talk ; talking is hrr forte, and she has been silent now for over an hour. So she sits up, wipes her eyes, sobs a last sob, and looks at him solemnly. ' Johnny ! ' •Yes.' 'This is awful, isn't it?' * Pretty awful,' dismally ; ' the batteaus gone.' fI'Mever mind, she won't go far — some- ody will pick her up. Everyone knows the Boule-deneige. She's all right, Johnny I" 'Yes.' ' Rene feels awfully, don't he ? ' 'Pretty aw fully SodoL* ' But it isn't so bad as he makes out. If there is any chance of seeing the blackest side of things' — the innate spirit of contra* riety rising at the bare, mention of Rene's name— 'he is sure to see it. It isn't half BO bad.' 'I hop6 not, I'm sure,' still dismally; ' it's bad enough, I reckon. We've got to stay here all ni>/ht. What do you call that ?' ' Oh !— one night— that makes nothing ! ' loftily. • And we will be taken oil to mor^ row. I am sure of it.' 'I wish I was, by George. I ain't though. And papa will be home in a day or two. That is what Rene — both of us— feel bad about.' LOST FOR A WOMAN. fi3 Vfacdoaald the cause rould land ,t could be 3 Johnny her fault, )tiDd, and B. All the lor far be* 'emorseful ce before prone, be- lespairing when he her. He ortably — masculine up ((ently btempt at p at him, inguished i; indeed, l^ing. He Qch, and >u* Snow- penalty, irr forte, an hour. \a a last batteans -some- aows the )huQy I " >ut. If blackest contra- Hene'a Wt half ly; • it's to stay latr thing ! ' tomor^ I ain't n a day of us — . 'And don't }'ou think I do ? ' indignant- ly — ' would, I mean, only I <*,m ' ertain we will be safe home long before he comes. Now look here. Ma'am Weesy 'vill miss us, won't she, and be so soared s le won't be able to sleep a wink all night ? ' I dare say. ' ' Then to-morrow morning, the first thing, she will rout out old Tim , and make him row her over to St. Gildas, Do you know who will be the first person she will go to see there ? ' • No. I don't.' ' Vou might, then, if you ever thought at all. She will go to Pere Louis. She goes to him first in every worry she has. And you know what he is. Old Tim may take it easy, and let the grass grow under his feet, but Pere Louis won't. He'll never rest until we're found.' • By George !' says Johnny brightening. ' He'll move heaven and earth to find us,' pursues Snowball, more and more excited, ' and there isn't a man in St. Gildas isn'c ready to fiy if Pere Louis but holds up his fin&;er. You know that. And besides — ' • Well?' ' I told Innocente Desereaux only yester- day wewere coming to Chapeau Dieu for rasp- berries this week, I wanted her to come, but she couldn't, Rane says. It shows all he knows about it ! ' resentfully. ' They'll never think of Chapeau Dieu ! Don't you suppose luno will hear of our being missing, and will tell what I said T And then won't they come straight here and take us off? Kene indeed 1 lie thinks hd knows every- thing ! He isn't so much wiser than other people, after all, in spite of his big books!' ' You had better go and tell him so,' says Johnny, with a grimace of delight. He has quite come over to Snowball's view of the question, and his spirits rise proportionately. ' I would in a minute,' retorts Snowball, with fine defiance. She does not, however ; she glances over at him, aud her courage, like Bob Acres' cozes out ai the palms of her hands. Ti uth t J tell, he does look rather unapproachable, st'inding slim, and straight, and dark, with folde<1 arms, his back against a rock, his pale, rather stern face set seaward. ' How will you stow yourself for the night ? ' asks Johnny after a pause. ' Ob, any where— it doesn't matter. I will lie under those bushes on the moss — it is soft and dry. Besides, I don't expect to sleep. Johnny, if Rene wasn't so grumpy, I would enjoy tni^.' ' Would you, by 3eorge ? ' ' Aud you,' says Sao w ball, with some re- sentment, ' if I've heard you say once, I have heard you ten hundred thou- sand times say you envied Robinsoa Crusoe — that you would fairly love to be wrecked on a desert island. And now— isn't this as good as any deser* inland, only we'll get taken off sooner, and you don't look pleased one bit I You look as sulky as sulky.' ' It's not half as good as Crusoe's island,' says Johnny ; ' we have nothing to eat but raspberries, aud a fellow gets tired of rasp- berriei as a stea^^y diet. He had goats and grapes, and Kriday — ' * He didn't eat Friday. I,* smiling radiantly, ' will be your Friday, Johnny.* ' And savages^' ' Rene will do for the savages. And talk- ing of eating ' — briskly — ' we hare enough left in the basket for supper. Suppose we have supper, Johnny ? It must be six o'clock, aud eating will be better than doing nettling.' ' All right,' responds Johnny, who is al- ways open to anything in this line; 'fix things, and I'll go and tell Rene. ' He tells Rene all Snowball has told him, ending with a fraternal invitation as sent by that young person to come to supper. ' Tell her to eat it herself, ' says Rene, shortly. 'I don't want any of her supper. And you had better not take much either, Johnny ; pick berries if you are hungry. Snowball may be glad of the leavings of her luncheon before we get off yet.' 'Why? Don't you believe what she says ?' ' I believe she believes it. I have not much faith in Snowball's rosy predictions.' 'But it seems likely enough,' says the perplexed Johnny. *Pere Louis will search for us high and low, and — ' ' Ay, if Pere Louis is at home. Half the time, as you know, he is awav on missions in the outlying parishes. And July and August are his mission months. I am positive he is not in town.' Johnny stands blankly, his new-born hopes knocked from under him at one fell blow. To Pere Louis all things are possible — wanting him. Ma'am Weesy and old Tim, the light house keeper, are but rickety reeds. 'For which reason,' continues Rtne, the relentless, * you had better tell Suowball to keep the contents of the basket for herself. I want none of it, at least.' The dusk face, fine as a cameo, looks at this moment as if out in adamant. Snow- ball, glancing across, thinks she has never before seen Rene look so hatefully cross. There is a long pause ; the brothers stand : *^ 64 LOST FOR A WOMAN. ' and gaze far and vainly over the sea, Johnny with the old patient, wistful light in his most beautiful eyes. Bene with knitted brows, and dark, stern, resolute gaze. ' It's an awful go I' says Johnny, at last, under his breath. ' I wish yon wouldn't be so tremendously hard on Snowball, though. She oouliin't help it. It isn't fair, by Oeorge ! Yon make the poor little thins feel miser- able, Bene. She was trying her eyes out a little while ago.' ' Let her ory !' savagely. * She heard every word you said.' * Let her hear ! Too much of her own way will be the ruin of that girl. She is spoiled by over*indulgenoe. You all pet her — I shnll not.' 'No,' says Johnny, turning away, 'yon will never spoil anybody in that way, I think. Wnat a fellow you are. Bene — as hard as nail*.' With Mbich he goes back, with laggine steps, his newly>lit hopes ruthlessly snuffed out. He feels himself a sort of shnttlecook between these two belligerent battledotes, and would lose his temper if he knew how. Fortunately, John MaodoDald outof temper is a sight no mortal eye has ever yet seen — so he only looks a tride blank and rueful, as he returns to Snowball now. * Well,' that small maiden demands, im- periously, * he wouldn't come.' ' No,' slowly, ' he wouldn't come.' ' Of course he wouldn't 1' in a rising key ; * it's exactly like him. I think if Bene ever does a good-natured thing the novelty will be the death of him. Now, why wouldn't he come?' ' Oh— he says he's not hungry. He says to eat it yourself. Now, Snowball, don't nag — I've had enough of it — let a fellow have some peace, can't yoo. I haven't done any- thing.' * What else does he say ?' with pursed-up lips and brightening eyes. ' He says tliat Pere Louis is away on mis- sions, and may not be home when Weesy gets there. He says you'll be hungry enough to want that cake you're crumbling •11 to pieces, maybe, before you get another.' * Have one, Johnny V says Snowball, politely, tendering one of those confections. But Johnny shakes his head gloomily, and declines. 'Keep it for yourself. He won't touch anything but berries he says — no more will I. Eat it yourself— or better still, keep it for Toar breakfast to morrow.' Without a word, mademoiselle puta back cakes, pie, sandwiches, etcetera, in the basket, covers these provisions with exag- gerated cr.re, then iiits down a little way off, her sailor hat tilted well over her nose, her hands folded in her lap. So she sits for a lonff time, Johnny extended in a melan- choly attitude on the grass near by. So long she sits indeed, that hia suspicions are awakened ; he rises on his elbow and peers under the hat. Big, silent tears are raining down — big, clear, globular drops, chasing each other, and falling almost with a plash ! — they look large enough — on the folded hands. * Hello !' cries master John, taken aback, 'you aint at it again, are yon? What is there to ory for now ? Silence — deeper sobs — bigger tears. ' Stay — can't you.' fretfully. ' I wish you wouldn't You never used to be a cry baby, Snowball. Stop it, can't you. What's the matter now ?' ' Johnny I' a great sob. ' Jo'ohn-ny 1' an- other.' ' Yes,' says Johnny, • all right. What ?' 'Johnny I— I hate Rene !' The vindictive emphasis with which this is brought out, staggers pacific Johnny. There is a pause. ' Oh 1 I say. You musn't, you know. Not that tl ere is any love lost,' sotto voce. ' I — I,' iitorease of sobbing. ' I always did hate him. . I always shall. I would like to get a boat, and go away, and leave him here forever, and ever, and ever I' II,' By George !' And then, all at once, Johnny throws himself back on the fuize, and laughs long and loudly. ' So,' he gasps. ' it is crying with rage yon are, after all. Wasn't ic Dr. Johnson who liked a good hater ? He ought to have known Snowball Macdonald . ' My name isn't Macdonald ; I wouldn't have a name he ' — ferociously pointing — ' has ! If ever I get off this horrid, abomin- able place, Johnny, do you know what I mean to do ?' ' Not at present,' returns Johnny, who is immensely amused. 'Something tremend- ous, I guess. What ?* * I mean to write to Mr. Farrar, Monsieur Paul, to come and take me away. I belong to him — he brought me here . I wish he hadn't now. Anywhere would be better than where he is. Atid I'll go away, and I'll never, kever, NEVER speak to Rene again 1' All this is, as the reader must know, long anterior to the days of ' Pinafore,' else Johnny might have a all that for yourself, as Bene aays.* 'Johany,' — in a drooping voice — ' please 'dop't mentioa JOLaue. I can't bear the sound of his naiae. Ub« dear me 1'— .• deep, deep, deep sigh— ''I dou'c see why some people ever were born i' " Wha.t shall T be at fifty, Should nature keep me alive. If I fiud ltd world so weary Wheii iam but twenty-five." «hattts Johouy, and laughs. It iit a physical imjsosstbility tor the boy to remain despond- «ut. After a fashion, he is trying to eu joy beiag siii^wrecked ou the top of this big, bar-e mouutain Rene glances round in wonder at the singing and laughing. -* Would anything make these two serious for five minutes?' he thinks, with a contemp- tuons shrug. ' Singing t and they may never leaira this hideous desert alive.' 'Let us sing some mor ,' says Snowball, waking up promptly ti badness. 'Eene looks as if' he didn't like it. Let us.sing-«- let us sing the evening hymn.' ' Pious thought — let us,' laughs Johnny. And so to aggravate further tne dark and silent M, Rene, these two uplift their fresh young voices, and send them in unison oyer the diarkeuiug waters. , <; if> " Ave SaTtcUaaima ! We 1 f c our bouis t j ihee, Ora pro nob a, 'l°i nhi^vr it. Yes, I always do want my own way, ;iud make a, time it I didn't get it. I giya .lo'jnpy uo paace of his life. I fight with R-ine from morning till night And I don't belong to anybody — I suppose I am too hateful even for that ! I wonder why 1 ever was born— I wonder if I will alwa> s be horrid as lonp as I live I I wonder.' drag- pngly, * if— Rene— would forgive me, if— I begged his pardou, and promised never to do it any more ? ' The ' it ■ ia rather vague, buathetic ilously. >u were orry ! ' horrid. I serve >en to wfolly obbing whisper. * Oh ! Rene, don't be mad I I— I an't help being hateful, but I'll try. Oh 1 I mean to try ever so hard after this. I'll never oontradict you attain 1 I'll do every* thing you say. Only I can't bear you to be angry with me ' (great sobbing here, sternly repressed, for slumbering Johnny's sake.) * Oh I Rene, forgive me ?' ' Snowball, you dear little soul I ' And all in a moment obdurate Rene melts, and puts his arms around her and gives hev a hearty, forgiving, fragrant smack— the first kiss he had ever favoured her with in his life. Perhaps the hour, the scene, the loneliness, have something to do with it. It opens the full floodgates of Suowball's tears ; she puts her arms around his neck and cries on his shoulder, until that portion of his raiment is quite damp through. Conducts herself gen- erally, in short, fur the ep oa of five minutes like a. juvenile Niobe. Then she recoveis. Rene has had enough of it, and rather lilts hia lovely burden otf his neck. 'There now. Snowball, do not cry any more ; it is all right ; I am not angry.' 1 Jo not know that it was your fault, much, after all. Go back and try to sleep. You will be fit for nothing to-morrow, if you spend the night crying like this.' And thus m the ' dead waive and middle of the night,' peace is proclaimed, and next morning, to his great amazement, Johnny finds the twain he has lett mortal foes the night before, excellent friends* in the moru> ing. He is puzzled, but thankful, and acoei^ti the face without too many questions. Ouly Snowball nearly has a relapse when she finds neither of tne boys will touch the hoarded re- mains of the basket, and propose to sustain existence on berries. ' Then the things may go uneaten 1 ' she is beginning vehemently, 'I shan't touch theml' Rene looks at her. * Is this your promise of last night ? ' the severe young eyes demand. And matandiug up. Sne crawls in on her hands and knees, and backs out— as people do from the presence of royalty — but always on hand. Here, too, the boya, who remain alternately on the look out at night, take turns duruinc the d«y, to woo balmy slumber. And there is nothing else to be done. No fishing, snaring, shooting — noth- ing but to pick tue everlasting raspberry, of which their sonla long since wearied, and lie on the furze, and gaze with longing, haggard eyes over the pitiless sea. Sails come and go, but always afar off. They have hoisted their handkerchiefs on trees, they light tires during the day on the hii! side— all in vain. They dare not burn bea- cons at night, lest vessels should mistake the signal for Dee Island Light, and so be lured on the fatal reefs. And it is the after- noon of the third day, aci rescue oometh not. They rest in different positions on the grass, all silent and sad, and watch, with vague fear, the rismg storm. It promisei to be a very violent one— a tempest of thunder and lightning— a tornado of wind and rain — a swift summer cyclone, dealing death and destruction upon land and. sea. * And Suowbaii la ao afraid of lightning and thunder/ thinka Rene, ' ard the bower, that we have tried so hard to ri^, up for her — will it stand five minut::; in the teeth of this rising gale ?' His languid gaze turns to where Snowball lies, prone, and listless, and mute, and pale, with closed eyes, her fair head pillowed on one wasted arm. Yts, wasted, although the remains of the luooheon and the chief share of the raspberries have been hers. She has passionately protested and appealed for an equal division, but Kcne^ the inflexible, haa nut yielded a jot. ' You will take ^hat we give you ; do as tell you, or we will ndver be friends again !' hs says, in his meet obstinate voice, and sha has sobbed and succumbed. Bat he is very good to her in all elss, very gentle, sarpria* ingly tender, amazingly yielding — altogether unlike the self-willed, domineering Rene she has hitherto knowD . ]So other quarrel has followed that niemorable reoonoiliation , she may be fietful and irritable at timea — she is indeed —but this patience with her never flags. Johnny himself is not sweeter of temper, in these disastrous days. But it is an unnatural state of goodness on bath sides, not in the least likely to last, if they only get off with life, But Rece has made up his mind it shall last during their stay ou Chapean iJien, and Rene's resolutions are as those of the Mede and the Persian. His Shakespeare is as a diamond mine to them all. The volume contains four of the tragedies, and Rene, a fins reader both of English and French, reads alc.ak to stir. The raspberries are not to very plenti- ful, and an uttet* distaste for their insipid sweetness has seized them all. Rene looks decidedly the worst. His dark, thin face, pale at all times, is blanched to a dull, clayey hne^-its outline against the darken- ing sky has the sbrank, pinched look that only starving gives. He is worn with anx- iety ; he hardly sleeps , he gives, as Johnny says, the gathers to it. His gl twice theil dry, feevei the light tl brother, is | * Never I haven't we black est. Loolj you and Snl nothing eh Then tl weak too and spirit^ talking. It is husk] With a ti hillock, hii laced tinge aimlessly ( He neve wishes, au has a dul waiting, hunger anc raspberriet day or twc He neve but once, philosophy And then papa — bad and grief, down on tl long time. * Johnny herself, ii dose to ] bees, with For her, the best < at times, the hardt stupidity all St. Oil Perhapi thing to c ranee ; bi and the vigorous ) Still n berries, a eats what said, the fuoes, Re severe ey *Youi youpg lii And til her masti but Kcne^ iot. ^ou ; do M tnda Again I' IC6, and she i he i» very le, sarpris* —altogether )g Rene she [^aarrel has liatioD , she DQes — she is her never sweeter of . Bat it is bath aides, they only lade up his r stay ou tioD8 are as rsian . His e to them >ur of the ier both of 1 to them, , into the forth such poetry — >atJy— that 1 gratitude this most the silent, re hitherto yon had it with that inguishing «•) would . i as silent n't he to y grow up ghtn't he, he has to lau Dien/ e lioesn't lOfe hours ,old boy. mean you ad gAther •e — truth wak to ry plenti* insipid !ue looks bin face, a dull, darken- ook that ith anx< B Johnny LOST FOR A WOMAN 9 says, the lion's share of all the fruit he gathers to Snowball, and compels her to take it. His great dark eyes luck hollow, and twice their natural size — they shine with a dry, feeverish glitter not well to see. But the light that looks out of them now, on his brother, is very sweet. * Never mind me, mon ami, I am all right. I haven't much Hesh to lose, you know, and we black people show this sort of thing soon* est. Look out for yourself. If I can take you and Snowball back in tolerable condition, nothing else mattera. ' Then there is silence again ; they are too weak too speek to thoroughly worn out and spiritless in mind and body to care for talking. And Rene's voice is past reading. It in husky and broken, and prety well gone. With a tiled sigh Jobnn)' relapses on his hillock, his brown, curly head clasped in his laced Hngerp, his blue, gsntle eyes wandering aimlessly over the bay. He never complaias, never is crovs, never wishes, audibly, evon for rescue. His face has a dull, slow, patient look of pain and waiting. He is consumed with grinding hunger and tilled with dire forebodings. For raspberries are giving out, and, after another day or two, if help does not come — ' He never gets farther. A fellow can Are but once, he says to himself, with forlorn philosophy. Only this is such slow dying. And then there is papa— always there is papa— back by now, and fraatio with fear and grief. At this point Johnny's face goes down on the turf, and he lies very still for a long time. . * Johnny is sleeping,' Snowball will say to herself, in a loud whisper, and keep very close to her boy, and ward off gnats and bees, with a cedar branch. For her, surprising to relate, she keeps up the best of the th'ee, is cross and fractious at times, and full of loud complaints — on the hardship of things in gener I, and the stupidity nf Old Tim, and Ma'am Weesy, and all 8t. Oildas, in particular. Perhaps this natural mentalvent has some- thing to do with her superior physical endu- rance ; but then sh? is a girl, and needs less, and the slendour frame is wonlertuUy vigorous and healthful. Still more, she has double rations of berries, although she does not know it She eats what she picks herself, and, as has been said, the larger share of Rene's. If she re- fuses, Rene's great, dark, lustrous, solemn, severe eyes, transfix her. 'You promised,' he says, and the r ins — a bad one — and no boat can come until it IS over. I say. Snowball, hold up.' But Snowball, weak, frightened, hungry, sobs on. ' You need not tell her such things — time enough for trouble when it comes. Snow- ball r Rene oriea ont. and his voice is sharp with nervous pain, ' don't. It hurts me to hear you. Oh my Qod V he says under hia breath, ' help us — help her ' Do not leave us here to die 1' Then, with the prayer still on his \\p% he sinks back, too weary even to sit upright, and seems to sleep. Rtne is in a very bad way indeed, is the worst case of the taree, and somehow the knowledge cornea home to Snowbidl, and stills her tears. ^ She looks at Mm— if Rene, their mainstay, faild, what is to become of them. As she lOoks, a smile crosses hia woru, pallid faoe — f"' •"1 10 LOST FOR A WOMAN. ' we don't want hftve coffee, I Rene hat a very sweet smile, the more sweet for bjing rare. ' Give it to ner,' he sayi, ib J>)tinny. Fur me, I will think.' ' Oh, hear him ! ' Snowball says, her ready tears streaming again. 'He is dreaming .of borne and somethiog to eat. And look at his face — like death. He is starving, Johnny. Oh, Johnny, it breaks my heart.' Johnny says nothing, he has nothing to say. He turns away, that he may not see his brother's face, and watches the rapidly rising storm.' ' Here it ia ! ' he cries out. A great drop of rain falU from the srllen fiky and flashes in his upturned face, then another, and another. There is a profound hush, nature seems to hold her breath for a second, then in its might the swift summer tempt t is upon them. The lightning leaps out like a fiery sword, a territio clap of thunder shakes the sky and sea. The bay wrinkles for a moment in an awful way ; it crouches before the fury of the wind ; and then the hurricane sweeps down upon them like a giaat let loose. Flash after flash cuts the sky asunder, peal after peal shakes the mighty mountain to its base, the blast roars down from the summit with hoarse bellow- inc ; the sea answers back with deep and hollow echo. Spruce and cedar saplings are torn up with one tierca rush, and whirled out to sea. The bower went hurling at the first stroke of the tornado, torn wildly into ■hreds. Rene grasps his rock, his hat blown into 'space in the first guat, and clings for his life, his thin clothes drenched through in a moment. Johnny and Suowb^^'. are together ; Snow- ball, with a shriek, has flung her arms about him at the first flash of lightning, and so clings,^ her face hidden on his shoulder, her lobg, light hair streaming in the gale. Johnny holds her hand ; he can feel her quiver from head to foot at each flash, at each clap —except for that, she is stilL So they crouch, beaten down, soaked through, breathless atoms, in the mad hnrly- bnrly of wind, and lightning, and rain. Darkness has fallen, too, swift, dense — they can hardly see each other's faces, though but a few yards apart It lasts for nearly an hour— a life-time it seeiBS to them. Then slowly, as if with re- luctance, to see the evil it has w^-ought, the • dark clouds light, the sky brightens, the thunder rumbles off into space, the wind lulls, the rain ceases. Only the sea, like some sullen monster, slow to wrath, is also ■low to forgive, keeps up its dull beUowing, and breaks, and beetles, and thunders in huge great breakers over the suuken reefs, aad up against the granite sides of Chapeau Dieu. But they an breathe once more, and Snowball lifts her head, with all itsdrippliug flaxen hair ; and three white young faces — blue eyes, gray eyes, brown eyes— look into each other, in awful hush. There is nothing to be said, toothing to be don ' ; they are wet to the skin : the breath is nearly beaten out of their bodies ; the surf may roll heavily for days around the mountain ; no help -jan come now — and the last of the raspberries have been beaten off the bushes and washed into pulp by the fury of the storm. It ia t' e crowning disaster of all. ' So be it 1' Rene says at last aloud, as if in answer to their thought — ' we can but diel' * It was death before,' Johnny responds, ' and no fellow can die more than once.' ' Snowball," the elder boy says, and rises slowly, and sits beside her, ' you are not afrai.1, are you?' Dear little Snowball, I am sorry for you I' She makes no reply. She is only conscious of boing very tiied — very, very tired. She is not conscious of being afraid, but Rene sees that mervous quiver strike through her again. ' Are you oold !' he asks, in his weak voice. ' No ; only tired. Let me rest — so — Rene, dear.' He holds her, and so they sit ; and so night finds them, when it falls. It falls soft and starlit, but very chill ; the clouds sweep away before the bright wind, and the moou looks down on these three forlorn lost child- ren sitting helpless here, waiting forthe end. For hope has died out, and it is death now, they know — slow, dragging death, far from friends and home. Tbere is nothing more that can be done, or said, or planned for — no need of further bowers — no strength left to make them. They only want to keep close together, and so let death find them when its slow mercy comes. Johnny lies on his face on the soaked grass. Rene and Snowball rest againat the gieat, mosay bowlder, her head on his shoulder, in atupour, or sleep. Strange that in this su- preme hour, with the end sn near, it is to Rene she dines — her last hold on earth aa life slips away. Such a feeble hold 1 the weak little arms have scarcely strength enough left to clasp his neck. So the night wears. The breeze blows ; they are chilled to the marrow of their bones. All through the oold, bright, pale hours, the surf thunders below— their lullaby — and life t wanes wei of the ne passed, a another s Alive— an labored, himself to • Try iti if you ca for berries] She doe of way. not easily 'Will are going Each ^ and lips a ia strong most spen his feet in ' Come, She tak Johnny re to walk it is hard ' There the groui going-up He utt and come a craah oi cry he n liiie the c ;dli)a« .■a;?*'' !' •Aa'tl hasn't 8ai( at the boi The ''pt of Tree I of men, g Oildaa H< in silence Tim is a ugly, su crimson Canadiai dity in chance, 1 anybody subject t of raisio and repe ill-bred ii ' It's t well end byes. I Tbe di\ divilmei thunders in Buuken reefs, !8 of Chapeau B more, and 1 itadrippliug ouu^ faoea — es— look into ere is nothing they are wet ly beaten out roll heavily I no help •s&a a raspberries B and washed storm. It is t aloud, as if we can bat my responds, n onoe.' ys, and rises you are not Snowball, I ily conscious f tired. She id, but Rene through her in his weak — so — Rene, sit ; and so It falls soft ouds sweep id the moou lost child- for the end. death now, th, far from >thing more ftuned for — length left nt to keep find them taked grass. the gieat, ihoulder, in in this 8u- ear, it is to on earth as hold ! the strength E>z9 blows ; heir bones, hours, the r — and life LOST FOR A WOMAN. * r er wanes weaker with the deathly chill coming of the new day. But when the night has passed, and the stars paled and waned, p.nd another sun has risen, they are still iilive. Alive— and but litila more. It is with a labored, painful effort that Johnny gathers himself together ao'^ stands on his feet. * Try it, Snowbull,' he says, huskily. 'See if you can stand. Let us g;o and look for — for berries.' She does as she is told, but in a dazed sort of way. Yes, she can stand, can walk, but not easily, over the sodden furze. ' Will you come, Rene ?' she says. * We are going — to look for — berries.' Each word comes with pbin, her throat and lips are swollen and dry. But starvation is stronger than weakness, even with Rene, most spent of the three, and he, too, gets on his feet in a blind and giddy fashion. ' Come,' he says, and holds out his band. She takes it, and they totter on a few steps. Johnny recovers first and tnost, and manages to walk tolerably well after a moment ; but it is hard work for the other two. ' There is something— the matter— with the ground,' Rene gasps, giddily. ' It la — going— up and down, Snowball 1 He utters a cry. Earth and sky go tip, and come down, and seem to strike him with a crash on the back of his head . With that cry he reels forward, and falls at her feet line the dead. say CHAPTER IV. MONSIEUR PAUL. 1 a. il * An' this is the sixth day, an' if the Lord hasn't said it, it'a dead they are ! It's maybe at the bottom av the say they are. The -speaker is Old Tim, light-house keeper of Efce Island, and his audience are a group of men, gatheied in the bar-room of the St. Gildas Hotel. Tfcey listen with anxious faces, in silence, while Old Tim tells his tale. Old Tim is a short man of sixty or more, with an ugly, surly, honest, weather-beaten face, crimson with much Irish whisky and Canadian Eunshine — something of an od- dity in his way. Old Tim neVer, by any chance, listens to what is said to him by anybody, if he can help it, so, judging others subject to the same infirmity, he has a habit of raising his voice, as he goes on, asserting and repeating himself, and so drowning all ill bred interruption. « It's that Slip av a gerrel. The byes is well enough. I'm not sayin' a word agen the byes. It's that gerrel. I say it's that gerrel. Tbe divil himself wudn't be up to her for divilment. She'd drowned thim in a minute for pure divarsion. It's that gerrel. I'm sayin' it's that slip av a gerrel !' 'The Boule-deneige was picked up yester- day adrift off Puiut Tormeutine,' says one of the listeners. 'That's a bad business, Tim. Couldn't you have given the alarm sooner? Six days ago I' the speaker whistles with up- lifted ey el rows. ' Is it give the alarrum sooner ? Sorra ha- por^ih I've done for the last four days but give alarums. Arrah I n>e very heart's bruk with the alarrums I've been givin', an' sorra a sowi's been alarruined about it, bar- riu' ould Wasy herself, bad scran to her 1 I say me heart's bruk w.d the aUrrnms I'm givin'. Faix it's hardly a minute I've left to attind to the light, Alarrums ignagh 1 Wisha ! 'tis wishiu' thiin well I am for alar* rum !' 'And Dr. Macdonald away from home, too,' another says, and looks blankly about him. ' What are we to do ?' ' Fdix he is,' responds old Tiro : • an', more betoken, some others is away that's wanted at home. Father Loins is away among the Injuns and the Fi inch, bad cess to thim ! As if craters like thim wanted the praste 1 I say Father Louis away preacbin' a station to thim nagers a v Injuns. Av if he was to the fore it's not the likes o' ye I'd be thrubbling wid alarrums. Sure he'd do more in a minute thin the lot av ye in a week. I say I'm sayiu' ' ' Oh ! confound you, Tim ; you needn't repeat your impertinence. We will do what we can, no matter where Pere Louis is.' • I say it's not to the hkes o' ye,' repeats Old Jim, raising his voice and ignoring the interruption, ' I'd be talkin' if Father Louit Tdbetalkin'if was to the fore. And now here's the Bowld- naige picked up adrift. Isn't that what ye're sayin', ye beyant there ? An' where's them that wint in her — toll me that ?' They look at one another, and are silent. Dr. Macdonald is well known, and better liked, by every man of them. They know the boys too, and the pretty blonde girl with the waving fair hair. i^' It's a bad lookout.' ' Six days missing. Mon Dieu ! it is ter- rible!' • Old Tim ought to be shot I' »: , ' Who will tell the doctor this f ** "^ *^"*" * After the storms of Thursday too. Even if they did make land somewhere ' ' Ma foi ! was not the Boule-denieg6 found, keel up, three miles the other sidd of Tormentine 1 Make land I The first land they made, my friend, was the bottom.' ' Poor children I Two tine lads ; band- some and manly, and the prettiest little girl ou could £ee I It is a great pity.' ::, an LOST FOR A W0M4N. *Wh»t ii to be done?' ne pucker alarm and in among bhere he is day ye'll ' I do not. often, look Ink among thim beggarly spalpeens av Frenobiniu at'ore ye see tte's like.' Put this last oltl Tim is polite enough to add under his breath, as he points one siubby index flatter at the last arrival. iMa'ain Wutisy linM look, in puzzled won- der and iiioieduiity, perplfxity, r«ooguttioD, doubt iu hei- Ui<*itw^auy latje. He huids out his baud. * Ic is 1, Ma'am Weesy, your troublesome boarder of uiuu years ago, aud back in a very disastrouti time, I fear.' ' M. Paul ! ' ttie ..li wumaa cries out joy- fully. ' Ah, tbia ia well. On, m'aieu, 1 re- joice to welcome you back, it one may re- joice iu any tbiug at such a time. Yuu Uave neard?' * Yes, I have heard. It is a terrible thing; but perhaps you can help us, if iudeed it is not too late fur all help. ^Surely yuu know something of where they iutenued to go It ' *No, m'aieu,' with a sob. Ah, grande oiel I they « ent so yon— and I fear not. What ras there to iear with Master Jean in the boat, that has been in a buat since he ouukd walk alooe. They went ail the days — 1 never thought of afking. I rejaice to see them go — me, wicked that 1 am, they so disarrangejme at my work. And that day I was glad— glad they go, for I have great deal to do, and mademoiselle, she teaae me much. Helas 1 no, M. Paul, I know not where the dear little ones may be. Only the good God, lie know.' * Where were they most in the hi\bit of going T ' 'Everywhere, m'sieu. Up and dowi:, here and there, all places. They go some- time to the Indian village for mocassin, and basket, and bead- bag, even. Everywhere they go — all places.' ' Aud they said nothing, nothing at all ? Tax your memory. Ma'am Weesy, the least hint may be of importance now.' Ma'am Weesy Rnits her brown brows, puckers her mouth, makes an effort, and shakes her head. ' It is of no use M. Paul, they laid nothing. Only they talk of raspberries the day before, perhaps, who know they go for raspberry?' * And where ia the most likely place for raspberries ? They would naturally go where they were most plentiful. Ob, my ilear old woman, how could you leave tbis matter for six long days ? ' * I did my best,' Ma'am Weesy says, weep- ing. 'I did tell Teem, I come to Sc. Gildas two, three, five time ; I tell all I know. But what will you, M. Paul T Pere Louis ho is gone, M. the doctor he is gone, and tlor the rest — bah ! what they care. They are beesy, it will be all right, they say, and go their way ; no oue can handle a boat better than Master Juan. And now they say to roe la Boulede-neige is found and not my children. Aud to-murrow M. le doctor will be home, huw am 1 to fuoe him .' 1 pro* mise him I uare for them, aud itv bow I keep my word.' QlAs she sobs out the last words there is a bustle at the door, aud a man euters hurried* ly aud looks arauud. * Have you heard, Desereaux ? ' Botwi one asks. ' Wnat is to be doue ? ' 'Heard? yes,' the uew-oomer says, ex* citedly. ' I know where thty are 1 Wbere they started to go to at least. Is the doctor here ? is ha back ? ' 'I am here ; I am concerned in this matter. You teuiember me, perhaps, M. Desereaux ? I am Paul Farrar.' ' My dear M. Paul 1 ' Desereaux grasps his baud, ' welcome back to St. Gildas. Ycm have oomf at a most opportune time. We must set oti' lu search ot tbese lust ones at once. They are safe aud well still, I hope, in spite of the batieau'a having slipped her moorings. Me^ amis, they are at (Jhapeau Dieu I ' A murmur of surprise, consternation, re* lief, soes tbrough tbe group. ' Chapeau Dicu ! ' ail exclaim . ' Tbey are found aud on Chapeau Dieu ! ' 'The way I kuow is this,' M. Deserei^nx goes on. ' Mademoiselle iSuowball told my daughter Innuceute, at the convent, the other day, that she and the boys proposed going to (Jhapeau Dieu for raspberries, ^nd invited her to accom()any them. Inno could not, she was going on a visit out of town witb me, and weut. We only returned to- day ; that is why she did not hear aud speak b'Miner. My idea is, they went up the mountain, moored the boat, and while they were in search of berries that the batteau floated out on the ebb tide. They might re* main there a month, and no one cbance upon them. It will be a most difficult matter to effect a landing at the foot of the mountain after the recent storm. Still we must try.' * We must most certainly,' says Mr. Farrar, 'and without a moment's .delay. Landing is always possible, even in the heaviest surf at Sugar Scoop Beach t Men 1 who of you will come ? Quick ! ' There are half a dczen voiunteeTs in a mo- ment. The group disperses ; they hurry to the shore, and in ten ntinutes a large boat is launched aud flying thiough the white caps to the rescue. Ma'am Weesy, full of hope and fear, hastens home across the river, to prepare 64 LOST FOR A WOMAN. food and comforts of all lorta for the little oner Olo Tim rowa her over, and it is per- hapa the Hrat time in all their many yeara of interoourke that thuy do not quarrel by the way. M. Daseraux aooompaniea Paul P.»rrar in his anxious quest. Tiia two men talk little; the thought of the children absorbs them, but Mr. K^rrar informs him that this ia one of his flying visits to his old friend, prepara- tory to a Btill moru prolonged absence abroad. He is going yet further afield— to Kuaaia — he has received an appointment to St. Petera- burg, through the good otBcea of an infla- eotial friend, and will depart for that far-off land in a few weeka He ia tired of Fayal, and hia monotonoua exiateuce there. ' I am, as old Tim telle me, a rolling atone that will never gather much moss,' he saya ; ' but at leaat I am not auxioua to vegetate forever in oue place.' ' How fast it grows dark !' M. Deaereaux excluima, suanniug the horiz m. * I wiah we oould have dayligl't to effect a landing. At leaat we will have a full rnnon.' ' It ia rising now,' Farrar aays. 'Surely we must be within a mile or ao of Sugar Scoop.' ' We may search until morning before finding them, even if they are on the moun- tain. It ia a wide circuit my friend, and al- together impassible in places. And this re- cent storm uuiit have used them up badly.' ' Do you think,' Farrar saya, with a hard breath, ' that there is really hope ? Six dayi on that barren hill-aide without shelter or food ' He breaks oflf. < Without shelter, perhaps, cei tain ly not without food. Eaipberr e . abouud— not very satisfactory diet, but equal to sustaining life for a few days. And no doubt they brought a luncheon basket with them — all do who go picnicing or berrying there. Hope for the best, mon ami. It is true we may fiad them in a pitiable plight, but also, I feel sure we shall find them ahve.' ' Heaven grant it. If we can but get them home before the dear old doctor returns ' He interrupts himself again, too anxious to pat his thoughta into worda. The daylight IB rapidly fading out, and a brilliant night ia beginning, moonlit— starlit- — calm. The aea runs high ; they can hear long before they approach, the thunder of the aurf at the base of Chateau Dieu ; but the men who bend to the oars with right good will are men who will effect a landing, if landing be within the limit of possibility. Sugar Suoop, too, when they reach it, seems fairly free of reefs and rollers. They steer with care ; a great in- washing wave carries them with it, up and in on its crest. Two of them spring ou% up i to their waist* in watm* and draw the big boat hi^h and dry on the aanda, Tue land- ing ia effected. ' And no such troubleaome matter after all.' remarka M. Deaereaux. 'Theae fellows kn'>w their bnsineas — they are boatmen turn. Now to find the children. Here is the path, M. Farrar — you have forgotten, doabtleaa, in all theae >eara. Follow inn.' 'Mike her faat and oitme on, my frienda,' Mr. Farrar says. ' We will disperse indiffer- ent directions and shout. If they are her* and alive, we will find them surely in an hour.' * Ah, m'sieur. Chapeau Dieu is a big place,' one says. * We will do our best.' Tiiey secure the boat with a chain and file up the steep path after their leaders. It is a path some two miles Ions;, htraggling and wiuding in serpentine fashion, to a green plateau on the mountain side. Here they pause for I r ^ath. Silence ia about them, night is around theia — silence and night broken only by ttie dull booming of the surf. So still it is that the oedaia and spruces atand up black and motionleaa, like aeutint'ls guarding in grim array their rooky fortress over the aea. And then M. Deae- raux uplifta his voice ! • Rene — Snowball — Jean — . My children answer. We are here.' ' But only the echo of hia own shout ocmas back to him down the rooky slopes. * Let us go farther up,' suggests Mr. Farrar. ' They may be near the Bumrait; They may be on the other aide.' ' They will have landed M Sugar Scoop, surely,' Dfsereaux responds ; ' there ia no other safe landing. But, of course, they went in search ot berries, and would not re- main near the landing. The ra.spberry thicket is over yonder, let ua try it. Some of von, my men, take the other aide.' So, they disperse, Farrar and Deaereaux going toward tbe right, two men to the left, two more mounting toward the summit. It is indesoribably lonely, and even in the palid moonlight, the wild sea sparkling in the white shimmer, the unutterable hush and solemoity of night overlying idl. They reach the raspberry thicket and pause. • Shout with me,' says M. Deaereaux, ' it it possible they be somewhat near.' They shout, and shout, until they are hoarse, but only the melancholy echo of their shouts come back. Far up they can hear the boatmen calling, too, and calling, also, in vaio. A great fear falls upon them. ' Surely if they were in the mountain at L03T FOR A WOMAN. 65 ' the big ?ne Und< after all.' ) fuUowa nen turn, the pAth, loabtleM, r friends,' J in differ* f are here oly in an big place,' in and 6le a. It in a {ling and 3 a green Rilenoe is ;i — lilenoe i booming nedaiB and nlesa, like tieir rooky M. Dese- y children 3wn aboat ' slopes. i;est8 Mr. sainmib; it Scoop, here is no rse, they ,d not re- raspberry it. Sume f.' >eaereaux the left, mit. en in the Tkling in hush and sket and laux, ' it they are echo of calling, Ireat fear luntain at Mr. Far. —faint, cry — a all— and alive — they would hear.' rar says ; * let us try once more.' ' Hush 1' uries M. Dusereaux, clutching his arm. ' Listen I Di> you hear nothing ? Listen I' They bend their ears, and — yes and far off, there eumes to them a human cry. ' Tiiat 18 no night-hawk, no sea-bird 1' Desereaux exclvims ; it is a voice responding to our shouts. Th.iuk God I Try it again.' Once more they raise their voices and shout with might and main. ' Reue 1 Hiiowball ! Johnr y I Where are you ? Call !• And onco again, distinct thought faint, the answering cry comes back. • They are found 1 they are found 1' Dese- reaux shouts exultinulv. ' This way Farrar , this way, my men. We have them 1 Dieu meroi I It is all right !' He plunges in the direction of the feeble cry ; it comes again, even as they go, and guides them. * All right, my children !' he calls cheerily back, ' we are coming. Keep up a good heart, poor little ones — we will be M'ith you in a moment.' Once again the weak cry answers back — this time nearer yet — farther up. the moun- tain aide. And before it has quite died away — with a great, glad, terriBed shout the two men are upon them, and have each seized one in hii arms. It is Johnny whom Mr. Farrar has caught; it is Snowball who is in the arms of M Dese- reaus. And the two men are holding them close, hard, j )yfully, and— Johnny blushes all the rest of his life to remember it, he is being absolutely kissed by the bearded lips of Paul Farrar. • Mon Dieu I Mon Diisu I' cries the excit- able Canadian, ' how am I rejoiced 1 Snow- ball, ma petite— my angel— how is it with you f ' Put me down,' answ^ra a weak — oh, such a poor, little, weak voice — but faintly imperious still. ' Put me down, please, at once. I must — hold — Rene.' • Ah, Rene I— where is Rene ? What— what — what ' M. Desereaux pauses in consternation. She has slipped out of his arms, and down oa the ground again, and Urted back into her lap the head of Rene. So she was sitting when they found her, so she had been sitting for hours, waiting for death — thus — Rene in her lap. Mr. Farrar lets go of Johnny, and is kneeling before the prostrate boy. One glance only he gives to Snowball, roclining against the knoll, far too gone to support 5 herself, Rene's dark head lyingnn her knees. She does not look at him ; she seems past care, past hope, past help ; she sits, her nmurnfnl eyes never leaving Rene's death- like face. ' What is it ?' Desereaux a^ks, ' not ' ' No,' with a quick breath. ' I think not — hope not — something terribly like it, though. He has swooned through exhaus- tion, I take it. He is vary far Kone. You will carry him to the boat, my good felli^ws — we will carry them all. None of these chil'lren can walk. Snowball, my little one, come to .ne — give us Rune. I will carry you. Come.' He gathers her in his arms— a light weight — a feather weight now. She makes no resistance ; she letw Rene go ; her head drops helplessly on his shoulder ; her eyes close. The men come after with the two boys, and Johnny, even in this supreme hour, iS conscious of the indignity of being carried like a baby, and makes a feeble effort toarsert himself, andgetonhis legs. Itis of no u8e,however, he is unable to walk, and gives up, after a few yards, with the very worst possible grace. For Rene, he lies like one dead. They reach the b:at, get the young people in, and proceed to administer weak branny and water. The stimulant acts well with Johnny, who sits up, after a swallow or two, and begins to fully comprehend what is taking place. They ':.-e being rescued — a fact that only clearly dawns upon him now. Snowball, too, revives somewhat, but she will look at no one, care for nothing, save Rene. ' We will do,' she whispers ; ' give — something — to him. Make Rene — open — hia eyes.' Eisier said than done. All that is possi* ble to do, Mr. Farrar does, the stimulant is placed between his locked teeth, his hands and face are bathed and chafed, but the rigid lips remain closed, the dark eyes re- main shut, the hands and face icy cold — the ghastly hue of death leaves not. ' Can you talk Johnny T Don't try if it hurts you. How is it that we And Rene so much worse than you two ? ' asks Paul Far- rar. Johnny tries to tell. Rene starved him* self to feed Snowball ; never slept at all hardly, was thinly clad, and so, and so • ' Suooumbed first — yes, I see. Brave boy - good Rene 1 And he is not as strong as you, Johnny — never will be. But don't wear that frightened face, dear boy, we will bring him round yet. Once in Ma'am Weesy's kitchen, with warm blankets and hot grog, we will have Rene back, pleaso .«6 LOST FOR A WOMAN. Heaven, and able to talk to your father when he returns to-morrow, and tell him all about it. ' • Johnny uttera a cry. • Papa not home yet ? ' ' Not home yst, old boy — for whioh let us be duly thankful. Think what a story you will have to tell him tomorrow after dinner — after dinner. Johnny I You haven't dined lately, have you ? What a story it will be for the rest of your life— six days and nights in Chapeau Dieu ! Why, yon will awake and find yourself famous — tind greatness thrust upon you ! Fur ISnowball, hero, she will be the most pronounced heroine of modern times.' Bat Snowball cares not, heeds not, hears not. Kene lies there, lifeless, and rescue or death — what are either now ? They talk no more ; Johnny, with the best will in the world, finds the effort too pain- ful, and he lies back and drops asleep. He is only wakened to find himself in some one's arms a second tima, and being carried somewhere, wakes for a moment, then is heavily off again. Presently he is lying on Bomothiug Soft and warm, and some one is crying over him and kiesing him — Ma'am Wees}', he lUmly thinks, and even in this state of coma, is sleepily conscious of feeling cross aboat it, and wishing she wouldn't. Then something strong and sweet, and de- liuioua, is given him in a apoon, beef-tea, maybe ; then sleep ouce more, sleep long, blessed, deep, lite-giving, and it is high noon of another day before he opens his eyes again on this world of woe* CHAPTER V. SyOTVBALL'S HERO. High noon. A sunny, breezy, July day — bop vines and scarlet runners fluttering out- side the muslin curtains of the open window, a sweet, salt, strong sea-wind coming in, and it :« his. o'^n iron bed in which he lies, his ■.,vu attic room in which he rests -it is Isle Pedrix — it is home— it is Weesy whose shrill tones he hears down stairs, and it is — it is hia father, whose face bends above him, jis he awakes. , ' Papa !' he cries out. Two thin arms uplift, a great sob ohokes him, then there is a long, long, long silence. • My boy I my boy I my Johnny I' . >r. Maodonald says, and then there is silence again. But Johnny recovers, and his flrst dis- tinct thought is— that he is awfully hungry ! His hollow, but always beautiful eyes, look at his father, then, around the room. « Papa.' •My eon.' ' I want something to eat.' Dr. Macdonaid laughs, butatrifle huskily. Instantly a china bowl and a sdver spoon are in Johnny's hands ?' ' What is this, papa ?' ' Weesy's very best, very strongest broth. Eat and fear not. A chicken is preparing, Johnoy — such a tine, fat fellow — all for you I You shall have a breast and a liver wing in an hour. And a glass of such old port as you never tasted !' Johnny rolls his eyes up in one rapturous glance, but pauses not for idle speech. There is no time. All at once he pauses. • Oh-h ! papa— Rene ?' *l8 doing well, thanks to the good God and the untiring care of my good Paul Farrar. I have but this moment left his bedside. I am now going back. You can spare me, my dear ?' 'Oh, yes, papa,' briskly re-attacking the bowl, ' I can spare you.' Silence again for a space — the bowl very near the bottom by thiu time, and Dr. Mac- donaid, smiling down on his sun. Jobuuy looks up. ' And Snowball, papa V • Very well — very well, I am happy to say. My sweet little Sbowball t Johnny, Johnny ! how can we ever be thankful enough ?' No response from Johnny — the spoon and the bottom of the bowl clinking by this time. • Rene will not be ill ?' ■ We do not know — we hope not. He speaks little — he is too far spent, but he takes what we give him, and sleeps a great deal. In that, and iu his youth, we hope. If Heaven had not sent Paul Farrar, and my very good friend, M. Desereaux, lust night, Rene would never have seen morning.' Dr. Macdonald's voice bieaks — he turns and walks to the window. He is a tall, stooping, gentle-looking old man, with silvery hair, and beard, and face, and eyes soft, gray, and wistful, exactly like Johnny's. 'Renu is a brick, papa,* cries Johnny, warmly ; • an out and-out trump I You would not think he had it in him. He starved himself to look after Snowball ; he told us stories, he read to us while he could speak. Papa, may I get up ?' ' If you feel able, my son : but I would advise — ' ' Uh I I feel all right— a giant refreshed. I can't lie here, you know, like a mollycoddle. and have Ma'am Weesy coming in and ' ' Kissing me every miLin,e,' is liis disgusted LOST FOR A WOMAN. eyes, look lU. e huskily. Bpoou are est broth. prepariDKi 11 for you 1 er wing in d pure as rapturous ech. There good God good Paul ut left his You caa acking the bowl verv 1 Dr. Mac a. Jobauy ippy to say. y, Johnny ! Bpoon and ing by this not. He tnt, but he |eps a great I, we hope. •ar, and my lust night, liug.' I — he turns is a tall, lan, with le, and eyes |e Johuny's. )8 Johnny, ip ! You him. He jowball ; he ie he could it I would jefresbfd. 1 lolly coddle. liu and ' \b disgusted thought, but he restrains it. ' Please, may I get up, papa, and go downT I'll be as careful of myself as if I were eggs.' His father smiles. ' Very well, my lad ; dress and go down. Tike your time about it, Johnny. M. Paul will come to you and amuse you.' ' Papa, miy I— I should like to see Snow> ball?' • Presently, laddie, presently ; let her sleep. She will be down, [ think, before nighb.' ' And Kane ' ' Ah 1 Ueue — who knows ? he will not be down. You may see him to-morrow. We shall have to take great care of Keue. I am going to him no v.' Dr. Macdauald gr>es, and Johnny, very gingerly, and with m.auy pauses, and a sur- prising sense of weakness, proceeds to dress himself aad travel down st^'^rs. It is rather more like a ghost of Johnny, than that briak yoaug geutlemau himself, this wau lad, with the hollow eyes, and pallid face. Wdesy shrieks with delight at sight of him, and makes a rush to clasp him precipi- tately to her breast, but Johnny jamps be- hind a table, with unexpected rapidity aud alarm. * No, you don't !' he says ; ' keep off ! I've had enough of that. First, some brute with whiskers, last niv(ht, aud then you, and now again — but you shau't if I die for it. Let a fellow alone, can't you, Weesy ?' Aud Wdssy laughs, and cries, and yields. The misfortunes of her children have covered, for the time, their multitude of siop. Johnny sits by the breezy window, and looks out over the little rocky garden, the rough path beyond, the beach below, the sea spreading away into the sky, and sighs a sigh of iutiuitc content. One might fancy he had. enough of the sea, but not so. John Macdot^ald will never have enough of the bright, watery world he loves. If only the Bjule-de-neige — but we must not think of her— there may be other batteau in time. He is ai; home— they are all safe ; that is enough for one day. Aud presently comes Ma'am Weesy, with the chicken and wine, and a book of sea-stories, aud Johnny slowly munches aud reads, and time passes, and at Ust He starts up with a weak shout, for there is M. Paul supporting feinowball, looking pallid and pathetic, but otherwise not so much the worse for her week on the barren furza of Chapeau Dieu. Her blue eyes look like azure luojus, iu her white small face. ' Oh, Johnny !' she solemnly says. It ia an abjuration with whiuh Johnny is tolerably familiar, emotion of any sort evoking it some sixty times, on an average, per day. He Uugha in response, and looks shyly at her escort. 'Johnny, dear old chap,' that gentlemau' says, and gives his hand a cordial grasp ' dou't stop. Peg away at the chicken, an give some to Saowball. It does uie good t • see you.' ' How does Reno get on. sir ?' ' Ah, not so well ; Rene is hot and fevei ish, aud a trifle light- headed. Fancy h' (giving in, while tnis little, yellow-haired lassie holds out so well.' ' It was my fault,' says Snowball, in peni- tent tears. * I know now, he starved him- self for me. And he made me mind him. I didn't want to —now, did I, Johnny ?' ' Raue is a young gentleman who will al- ways make peoplu mind him. Tuere is uothiug to cry for. Petite — he is not going to die, not a bit of it. Eit your chickeu and dry your eyes — he may have rather a hard b lut of it tor a week or so, but he will come rouud like the hero he is.' M. Paul Farrar proves a true prophet, only the ' bout ' is rather harder than even he au< ticipatus. Rene is quite delirious at times, and talks wildly of (JUapeau Dieu, and the storm, and the bower, and the berries, and gathers more in his heated imagination of that luscious fruit than he ever did iu r6ality„ and sings bcraps of the eveuing hymn, and quotes Shakespeare, and oonduuJ» himself tl» t)gethi:r in anoisvandobjeutiouub e manntr. Bat at no time is there much real danger, aud he is so faithfully nursed, so devotedly at- tended, that he must perforce turn the sharp corner of the fever, and come around, all cool and clear-headed, but deplorably weak aud helpless, at the end of seven or eight days. * And you and Johnny look as well as if it had never happened,' he says, languidly, with a resentful sense nf injury upon him. ' Whab a muff I must be.' They do, indeed, look as well, as bright, as fresh, as plump, as though these six days on the desolate mountAin side were but a dream. Johnny by this time is decided y proud of his performance, though a tri fla bored, too, by the questions witu which he\H plied whenever he appears at St. Gild*s. The B )ule-de>neige is safe at her moorinus, none the worse for her playful little escapade; Rene is all right, M. Paul is here, and Johnny is happy. All these fe/erish auu flightly days Snow- ball has de\otjd herself to the patient with "1 68 LOST FOR A WOMAN. I a meekneBB, i. dooility, a BweetoeBB Almost , alarming; Id its Beli-abuegation. She reads to bim, bidijb to him, brings him his beef- teas, aud chicken- broths, and toast, . and water, and other naatiness, as Keue calls it, and watcheu him eat and drink, and re- • cover, with the devotedntiss of a mother I Rene aubmits to be petted, and cuddled, and made niuoh of for a few days— Bhe keeps Weesy out, aud that is a great point, and • he accepts her bociety, iinteus with languid ^raciousness to her gossip, lets her fan off the flies, and adorn his chamber with flowers, and then — all in a moment — turns round, and flatly declares he will have no more of it 1 {Strength and his normal state are returning, aud this phase of his supernatural goodness and call, oomes as might be expect- e<', to a sudden and violent «nd. He isn't a bjiby — he won't swallow gruel and disgust- ing beef-tea ; he wou^t be tucked in o' nights and have Snowball popping in and out of hiB T'om like a Jack-iu-a-box when« ever she pleu^ea ! Let her go with Johnny, as she uaed to, she would rather, he knows— she needn't victimize herself because he pick- ed a few raspberries for her there on the . mountain ! And she isa't much of a com- panion anyway — he would far and away rather talk to M. Paul 1 Wnich is ungrate- ful to say the least, after the superhuman eflbrtB she has been making to auiuse him daring tho p&st seven days. And Snowball, deeply hurt, but relieved all the same, does give it up, doea resume the society of .John- .ny, and u prepared the instant Rene is BbroDg enough for battle, to resujie war to the knife as of yore. M. Paul IS a prime favourite in the house- . hold. Dr. Macdonald beams in his presence — he is t'.ie idol of Ma'am Weesy 's heart ; the boys look upon him with eyes of envy ..and admiration — a man who has been every- where, and seen everything, and place, and people. Snowball falls in love with him, of course — that goes without saying— and is never ' out of his presence a moment, when she can le in it. Even old Tim succumbs to the spell of the charmer, yields to the fascination of M. Paul's glauce, and laugh, and voice, and old Tim's battered heart is not over suscep- tible. He has never, within mortal ken, 'been known to invite a man into his domicile to partake of a dhrop of dhrink before. They sit together, one sleepy August after- noon, M. Paul and Snowball, down on the sands, he reclining his long length upon the rank reeds, and waim waving eea-side grass- es, his straw hat pulled h^lf over his eyes. A golden haze re.-ts on the bay, sails come and go through it as through a glory— Ashing boats take on a nimbus around their brown rails. There is the faintest breeze — little wavelets lap upon the white sand, the beau- tiful- sea looks aB though it could never be cruel. By chance they are alone. Johnny has juBt left them. Old Tim is crooning to him- self up in the light-house near, as be polishes hi) lamps. It is full three weeks siuce the rescue. Rene is hiiiisoif again, and happy among hiB beloved books. Snowball sits on a rocky seat, her sailor hat well on the back of her head as usual, her face frankly \nd feariesly exposed to sea-side sun aud vmd. Vanity is not one of this young person'i many failings ; freckles, and blisters, and bun-bnrn are matters of pi-ofoundest uncon- cern, at this period of her career. He has been telling her of some of bis travels and adAenturea iu far-ofl' lands, thrilling enough and narrow enough some of them. No ro- mance ever written, it seems to this small t>irl, ka she listens, could bu half so wonder- ful, no hero half so heroic. But gradually ei'eace has fallen, and M. Paul, from uuder his wide straw hat, looka with dark, dreaming eyes out over that yel« low light on the sea. Snowball steals a glance at him. Of what is he thinking, she wonders. How very handsome he is 1 How brown, how strong, how big, how manly ! Of what, of whom is he thinking, as hd lies here, with that grave, steady glauce ? Aud whut is he to her — he who brought her here, all those years ago 7 W^hy, in all this romance of wandering and Btrauge adventures, has there nevdr been a heroine T Or has there been one, and he will not tell the story to a little girl of twelve ? There is something she longs to ask him — has often longed of late, but she is shy of him ; somehow, in spite of his gentleness, he is formidable in her eyes. She makes one or two efforts — now is the time or ntver 1 — stops, bluBheB, and tries again. • M. Paul !• ' Petite V He wakes from his dream with a start, and then smiles slowly to see the rosy tide ritcunting to her eyebrows. ' I — 1 want to ask you something. You wr.U not mind ?' ' Mind ?' still smiling amusedly. ' How? I don't understand.' ' You will not be mad ?' ' Mad T' he laughs. ' Offended with yon. Petite ? No ; that could not be.' ' M. Paul' — a pause. ' You — you brought me here.' ' Nine — more than nine, years ago. Ma foi I how time flies 1 Yes.' Another pause. Snowball pulls up the rank, fl the win The dai mtimid ;i wi thing al I think think a makes i Her^ •Unh for that •I air know it at schoo about it, have no own, or too bad. still it if am, \.. Silenc The c which al her and j glory of face look all, thou She as then she she breal 'Dr. ]V would if me, but- you can i ' Snow I tell you ' Have What is < — as if th ashamed • never wri me. No thing abo4 A sob, 1 effort. S will not d ' Dear < that.' ' Yes-l there— wl me off aa( you all I f but won't I have no you, and another su See youagi Ht) react holds it in surprised. 60 much t LOST FOR A WOMAN. €» leir brown »ze — little the beau- L never be ohnny has Dg to him- le polishes biuce the kod happy }aU sits un 1 the back 'ankly And and vi.ud. ig person*! iSters, and lest unoon- r. He has travels and ng enough Ti. No ro- this sinall so wonder- en, and M. r hat, looks er that yel- 1. Of what How very aow strong, of whom 18 that grave, to her — he years ago T idering and ever been a and he will of twelve ? ask him— I is shy of itlenesB, he akes one or ntver 1 — th a start, le rosy tide nng. You 'How? with you, 3U brought ago. Ma ills up the rank, flame coloured seige flowers waving in the wind, and tiuds going on hard work. The dark, amused eyes smile up at her, and intimidate her. ' I wish — I wish you would tell me some- thing about myaelf. I don't know anything. I think sometimes it is not fair to me. I think a threat deal, M. Paul, about it, and it makes me unhappy.' Her voiue falters ; she stops. * Unhappy, Snowball ? Ah ! I am sorry for that.' ' I am not like other girls — I feel it — they know it. Thev ank me questions over there at school that I can't answer. They whisper about it, and tell all the new girls — that I have no father or mother, or home of uiy own, or reUtiouB at all. And I think it is ton bad. Every one is kind enough, but still it in hard. And I want to know who I am. A.. Paul, pleasti.' Silence. The steady glance of M. Paul, oat of which all amuaemeut had died, turns from her and goes back once more to that amber glory of sea and sky. The grave, bronzed face looks as it looked before she spoke at all, thou)j;htful, and a little sad. She asked a harder question, it may be, then she knows. Ha is silent so long that flhe breaks nut again herself : ' Dr. Maodonald can tell me nothing — he would if he could. Eve;ybody is good to me, but — oh, M. Paul, tell lae — t^ me if you can V ' Snowball, my dear little one, what shall I tell you f ' Have I a name — a father — a mother ? What is the reason I am hidden away here — as if the people who pay for me were ashamed of me ? What have I done ? They never write, they never send or come to see me. Xo one seems to know or care any" thing about me in all the whole world I' A sob, but Suowf ball checks it by a great eiff'trt. She has thoa^ht this all out, and will not distreus M. Paul by crying. ' Dear child, we all love you — you know (bat.' * Yes— here. You are all good. But there— who are they ? Why do they oast me off and disown me ? Ob, I cannot tell you all I feel, or ask questions as I ouuht. but won't you tell me al the same, please ? I have no one in all the world to ask buc you, and you are going — going^~away,' another sudden break, ' and— rl may never see you again.' H«) reaches up and takes her hand, and holds it in hin large, warm clasp. He looks surprised. Who would have dreamed of 60 much thought aad feeling under tb«t He looks ' I hardly of your child-like, gay, girl nature ? grieved, puzzled, at a loss. ' Little one,' he says, slowly, know how to answer. Some questions cannot be answered — now — soma — what is it you want to know most ?' * Tell me my name. Snowball is no name. Mere Maddelena will not call me by it ; she says it is no name for a Christian child.' ' It is no saint's name, certainly,' he says, smiling. * 1 should fancy it would shock the good mother. She should give you another.' ' She has ; but what was I called before I came here ?' ' Snowball — uothing but Snowball, that I ever heard. And you looked it, such a little, white, flaxen-haired girlie ! It was the name your mother called you by ' ' Mv mother — oh !' with a qtiick breath. * M Paul, tell m« of my mother.' He knits his brow abruptly, drops her hand, and stares straight before him, veiy hard, into space. ' Your mother ? ' a cold inflection of which he is quite unconnious in his voice, ' what is there to tell ? When I saw her, just before I brought you here, she was on her death- bed. She met with an accident, very slow- Iv ; ' she did not speak to me or any one. You and she were alone,' An older inquisitor than little Mile. Snow ball would have seen, it may be, something suspicious^-a great deal held back, in this slow and careful selection of words But Snowball takes the statement at the face of it. < Then it was not my mother^ who asked you to take care of me ? ' * It was not. * M. Paul— what was she like ? ' ' Like yoii— very like you in all but ex- pression. Ey» s, hair, features, smile— almost the very same. ' A pause. Snowball sits with fast-looked haikda, an intense look upon her small pale faoe. M. Paul lies back in hia former re. cuinbent attitude, his hat again shading his eyes, and makes his responses in a rath«rre- luotnnt sounding voice. ' You do not want to tell,' she cries out after a little, in a faint tone. \ But I must know more, Some rne \>'A.y» fiir me here ] Dr. Macdnnald gets mouey evory six mouths, Who is that ? ' * Her nums is Maflame Valentin ^' * Who is Madame Valentine ? ' VV. as usual, Rene wonders #hat has come to Icviuacious Snowball, so silent, so thoughi^ful. so serious as she. For somehow, now that the long>desired explanation is over, she feels dissatialied still— things are not much clearer than before, and M. Paul has reasons of his own fur never talking of this any more. He has said so. It is not until long after that she knows, and then the knowledge is irauuht with keenest pain of these secret reasons of M. Puul Farrar. CHAPri-R VL VILLA DKS ANGES. The summer days come, and the summer days go ; twenty more are counted off, and it IS the end of August, the close of the long vaoation- a never-to-beforgotten time, tiince I are safe re belov- ? All jail, you e — more io M'ith, do you ^. Paul, ae years ) comiug :all us to B go.' is dark, face, her bat other ) distant lappinefs with my ke grace, lat clasps neets the r. Do these }d in the by Mere 'aul, here I come to LOST FOR A WOMAN. TK? M Paul, ; * and rr marks, ^uod, do [I uassee, ill. cks upon id ascend talks as has come lent, so (unehow, nation is Lhiiigs are M. Paul talking It is not and then nest pain 'arrar. summer off, and the long ime, biuoe M. Paul has passed it here. But with the going of tliis last week M. Paul goes too, and a strange blank is left in the doctor's home, and in these three youthful hearts. ' Yuu and I, al loast, will meet again before lon^,' he says to Rene at parting ; 'remember when the time oumes to call upon noe— if I live I will not fail you.' Fur iu the long and cootideutial houis of his convalescence llene, the reticea^:. has opened his whole heart to this sympathetic M. Paul, and told him of hopes, and dreams, and lougiugs, and ambitions buried deep in his own heart up to this hour. He is a modest la'), and sliy, and glances with dark, wistful eyes at the silent friend who sits be- side him. ' Does it all sound very foolish and im- possible to you, M. Paul ? ' he asks. ' Some- lives it does to me. Sometimes I desuair, buried here in this out-of-the-world place. And my father, you know, sir, wishes me to be a doctor. But that can never be, I am sure of it.' ' Still you might study medicine, M. Farrar respoads, tboughtt'uUy ; ' it will please your father, and a knowledge of ana- tomy is absolutely essential, you know, if your aspirations are ever carried out. And they will be — you have it in you, Kene, lad. Foolish and impossible ! Not at all ; I always knew you had a spark of the divine tire of geoius somewhere behind those lovely black brows of yours, only I did not know the particular direction io which it was bent. Wait, all things are possible to him who knows how to wait. Please your father for the present ; keep your own counsel ; I will send you books, and in every possible wav in which I can further your condition, it shall be my great pleasure to do it. Ahmad, you st'.e, I may have opportunities. When the time comes, you shall go to Italy, to Home, the city of dead and living art. I am proud of your ooutidence. I shall not fail you, believe me.' Rjue's deep eyes glow, he is not expansive by nature, but ne grasps the fr ndly hand held out to him in both hands, and his eloquent face speaks for him. His whole heart ovortlows with gratitude. Ah ! this is friendRhip ! Indet^d the whole household, with Weesy and Tim, are in despair at this desertion. Snowball weeps her blue eyes all red and swollen, for days before, and will not be comforted. * If I see Mr. Vane '''^alentine before I leave the country,' he says to her, a mis- chievous gleam in his eyes, ' your benefac- tor, you know, what ohall I say to him from you?' ' Say I hate him 1' answers Mistress Snow< ball, viciously. ' I aiways h<»toil beutfao- tors I I owe it to you, not to him, or her as long as I live.' The day comes, and Paul Farrar goes. Old Tim rows him over to St. Gildas, to take train from theu'te '«8 to Mr. er in Flori- itine reads ,r-liuht, ig- 1 its aahea. He knows They may call her at a scrawl i{ht of the lot lay the M M. Far- in Valen- the circus never aeks revive her y reaches rn to Dri all were a hardly be soncerning lena is at risten her eea fit. and zeal, the feaat thing fall d shall be so it is. ith wax- iwn o|jeu ; and quite lildaa. all The pen- sionnaires in their white dresses, the nana in their black serge and great ooifa, makes a very effective picture. Pnre Louis is thbre to admit this stray lambkin into the fold. There is organ music, and chants, and littanies. And liown at the baptismal font, in white Swiss, and a long tulle vail, and snowy wreath, like a 'airy bride, wonder- fully pretty, and exceedingly full of her own importance, stands Saowball, with her spon- sors. Her boys are there in a corner ; she glances at them complacvntly, and nearly has her grai'ity upset by an affdctionate and sympathetic wink from Johnny. And then and there she becomes Marie Dolores for nil time. If Mere Maddelena had striven of set pur- pose, ahe could hardly have selected a seem- ingly more inappropriate name. Felicia, Letia, L'lciHa — anything meaning happiness, joy, light, would have seemed in keeping ; but Dolores— sorrowful— for the radtant- lookmg little one ! It strikes eyen the spec- tators — even Pere Louis. ' Your new name does not seem to fit. Mademoiselle Dolore«,' he aays, pulling ner by one of her long curls. ' Let us hope it never may. It seems a pity notre mere can- not reconcile herself to the other one — it suits you, I think.' , Bat the girls can tolerate'it, and decline to change it , thus whil"; she is Doleres from thenceforth to the aisters, she remains Snow- ball to the boarders. And the months slip by, and the seasons come and go, and the years are counted otT on the long bead roll of Old Time, and her twelfth birthday is a thing of the past. M. Paul has come and gone, and school, and Crerman exercises, and piano practice, rnd drawing lessons, and Italian singing, all re- commence, and the sharp edge cf parting has worn o£f somehow before she knowb it. She is busy and happy — a bright, joyous, fun- loving, mischief-making, truthful, loving, clever, and fairly studious girl — healthful, and handsome, and high-spirited — a grand- daughter even haughty Madam Valentine might be proud of. Ot° the big, busy world outside St. Gildas she knows nothing, and cares very little ; ahe has her old world here, her ' boys ' the centre of her orbit, and hosta of friends whom she dearly loves. Wild wintry storms howl around I-le Perdrix, and the big waves rise in their majesty and might, and thunder all about them ; white, whirling storms of snow fall for days, and even tHe little world of St. Gildas is shut out. Those are seasons of bliss never to be fargoiten, when, with huge red tires in every room, there threes sit and devour together the ' thrilling ' novel, the ' delicious ' poem. Like the little boy in the primer. Snowball's cry is, • Oh, that winter would last forever I' Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen— the birthdays tread on each other's heels, it seems to her sometimes, so rapidly do the mouths slip round, and they surprise her, by coming again. And now it is another September, and she is quite sixteen— a a\\, slim, pale girl, with only a faint wild rose tint in either cheek, but a tint that is ready to flutter into oarna- tioD at a word, a look. * Our Snowball wouldn't be half bad-look- ing,' Johnny is wont to remark, altogether seriously, ' if she wasa't so muuh on the bop- pole patterns. There is nothing of her but arms and legs, and a lot of light hair.' Johnny's taste leans to the dark, the plump, the rosy, as exemplified in Mile. In- nocente Desereau. It is her last year at Villa des Anges. Next commencement she will graduate, and after that Ah ! after that life is not very clear. The boys are going away. Kene, indeed, has al- ready gone to New York, as a preliminary step in the study of sculpture, which, it ap- pears, is to be his vocation in life. He is over twenty now, and has made his final de- cision. It is a question she ponders over with knitted brows and anxious mind, very often. She r7ill be qnali6'°:d to go out as a govern- ess, she supposes, or a teacher of music and languages, probably in Montreal. Except for this perplexity the girl's life in absolutely serene and fr«e from care, and in after years— in the after years so fall of strange bitterness and pain, she looka back to this peaceful time with an aching sense of wonder, that she could ever have wished it over or thought it dull. Bat changes are at hand, and suddenly, wh^n change is least expected, it comes, and Isle Perdrix and Sf. Gildas, and Villa dea Angers vanish out of her existence like the figures of a dream. CHAPTER VIL LA VIVANDIEBK. Away from wild and lonely Bay Chalette, with its gloomy fogs, its tierce Atlantic gales, ita beetling snrf breaking forever on its craggy shore, ita blinding drifts of snow, its long, bleak winter*, the son is setting in rosy splendour over another sea, a fair, serene, southern sea. A low white house stands with its face turned to this rose* light, its windowi like glints of gold, and house and windowi are half hidden behind » 74 LOST FOR A WOMAN. taDglei, trailing wealth of cape jeBsatnioe and climbing roaea. The house it built of atone, atuocoed and whitewashed, with a handling balcony from the aecoad atory, and a veranda below. And in tropical luxur- iance, the grounds ate ablaze with flowers and ahruba, with the orange, the lemou, the banana, the tig, the atately date-palm. A Boft wind, velvety and fragrant, floats up from the ocean. In the dim background, resting tranquil in an amber rain of mist, lies 8t. Augustine. Tne lon^ veranda, which runs the whole front of the house, is one glowing mass of colour— one scented wealth of rosea. Up and down this veramla a lady walks, d. ink- ing io the cool aeabreeze, and gazing at the rich glow of this southern sunset. An elderly lady, upright and atately, vith wbii hair, t'utfed elaljorately under a < if ♦^ . point, a severe, silvery face, pie ;,; r; k eyes, that have lost at sixty-aeven • i '^. ? ■■■ the fire of youth, a trained dresa < -k ■ilk, and some yellowish face, of faliulous value at the throat, held together by a clus- ter of brilliants. She supports herself on an ebony cane, mounted with gold, but carried more, it is evident, from habit, than through any real necessity. A handsome and haughty old lady, with broad smooth brow, and thin mouth, set in a sort of hard and habitual disdain. Up and down, up and down — it is her daily afternoon habit— thinking her thoughts alone. She is always alone, this woman ; it seems to her sometimes she haa been alone all her life. She is worse than alone now, she ia forced to endure uncongenial oom« ptniobdhip. Her walk takes her each time past two long lighted windows ; she glances through the lace draperies sometimes, and the dis- dainful curve of the n solute mouth intensi- fies into absolute aversion. Two gentlemen sit in that lighted room, playing chess ; it is at the elder of these two she looks with that half-veilei glance of dislike. The lady is Madam Valentine, the gentleman, Vane Valentine, her heir. Sovereigns, it is said, have but little love for their successors. Perhaps this inborn instinct is the reason. The servants in the bouse will tell you the madam is afraid of him. And yet she does not look like a woman easily made afraid, easily cowed, easily brought in. : aubject to any will. H«r own is very strong, and seemingly reigna paramount. But there is often a power be- hind the throne, which tha throne fears in spite of itself. That power exists here. Mr. Vane Valentine, if not a man of power- ful mini, is yot a man of profound obstmacy, whether in tritles or in matters of moment ; there is a certain doggHdnesn about him that does not know when it is beaten, and goen on, unabashed until it has wn the game. And he grows impatient, like all urown princes, to come into his kingdom. He has hopes and plans of his own, that dc^jeud for their fruition on this fortune, uud the ({ueea regnant is io long a-dying ! Moie, slia looks as much like living as bhe th hands, on every whim. For, close upon aeventy, she still has whims. Aud she knows bis feelings, aod he knows she knows, aud res^'nts it bitterly, indignantly, aileutly. It aeem) to her baaest treachery '* he should witth to anticipate by one mGu.aDt his suacesf)i(m. But then she knows nothing of those hidden plans Vane Valen- tine is a secretive man by na'uie. tvtn in tiides — knows of the patiently waiting sis- ter Dorothea, who is to keep house for him at Manor Valentine when he U Sir Vane, and the American millions are his — nothing of Miss Camilla Roath, a fair cousin, who used to be younger, and who has spent her youth and dimmed her beauty, waiting, Uke Mariana in the Moated Grange, for the coming of Coasia Vane, baronet and miilioa- aire. Of these things ahe knows little — she only knows she is growing to hato him, only knows that he is miserly and mean, grasp- ing and grudging, and longing for her death, and aees in her, not his bene- factress, but an obstacle to his h'ipes and wishes, and her riches, by right, already his own. There is never any open rupture, there is cold civility and attention on one side, chill acorn aud inditference on the other, but ahe draws more and more into herself, livea her own life, thinks her own thoughts. What if she should disappoint bim after all ! it is in her power. There ia a fierce sort of pleasure in the vindictive thought — she can leave her wealth as she pleases— to endow hospitals, build churches, found libraries I What if sh» does it t It would be juatidable reprisal. And y«t — to let it go out of the family — to disobey her husband's dying wish ! There is no one else Stay, is there not ? No one else ? What of her son's d&iighter — her only son's only child ? What of her ? Nearer in blood, her very own— Geor<{e'a little child I LOST . OR A WOMAN. 7*^ moment ; . him that aiitl goen he game, all crown Htt has Ifpeiid for tlie ({ueen hU» looks I hcore of is l»ieatli, iry of his a matter , however she takes pentU her ihly — with For, ulose Aud she nows she dignautly, treaohery ,te hy one she knows ane Valen- e, bvtn in raiting sis* tae for him Sir Vane, B — nothing m-tin, whu ■I spent her , waitinar, fie, for the nd miilion- — she only him, only an, K>'a''p- for her his bene- h'lpei and ilr^ady his tare, there one side, the other, to herself, thoughts. 1 after all ! rce sort of -ahe cun -to endow libraries ! juati liable out of the d's dying — Stay, is tf her son's d? What sry own-^ The mere thought, put thin way, softons her heart. What if she should send for her? She breaks off -the idea comprehends so much— it overwhelms herattirft. But she broods and broods upon it, until familiarity wears off the first sharp repugnance of the thought. It ia the thin edge of the wedge — the • rift within the lute.' Once well in. for the rent to follow is but a matter of time. From thinking to talking is a natural ae- quence— Mrs. Tinker is her confidante ; adroitly the topic is brought round, one on which the old housekeeper is but too ready to converse. AU that she knows of the child and her mother — of that last sad inter- view with George, is discussed over and over again. It is wonderful how this going backward softens the resolute old heart. Cieorge lives again, she hears hi.s voice, aees his smile, listens to his boyish, gladsome laugh. Oh, George, George ! how sharper than death is the thought of her harshness now I But his child still lives ; in is in her power even yet to make compensation through that chile'. Why should she fear Vane Valentine ? why care for his displdasure ? why not asarit her- self as of old, and claim her grandchild as ^^^'"u''''*i She muses upon it until she is full 1^" glory" orm^nlight T t!" of the thought ;8leep.n- or waking, it is ^j ^ ^^ ■ ^histl^.g, with her. It is of that she is thinking so in- • k b> teutiy now, as she paces up and down. It ia past her usual hour of lingering here ; a moon is lifting ita shoulder over the tall date pilmfl : the star*lit southern night, full of sweetest odours of Rtwer, and forest, and sea, lies over the land. Still she keeps on, up and down, up and down ; still she thinks, aud dreams, and longs. Why not — why not — why not have George's daughter — too long banished from this her rightful home- here ? why not now, at once? Tuirteen years ago she sent her from her — she is six- teen now, far beyond doubt ; her mother was that, and her father — Ah 1 was there ever his like iu all the world ? So much bright, brave beauty to lie under the merciless sea for thirteen years I Tears — very rare tears — soften the hard brilliance of those deep, dark eyes. Seventeen years since she cast him off, and only now thinking of reparation! Surely there is little time to be lost here, if she means in this life to do justice to his child ! ' Is it not past your usual hour, aunt V asks a bland voice. Mr. Vane Valentine never leaves her too long at once to melan- choly retrospections. Ic is not good for her — or for him either. He has dismissed his friend, and appears by her side on the veranda. ' Shall I assist you in ?' He presents an arm. but she declines, with an impatient gesture. ' I thonght you were absorbed in chess with young Payton,' she vays. ' Puyton has gone. I beat him three games in auccrsaion,' reaponda Mr. Valentine, complacently, twiating the enda of the mua< tachu. It has grown iu thirteen years, is lung and drooping, and inky black. * It grew monotonous after that.' Thirteen years have not changed this gentleman much, except iu the matter of mustache. Indeed, they have not changed him at all, have merely accented and em> phaaized all traits, personal aud mental, ex« isting then. He is atill tall, still thin, still dark, still with scant allowance of hair, with black, restless eyes, and thin, obstinate mouth ; still elaborate as to drt^s*, faatidioas in the minutest details about himself, from the gloasy whiteness of his linen to the dainty-paring and puiity of his rails. He looks like a man thoroughly wtll satisfied with himself -a man who uld never, under any oiroumstanoes, ima>^ '^ c )wn himself in the wrong. He walks beside her .nd < s a compla* cent, sclf-satiaiifcd, y>.oj. etin-like glance over the scene. Thf ^ . j U\c sea, bathed in re is a mocking* twittering, like a whole aviary near ; -e ' .» a whip-poor-will piping pltintively in . «j bracken -. thero are the roses, and the myrtle, and the orange trees, the passion flowers and the jessamine, scenting the night air ; theie it the Southern Crosp, ablaze over their heads ; there are warmth, and perfume, and beauty every- where. It dawns upon Mr Vane Valentine it la a fine night. He Ra> s so. • Never saw such moonlight,* he remarks, still complacently, as if the if ne were gotten up especittliy for his rieltctation. 'And that mockingbird— listen to the fellow. As you say, aunt, it is much too tine to go in.* , ^ • I am not aware of having sai 1 so, short- ly ; 'on the contrary, I am going in almost immediately — Van« l' abruptly. • Yea, aunt. ' •When did you hear from your friend — what is his name ?- Farrar.' •Paul Farrar?' surprised. 'Oh, not for ages. Not since thai time, years ago, when he wrote to know ' Mr. Vane Valentine pulls himself up short. ' If that girl might be christened,' is what he was going to say. But madam knows no- thing of that, and it is one of the oases where ignorance is bliss. ' Well ? ' she says sharply ; * flaiah your senteaQQ — sinoewhen ■m 'I « r- 78 LOST FOR A WOMAN. ' Not for years. Ho is in RubiU— got an appmntment nf aonie kind in St. Petertbur;;, •od naturally— moving a^nut as we always are/ in a slight tone of (grievance, for Mr. Vane Valentine does not like a noraadio ex- istence — ' it is not likely we should keep up a very brisk correspondence. Besides, I bate letter-writing* 'Indeed!' saroantioally ; 'since when? I should never imagine it, peeing the volum- inous epistles that go to England by every mail.' * I write to my si ter Dorothea and my cousin Camilla, of course,' ra<'lier stiffly. A pause. Wnat is coming? Something out of the common, he sees, in the furtive (tlanue he casts at her absorbed face. She breaks the pause abruptly. * How often do you hear from tha*- girl ? ' ' That girl ? ' bewildered. ' Do you mean my cousin Camilla ' ' I mean,' striking her stick sharply on the ground, and pausing in her walk, ' I mean that girl you sent to Canada with the man Farrar, thirteen y^ais ago.' * Oh ! ' Mr. Vane Valentine catches his breath. The bursting of a bomb at his feet could hardly have startled him more. ' That girl. Snowball Tiillion.' * If that '\% what she is called. I mean,' with icy distinctness, my ' granddaughter.' Mr. Vane Valentine whitens under his lemon-hued skin — turns the livid hue of the moonlight on the whitewanhed house-front. ' Your granddaughter!' with equal ioiness. ' Who is to tell if she is your granddaughter ? Tbe word of the woman who called herself ber mother was not worth much, I fancy. The girl Snowball Trillon is in Canada still.' A frigid stare follows his answer, and Ma- dam Valentine's ' stony stares ' are things not pleasant to meet. Then she laughs con- temptuously. ' This is your latest metier is it, to doubt her identity ? Well, I am not disposed to doubt it, and that I take it is the mam punt. I mean Snowball Trillon, if you like. Where IS she ill Canada ? Be more detiaite, my good Vane, if you please.' 'The place is called St. Gildas. She liven, I believe, on an island near that town, in the family of one Dr. Macdonald.' He is recovering. Tne shock has been so utterly unexpected that be has been stunned for a moment, but his customary cold caution is returning. He draws a long breath, and bis pulne quickens a little its methodical Leat. Whiit — what does this mean ? * Do you ever bear from her ? ' * Never directly. The money you allotted r her maiuteoaace is drawn semi-aauually by Dr. Macdonald — was drawn two montbi ago,aod she was then reported in the doctor's letter as alive and well.* That is all I know.' ' Alive and well,' slowly, gladly, thousht- fully, ' and sixteen years old, is she not T I wonder — I wonder,' dreamily, * what she is like?' ' She is sixteen years old ,' ooldlv ; * of her looks I know nothing — nor of her ' ' It is my wish then,' says madam, assert- ing herself suddenly and heartily, ' that yon should know something. It is my own in- tention to know a great deal. I have been culpably ignorant too long. Write to this Dr. Macdonald,' bringing down the ebony cane with an authoritative bing — ' ask him for all information regarding this young lady, my grandchild,' loftily, and looking him full in the face with her dark piercing eyes, * her health, habits, education, and so on. Tell him to enclose a photograph of her in his re* * Yes, madam. Anything else ? Shall I write to night ?' ' To-night or to-morrow, as you please. Tell him to send the photograph without fail. I am curious to see what she is like. Tell him to answer at once —at once. ' ' You shall be obeyed. Now, what the idevil,' says Vane to himself, 'does this mean ? ' It means no good to him — that at least is certain. For a very long time, hour after hour that night, he sits smoking cigars at his open window, and gazing bluikly at the fair southern moon. He must obey ; there is no help for that. If baulked in the slight- est, this headstrong, foolish, ridiculous old kinswoman of his is capable of going in per- son before another month ia over her vener- able head, straight to St. Gddas, and seeing for herself. Tbe only wonder is, being curious on the subject at all, that st , has not done so already. There is still no nope. The girl may not in any way — supposing her even to be his daughter — resemble the late George Valen- tine. Like mother like son, thinks Mr. Valentine, savagely biting the top ofif his fresh cigar, as if he thought it were madam^a head — a precious pair of fools i>oth ! In point of fact, be is certain, although he baa never seen George Valentine, nor even a picture of him, that she does not resemble him. But if this old lady — falling into her dotaiie, no doubt — should fancy a resemblance, and be besotted enough to send for hor, aad try to put her in his place— Mr. Valentine ex- presses his feelings just here by a deep oath» ground ouV between liercely closed teeth. When it comes to that— let tbem look to it ! He is not to be whistled dawn the wind» LOST FOR A WOMAN. n montbi •iootor'i I know.' thought* I not T I at the ii ; 'of her n, auert- that you ^ own in- lave b«ea te to this ie ebony ■ aek him un^ lady, ( him full jyea, 'her n. Tell in his re« Shall I 1 please. 1 without he is like. what the does this at least is jour after cigars at ly at the ly ; there jhe slight* ;ulous old ig in per- ler vener- ind seeing \\p, being st , has may not to be his [e Valen- Inks Mr. |p ofif his madam^B lu poiut laa never picture of Im. But [otasce, no ), and be |od try to itine ex- 9ep oath» teeth, lok to it ! W wind» after all these years, as his idiotio old rela tive shall find to her cost I But he writes the letter — a slow and laboured bit of composition ; and as he writes a cold, cruel, crafty smile dawns, in a diabolical tuHliion. around hir hard, thin lips. * If thfy uiixwer thie — if they send ihe photograph at Id- tliip, thiu' — the smile in- tcnsiHes MH h*) tulds the and ceals the epiatle, 'ifthat girl bus tliebpirit of a worm, she will fling thi:« lecter into the tire, and send an answer, per return post, that will etl'eutually cure madam ot h* r lolly 1' Now Mi trtfs Souwball TrilloD, or Dolores Maodonald, as y«iu please, Las, as we know, the spirit of many worms — has » pri«le and a temper, alas I lully equal to Mr. Valen- tine's own. Dr. Maodonald, profokof angry aurpriae and disappointment thit will follow, all the same. Without a woid he go«H. Tuen, with Hnf^era that shake with eager- p»«i, she snatches the picfure out, looks at It, dropa it with an exclamation of aut^er, amaze, dismay. WhUt ! auother danoing girl I A juvenile copy of the hold, blue-eyed circus woman, who had confronted her that September af- ternoon, thirteen years ago. And what outrageous costume ia this ? what defiant smile? what pert words written ^ XX iderneath ? ■? Is this, indeed her grandchild? Hera? Does the proud Valentine blood flow in the C heart of such a frivolua creature aa thia ? What insolence to aend it — it ia a direct , affront. And yet— what a pretty face 1 What a biightly pretty, piquant face. Not a lx)ld one, either — only saucy, girlish, full of fun and healthful glee. She looka at it again, reluctantly, at first, relentingly after a littla— then, lung and ear- nestly. No, there ia no look of George— none whatever ; it is a youthful repetition of that other face she remembers so well — only with the brazen recklessness left out. She must be very pretty ; she might, with proper training, become a lovely girl. What a wealth of rippling ringlets ; what charming features ; What an exquisite dimpled mouth 1 Only the dress— end yet— that might be only a girl's thoughtless joke. The letter is all that can be desired, for- mal if you will— a trifle cold, but perfectly reapeottul. What if Vane Valentine has crouched his request in impertinent words- he is quite capable of it, and thia defiant pictuie IB sent in reprisal? She hita the truth, and suapects that she hits it ; she guessta quite accurately, what her heir is feeling on thia subject. 'I will disappoint him yet,' she think i, vindictively, • in spite of the picture.' She meets him at dinner, some houra later, without a trace of any emotion, except her usual severe reserve of u; 'inner, and hands him bauk the letter. ' Well ?' he asks, with rather a grim smile. ' And the picture— how do you hud that ?' '1 find it a trifie ecoent-ic,' she returns. ' No, James, no soup. Taken in a fancy dress, 1 imagine. A pretty girl, and very like her mother. Yea, Jamts, the rock-fiah,' to the man-servant. * If you please, my good Vane, I will keep it.' No more is said, iiut the edge of the wedge is well in, and, with a feeling akin to despair. Vane Valentine re-ilizes that bia letter and fatal photograph are but the bt« ({luuiug of the end. CHAPTEU Via A FLYIKO VISIT. I An April evening. Westward the sun is dipping in Bay (^halette its very teil face, and the cool, greenish waters take on roseate hues in oouse({ueuce, that by no uieaus be* long to them. A soft, piukiah, windUas haztf, indeed, encircles aa in a lialo bay and town, Isle Perdrix, and tlte boata of the Gus- pereaux fishers, out.in force ; for is not thia ' Gaspereaux Month,' the silver harvest of these toilers of the sea ? ' Ships, like lilliea, lie tranquilly ' at the grimy St. Gildas whaivts ; the quaint billy to^vu itself reata all aduah in thif baih of ruby sunlight, the aouud of evening bells — the Angelus ringing out from Villa dea Augea — fioata sweetly over the hush, until listening, you iniaitiue yourself for the naoment in some farofi, old- world city of France. lale Pttdrix rests, liks the rocky emerald it is, in its lapis lazuli setting, isa beacon al- ready lit, and aeodiog ita gulden strtam of light far over the peaceful eea. It ia at thia witching hour, of an April day, that a traveller stands on the St. Gildas shore, and waits for the ferry-boat to come and take him over to the island. * Yuu see, there ain't no regular ferry, as you may say, betwixt this and Dree Island, the landlord explains, at the little inn where he stops to make known his wishes ; ' and there ain't no regular traftio. There's only the doctor's family and old Tim, that lives on the place for good like, and they rows over themselves when they come back and forrid, which is every day lor that matter. We blows a horn when strangers come, and then old Tim, if he ain't too busy, comes across and takes 'em off. I'll blow the horn for you, now, sir.' ' I can jail spirits from the vasty deep,' quotes 1 uiour. them ? comes o 'Jest But the be none he's thai turning if he cat She li A iilast t and brill • You •OldTii come. It you wm , • Hum tive oust 1 wonde these tw( But h glide sw on browi boat in p white, 8o on the sti he stands young nu and one steers, »1 of the C where he • Uow. t The rap; At the taneon^ly turn take les her t long praul girl in a blue fiauii iniiigs, a redundant She rests and aidre oussion fo urge some but the I stinctivelj jeot of the iie wiahes naturedlv tedious Ti correct ; t the St Gi the sands, from his r dolently t( 'Beg p Dree lalan ' If I car L09T FOR A WOMAN. 70 icept her ud hands a grim ) you tiud i returnf. 11 a tttuuy aud very rock-hah,' leane, iny ge of the ig akin to that bia ,t the hi.* the >un is ' ted faoc, ou roseate uieaus be* , wiudUM o bay aud jf the Gas- ia uot tbia hai'veat of like Idiies, t. Gildas tself rdsta ilight, the US nugiug [b sweetly u iniauiue Tott, old- lemerald it »eaoou al- •tr«am of an April ISc Gildaa It to ooine ferry, aa Le Island, |iuu where Tes ; ' and lere'a only Ithat livtB they rows L>auk aud It matter, pome, and ky, oomea the horn sty deep,' quotes the gcntlaman, with a touch of hn- uiuur. ' But will they come when we call them T It's a toaa up then whether old Tim comes or not, madam ?' 'Jest so, sir. Yuu takes your chance. But the light's lit 1 see, so he aiu't like to be none so busy that he cau't come. For he'« that near — olil 'I'iiii is, and that fonr^ of turning a pauuy, that he never misses a fare if he can help u.' She lifts to her lips a sea-shell, and blows a blast that might wake old Charon himself and bring him across the Styx. 'You wait here a little, sir,' she says. '01<1 Tim will hear that, if he's a mind to come. It' you don't »ee him in hfteen minutes you WDu'i ste him at all.' ' Humph !' says the traveller, ' primi- tive oustotiis obtain here upon my word ! 1 womler if the ether aborigines are like these two ?' But he stands and waits. Many boats glide swiftly past, the red suulight glinting on brown oar blade*, or white sails. Oue boat in particular he notices ; so pretty, so whitp, so d.iinty is it— a name in gilt letters en the stern ; he cannot read it trom where he stands. It in mauued by two youths ; young men, perhape, aud one girl. The girl aud oue of the yuuug men row, the third steers, all are singing. Tne spirited refrain of the Canadian Boat Song reaches him where he stauils : * How, br ithers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are uour, and the day lii{bt iu past. At the sound of the horn they turn simul- taneoa->ly to i'lok, aud the traveller iu his turn taktfs a long look at the girl, who hand- les her oar witn a skill and ease that oidy long practice cau have given. A pretty, fair girl in a suit of yachting costume of dark blue daunel, aud broad braid white trim- mings, a Bailor hat of coarse straw, and a redundance of very light, very loose hair. She rests on her oar, after that look at him, and addresses the steersman. A brief dis- cussion follows— the twain who row seem to urge some point, to which the third objects, but the maj >rity carry the question. In- stinctively tue traveller fc;els ne is the sub- ject of the consultation ; perhaps they know ne wishes to visit the tland, and are good- naturediv disposed to i»ke the place of the tedious Tim. His conjecture proves to be oarreot ; the pretty white boat is headed for the St. Gildas shore, is run sharply up on the sands, and the steersman, raising himself from his reonmbent position, somewhat in- dolently touches his cap, and speaks. ' Beg pardon, Sir. You want to go to Dree Island ? • If I cau get there— yes. The good lady who keeps the inn, bl -w the blast that might have raised the dead, but it has nut raised the ferryman of this river.' ' If you like to oom« with us, we will take you.' ' Ah I thanks very much,' availing him- self with alacrity of the otlur. ' Yuu are most kind. But will it not ta^e you out of your way ?' ' Ou the contrary we were just goini; there. We have only been drifting about. Uush off, Johnny. If you like to steer. Snowball, I'll take your oar. You ought to be tired by this time.' Snowball I The traveller gives a great an:l sudden start, aud sits dovi u on the thwart with more precipitation than grace. * Ttiank you, lUue dear,' responds the pretty girl, in the yachting suit, with much (leniureuess. ' I would row uutil my arms dropped utF, I am sure, sooner than tire your poor dear muscles, ^lo. Johnny aud I will take Bouie-de-neige home. Come on, Johnny.' Johnny comes on. like a great swan, out pelled by two pair of arms. The suu has sight by this time, and The boat glides off into the river, pro- stroug, willing young quite dipped out of tiie iniioo, ' bright regent in the heavens,' floats up in pearly lustr*^-. The long, mystic, silvery twilight of noriheru climes wraps them iu its dreamy hazj. 'A blazing red sunset, Snowball,' says the youug geutleman addresseil ai 'Johnny,' a strikingly handsome big ftUow of eigbteen or more, with a pair of large, deep, sea-gray eyes. ' You will have a capital day for your trip to Moose Head to morrow. Is lunocente Desereaux going. ' ' Of of course,' responds the pretty girl, promptly, ' and Armand — but he gots as a matter of course.' ' W^hy a m t er of course ?' demands, rather peremptorily, the other young geutle- man, darker, slighter, older than ' Johnny.' ' You must be loud of the society of fools. Snowball, when you take so readily to the continual companionship of Armaud Deser- eaux. ' ' A fellow feeling makes us wonderous kind,' quotes Mile Snowball, still demurely. ' I get so overpowered with intellect aud ' tall talking,' Kene, when you are at home, tha^ , do you know, Armaud's mild imbecili* ties are a positive relief. Besiden, he is so very, very good-looking, poor fellow. Did you ever notice his dark, pathetic- eyes V There is a disgusted growl ftom the ansteredooking M. B,ene»a su". "hered laugh from Johnny. ^ ' Exactly like the eyeu o. a pathetio "1 80 LOST FOR A WOMAN. poodle, when he stands on his hind legs I' this latter says. ' 1 have nctioed his dark pathetic eyes. Snowball, and alwavs feel like lakiug him gently and sweetly by the coltar to the nearest batcher's. They're ever fBO much, in expression, like old Tim's little terrier'f), Brandy.' It is an important speech, but, her back beioK turued to Tleoe, the young ladv re- wards it with het aweetest smile. And her smile is very sweet. She is, without ex- oeption, the prettiest girl, thestranger thinks he has ever seen* Whatever other opinion may be held of Snowball TiiDon, there can be but one on the subject of her beauty. No eyes more coldly critical, better disposed to tind fault, could easily b found ; but fault there seems to be none. He sits at her leisure and takes the picture in. She appears to regard him no more than the thwart on which he sits. The head is small, and set with the much- admired 'stalk-like' poise on the fair, firm throat— a head crowned with a chevelure doree. such as he has never looked on her before. The figure is tall, very erect, very slender, as becomes tixte^n years, its con- tour even now giving promise of gettiojij well over that with a dozen more years. Tue face is oval, the eyes of turquois blue— blue to their very H^pths ; featless, flashing, fun- loviog, wirle-open eyes. A complexion of flawless fairness, white teeth, and a rounded, dimpled chin. And — he thinks this with an inward shudder — it is also like a living like- nessof a waxen, deadface, andiigideyesof the same forgec-me-tob blue, setn once and uever to be forgotten, years ago I As he sits and starej his fill, he is quite uncouBcious that some one else ip staring at him, and staring with a frown that deepens with every iustaut. It is th'; young man who steers, whose dark brows are knitted angrily under the visor of his cap. ' Confound the fellow 1' he is thinking, with inward savagery ; 'one would think she were sitting to him for her portrait 1' Hang h impudence t Snowball 1 authori- t itivul^ ' you have handled that oar loug enough. Come and takt my place, and give it tome.' Snowball looks at him, and reads in his face tbftt ho means to be obeyed. In his place e)ie will be out of eyeshot of the ill- bred stranger, unless he has eyes in the back of his head. There are some tones of Rene's voice Snow- ball never carea to disobey , this is one. Per* haps, tofi, she sunpects. Jihe gets up obedi- ently, smiling saucily in his darkling face, and takes t! c stern seat. Mr. Who Valentine coiLes to'Limself at once, and is conscious that he has given the dark and dignified youog Monsieur Rene cause of offence. He hastens by pleasant commonplaces to make his peace. ' Very interesting t>wn, St. (Jildas — quaint old world, and that. Is that a Martello tower he sees over yondt^r, on these heights ? Ah 1 rare birds, these round towers — built, no doubt, in time^ of French and British war- fare. Reminds him of Dinan, iti Brittany, with its Angelus bell, and its convents, and priests in the streets, dressed in soutanes. Yes (to Jobnnj ), he has been abioad ; has been a great traveller now for years. Charm- ing scenery, this 1 Is that Isle Perdrix, with the bdacou lights shining T A pretty island very prettv, m doubt. They know Isle Pei- drix well V 'Well enough, since we live there,' Johnny answers with a sLrug ; ' too well, we think sometimes. Life on an island, be it never so charming, is apt to erow a stale affair after a score of years. We are Dr. Mav^donald's sons, and he is at home, if you want to see him. It's not much of a show- place, Dree Island, but tourists mostly do it. If you don't wish particularly to return to-night, sir, my father will be happy to offer you a room.' Johnny makes this hospitable proposal, in much simplicity, quite ignoring his brother's warning frown. llene has taken a sudden dislike and dis- trust of this dark, staring stranger, and his patronizing talk. He may spend his own shining hours — and he does spend a good many of thim — in judicious repression of Miss Trillon, but he is singularly intolerant of any other male creature presuming to take the smallest liberty. He sits absotutely silent, until they land, and bhen restrains Snowball, by a look, from leaving her place. ' We will row down as far as Cape Pierre, hesajB, peremptorily, ' the evening ;i much too fine to go lu. Tim,' to that aKOi retainer, appearing on the shore, his pipe in his mouth, his hands in his pockets, bis dog Brandy, at his heels, ' show this gentleman up to the cottage, will you ?' And then Mr. Vane Valentine finds him- self on the shore of Isle Perdrix, old Tim in- speoting thim, with two rheumy, redeyes, Brandy smelling in an alarming manner, ac the calvef of his legs, and the Boule-de-neige fiuatiug like a fairy bark down the moonlit stream. ' Two handsome young fellows, my friend, he reuiarks to Tim, following that faithful henchman up the rocky paths. ' Faix ye may say that. I'm sayin', ye may well say that. Divii their aquil yu'll LOST FOR A WOMAN. 81 ! given the ii«ur Rene ty pleMftnt las — quaint a Martello se hfights ? terB — built, British war- u Brittany, nvents, and n soutanes, ibioad : has irs. Charjai- ardrix, with retty island ow Isle Pel- ere,' Johnny i-U, we think be ic never le affair after Mav,donald'B 1 want to see r- place, Dree It. If you irn tonight, ) offer you a 5 proposal, in bis brother's ilike and dis* nger, and his 8ud his own end a good 'epression of ly intolerant mingtoUke til they land, a look, from L'ape Pierre, Ining :b much Iged retainer, [in his mouth, jg Brandy, at m up to the |e finds him* J, old Tim in. [ly, red eyes, manner, ac pule-de-neige the moonlit fg, my friend, that faithful I'm sayin', ye aquil ye'll find anywhere in these parts. Av ye want to Stan' well wid the owl docther, yu'llflpake a civil word for the byes. I say ye'll — ' * And a very pretty girl,' interrupts the stranger, carelessly. * Their sister, I take It T although she doesn't resemble them.' Timothy groans. ' The gerre) ! wall, thin, 'tis nothin' br.d I'll be sayiu' av the gerrel, but upon me j honour ami oonscieDce, 'tis nothin' good any- I body uan say I Tbe divilment av that gerrel — the thricks and th^* capers av her — murtial man cud n't be up :o. No. thin, she isn't their shister, not a dhrops blood to thim, but a sort of foiiiin the ould docther's briugin' up. I'm Hayiu' — arrah shure here's the docther for ye himsel.' Dr. Maudouald appears, and Mr. Valentine approaches, and presents himself. The preHeutation is not so facile a matter as he usually Hiids it, for the reason that he has made up his mind not to give his name. But the gentle, eenial old doctor is simpli- city itself — he sees a stranger at his gate, and asks no more. To give dim of his best, and ask no questions, is his primitive and obsolete idea of hospitality. Mr. Valentine is invited in, is refreshed and pressed to spend the night, and accepts graciously the iuvitation. Dr. Macdonald personally offers to show him over the island, seen at its picturesque by this light, relates his history — % tratjiu history too, of bloodshed once upon a time, of plague later, of terror and sudden death. Nine tolls from the steeples of St. (>ilda)> ; the little island, all bathed in moonlight, lies as in a sea of pearl — a sea so still that the soft lapping of the incoming tide has the sound of a muffled roar. The hour, the light, the silence, has a strange charm even for this man, Lard and sordid, and but little susceptible to charm of the kmO. * I cannot thinl: what keeps my children,' the doctor says, as they turn to go back ; ' they seldom stay on the waler so late. The beauty of the night I suppose tempts them. Ah ! they are here.' His face li>{hts. The white boat grates on the sand, and the three young people come up the craugy slope, the gay voices and young laughter coming to where they linger and wait. • Prithee, why so sad, fond lover, prithee why ao pale ? ' sings the girl, and slips her hand through Rene's arm, and gives him a shake. 'Sure if looking glad won't win her, will looking sad avail!' I dont know whether I've cot it right or not, but that's the sense. Johnny, do you know if Inno- conte Desereaux has been trampling on our lleue more than usual to-day ? Because ' 'Hush! can't you?' retorts Johnny, giving her a fraternal dig with his elbow, ' don't you see ? The Marble (Juest ! ' ' Con-found him ! ' mutters iieue. Snow, ball, have nothing to say to him ! Cro up to your room and go to bed. You muDt be up at dawn tn-morrow morning, remember.' ' Good little girls ou^hc to be in bed at nine o'clock anyhow,' chimes in J'/hnny, severely, 'do, Snowball. Get some bread and milk in the kitchen, like a little dear, and Rene will go up and tuck you in ! ' Snowball receives this proposal with a shout of derisive laughter, which if a triHe Inudei' than Mere Maddeleua would approve of, is altogether so sweet, so j'tyous, that tbe two men waiting smile involuntarily from sympathy. ' My little girl ! ' the old doctor says, and lays a loving hand on her curls. She has snatohed off her sailor hat and is swinging it as she walks. ' My boys, and my little Snowball, Sir,' he says to the siiunt man who stands beside him, * but you have met before. You rowed this geutlemau over, didn't you. Snowball ? ' Snowball drops the son's armv and takes that of the father. The stranger falln back with Johnny. Rene walks ou ahead, wish- ing his father and brother were a little more discriminating in their unbounded hospi- tality. ' I don't like that fellow,' bethinks, 'and,' rather irrelevantly this, ' Snowball will be asked to play and sing for his aniuaement, no doubt i Hospitality is a virtut>, perhaps — but ever, a virtue may be carried to ex- cess. ' He is right — Snowball is asked to sing and play, and does both, and quite brilliantly too for a schoolgirl of sixtoen, but then they are musical or nothing at Villa des Anged. The instinct of coquetry is there, and flut it is done at last. Tiie baronet is dead — live the baronet ! S^r Rupert is gathered to his fathers, and other relations, and Sir Vane steps into hia shoes — his title — his impoverished estatOj his gray, ivy-grown, ancestral manor. It is sud- den at last — is death ever anythine else ? — and Miss Dorothea writes him to come with- out delay. The family eolioitor also write?, his presence is absolutely needed — things are in a terrible tangle — Sir Vane must come and see if the muddle can bo set straight. He lays those letters — his Lrown complexion quite chalky with emotion — be- fore his aunt and arbiter. 41' Certainl}-, my good Vane, certainly,' that great lady says, with more cheerful alacrity than the ineUnch ily occasion seems to d( • mund ; ' go by all meansj and at once. Any money that may be needed, for repairs, etc., ahall be fortl.oo uini;, of course. Remember me to your sister and Miss Camilla Rooth.' Time has been when Vane Valentine Would have hailed this as the apex of all his hfipes. That time is no more. He is torn with doubt. To leave Madam Valeiitineand her fortu le for many weeks — montho, it may be, who can, at this critical juncture, tell what may not happen in tho interval ? She may do as he has done — sho may visit St Gildas. Ouce let her see that girl and all Ih lost ! What is an ompty title, a handful uf barren acres, a mortgaged Manor house, compared with the fortune he risks? But the risk must be run. Madam herself is peremptory in urging him to go. 'The honour of the family demands it,' she says, severely. ' You must go. Why do you hesitate ?' •■Ah! Why?' He looks at her almost LOST FOR A WOMAN. 83 and will eft their doctor's »er with* [ Well, her, and ;eel. rows him he elevan 3 with the onde face shape, an waylay' mtine and ir penates called for I May has II greater 8. it has , it ia done 1 baronet ! thers, and pa into his estate, his It is suil- n2 else ? — jome with- i\8o write?, ed— things rane must ^an bo set lis l,rown lotiun — be- ftinly,' that I alAcrity ems to d(- »nce. Any jairs, etc., llemember la llooth.' Valentine of all his He is torn leiitmeand thf>, it may oture, tell rval? She V visit St^ I and all is handful of lOr house, laks ? But herself is bmands it, ). Why do ler almost aisrrily, and would 'talk bsoli ' if he dared B. t (liscrdtion is the better part of val> u — the risk must he run. With a gloomy bruw, and a foreboding spirit, the new Lord of Valentine and his portmanteau depart. And then, what he most fears, comes straighs to pas^. Ere the good ship that bears him has plowed half the Atlantic, Madam Valentine, attended by her maid, is on her way, as fast as express trains can whirl her, to St. Gildae, to see with her own eyes the original of the daring photograph sue looks at every day. *>•» CHAPTER IX. LA REINE BLANCHE. ' A lady for you, ma mere.' So sa)8 Sister Humiliana, and lays a card betoro Mere Maddeiena, who fiits busily writing ia her bare little room. The mother looks up, and at the curd, and knits her brows. ' Valentine ?' she saj'S, ' We have no one of that uaniti, my uiater. ' * No, my mother. L'urhaps it is some one who coni^B concerning a new pupil. Stie ia in the tecoud parloiu. It i juue giande dame, ma mere.' ' I;i is well, ma foeur, I will go.' Mertj Maodeleia lajs dov*nnerpen with some reluctance, for blie is very busy. To- day there are the cloaiug exercises of the school, distribution of premiums, addresses, gradulation speeches, awarding of gold medals, wreaths, etc., with music, and a dramatic pertormance. And ' His Grandeur' is coming, and many other very great per- son iges, iuy and ejjlesiastical, amou^ them a UisiiDguished English * milor ' and his lady. All tUbse dignitaries Mere Maddeiena has to receive and entertain; her giih are to have one last drilling in their parts— a thous- and things are before her. And now she is called to waste her golden moments, in fu ile talk, it may be, in the second parlour. But she ^otis, with her slow, stately step, a very ideal lady abbess, serene of tace, gracious of munuer — a very gracious manner — quite the mien of a princess. And with some right, too, for Mere Maddeiena once upon • time was a very great lady. So long a>{o, so like a dream it seems to her now, when it Hits for a moment across her memory. In the days of the Second Empire, when the glory and the splendour thereof tilled the uarth, no braver soldier marched to the Crimea, among the legions of Lmis Napo- leon, than Colonel, the Count de llosiere. Among all the brilliant ones of a brilliant court, few outshone Laure, Countess do Koaiere, either in beauty, in birth, ov in high-bred grace. She let him go, and mourn- ed for her Feruand, p ^)y_he would retain with the Cross of ih Lugion, a Marshal of France. He did return— in his coffin, and his fair young wife took her bruised heart out of the world and into the cloister. At first B e only entered en retraite, in those early days of death and despair, and there peace found her— a new peace, that no death could take away. That was in the dim past — Mere Maddeiena ia htre now, but uuder the serge of her habit, uuder the humility of the religeuse, the old court manners, the old air noble, still remain. It is a very inspir- ing and graceful presence that enters the • second parlour ' and bows pror.iundly to the eblerly lady, so richly robed, who sits therein. Madam Valentine rises, and returns that profound obt-isance, iuipieased at ouce by the stately mien of the nua. * Upon my word,' shetiuka, 'these French- women, whether nuns or society beJlea, have beauliful manntrs. I only hope she has mauayed to luaiil a little of her high-bred iuto this gill 1 h.xve come to see.' ' Be stated, Madame.' Mere Maddeiena says, and rtanda until her guest has «loiio so. ' A grauie dame, truly ?' she thiaks, as their f yea meet, 'aud a haudsoma and striking face. ' • My name, perhaps, may not be unfamiliar to you, reverend mother,' begins the lady, glancing at the card ; the mother still retains 'Valentine.' ' It is unpardonable of me if I forgot, but - "Valentine ? No, I do not recall that, ma- dame. ' ' And yet you have had a pupil here for manv years, bearing that name, have you not ? ' ' A pupil? But no, madam — no one called Valentine.' ' Perhaps then she is called,' with some re- luctance, ' Tiillon." •T>illon? Stay! Ah i but yes, mad&me, it is the little Dolores whom you mean. The protpgto of our good Dr. Macdouald.' • Doloros ? She never was called Dolores that I kuow of. Snowball if you like — a silly name.' • The same— the aame ! But madame fails to recollect —it was by uvadanie's permisaiuii wo chiistened her Djlores. She was written to on the subject.' • Was I ? And when ? Who wrote ? I rnmember nothing of it,' says Madam Valen- tine, rather abruptly. • It is many years ago now, fully six at 'oast. Midamo Mactlonald died, and the iittle one was sent to U3. She had no uamo 84 LOST FOR A WOMAN. but the 8o foolish one of Snowball, and had never beeu bapt z^d. Madame is aware,' de- Ereoiatingly, ' we could not tolerate that, r. Maodoiiuld wrote to his very good friwnii M. Paul Farrar, then at Fayal, aud M. Paul — he wrote to you, did he not 1 Or a mem- ber of your f.imily, perhaps, £o; 'ihe requisitw permission. ' Hh-h ? to a n. :mbar of my family 1 1 ste,' says niivhun'. jaroasuic voioo. ' Ptro i-.-ii'.Q cHino we might do as we fjleasea. A:m^ we called the ondd Marie Do- ores. Is it possible, madame, thr*' this is the firtt you have heard of it ? ' ' Quite possible — the very tirst, my good mothur. liufc it does not siguify at all. I prefer Dolores to Saowball, which lu point of facf 18 no name at uU. Well it is your Do- lores then, that I have uome to see ' Madame is ? ' ' jler grandmother. I have never seen her in my life ! You will wonder at that, my mother, but her father, my only son, married against my will, and to my jjreat and bitter j{rief. He is dead many years since,' (this c )Uver8atiou is carried on in French), 'and his death I cease not to deplore. But toward his child I did nou relent ; I banished her from my si^ht. I sent her here. I fatigue you, I fear, my good mother, with all these family details.' She speaks with a certain coldness, a cer- tain h%ui;hty abruptness of manner, that she IS apt unconsciously to assume when forced to unveil ever so little of heart to strangers. But Mere Maddelena's gentle, sympathetic face makes the task easy. ' Ah ! but no madame. I am interested. I am sorry. It's all very sad for you.' 'I grow an old woman, I find,' Madam '. Valentine resumes, still in that abrupt tone, ' and I am lonely. Hhe — this girl— is nearer !* to a>e than anything else on earth. It is natural 1 should wish to see her, at least. That's why I am here.' ' Ah ! madame ! 'in profoundest sympathy, ' ' and once having seen her you will love her f BO dearly. It is a heart of gold — it is a child of infinite talent, and goo(ine^8 and fir&ce. A little wild and jealous, I grant you, but what will you — it is youth. And a paragon of beauty. We do not tell her that, you un- derstand, but it is a loveliness most surpass- ing. All Villa d«s A^nges will be desolate if madame la boune niainan takes her away. And next • 'ar she is to graduate. Surely madame v.<< not take her away t ' • If she is ,vh,'c you def. "ib6 her, I surely will ! ' replies \f, ^onne muman, decisively. • You paint a 'a?(uaal' ■! picture, my mother Why, a t;-"' '*li« thfel ^ .%h & fortuue such ?.« :t her I can give her, may have the world feet. S:xteeo years old, you say ^ ' ' Nearer seventeen, I believp, and tail and most womanly for h«>r bge. A>i I ma ihite I'etite ! how we wili be sorry to lose y'>u 1 Shall I eend for her, madame, ti. . you 'U'V see tor yourself ? ' She siretiihes out h9r hand tc tho oo'l, but the other stopi hi-r. ' No,' she says, ' wait. I d<. rot r.iistrvbt your jadgmeut, my mother, but I prefer to judge for myself. Let me see her, hear her, myself unknown, Hrat. II >w can I do this ? ' 'Most easily. Honour us with your pre< senca at the exercises this afternoon. She is to be crowned for exoellnnce ui music, an«< to receive the second medal. ^She afterward performs in a little vaudeville' we have dra- matized fi'oni history, 'La Iltine Blanche' we call it. When all is over, the pupila mingle with the guests in the pa'-lours. You can tnere see aud hear, and talk to her as much as you like.' 'Tuat will do admirably,' madam says, rising ; 'and now, as 1 am s-ire you are very busy, reverend mother, I will detain you no longer.' ' Let me present you with one of our ad- mission cards,' says Mere Maddelena, ri.'inj? also ; * so many wish to assist at the closing exhibition, that we are forced to protect onr> selves against a crowd. Until thia uU v- no'Mi, then, madame, au revoir.' The portress glides forward with her key, the big convent door opens and ..dout^s, and Madame Valentine is out, driving in tier cab through the streets of St. Gddas to i)«^r hotel. Her calm mind is almost in a tumult of hope, of fear. If this girl only provej t,« be what Mere Maddelena makes her out, or even half — what solace, what companion- ship !iiay yet Ne ic store for her ! For even in her repar*'- -^— and ehe honestly desires to make jl- aiftti n's tirst thought ie of tstjlf, ■>he(„row.s d >>> has admitted for the -ifBt time, very loaely in her desolate old jkge. Vuue Valentine is no companion. She half fears, wholly distrusts him. She rebels against the.sort of power he is beginning to exercise over her. His impatience is too manifest. ' I shall not die yet, my good Vane,' she thinks with a little bitter smile, 'even to oblige you. How will you look, 1 wonder ^heu you hear in Kngland that a graceful, golden>haired granddaughter has usurped your place? CJeorge's child — George's little daughter 1 To think that she is over sixteen and I have never seen her yet 1 ' A pang of self-repn'ach passes through her— a pa»ig that yet holds a deeper pity for herself. * Ho ,x- year? \ti tnigni hak won > -r c<>,.,o, or What if s doctor aiK her alwa^ But I woi Still aht has so mvi nothing bi n t kick scale ? N Valentine, in which wasted lif young gi. How who /it will with slow dead — oh I refused « times over Sh<) ccui the hour does not to bear hei hunr.ved Is this silent mist I walking re The houi but l[Hhort , ecends, am .A.nges. A for the last direction. A waitin and several in the long going to til gre«u drov fans wave, of roses an eccle-iastic; ous priests, his la-r lovu. What if now she refuses to couid, or, if coining, comes relu ;tj»Mtly ? Wnat if she prefers her friends here — thin doctor and hi8 family, who ha.e cared for her always? It would be (luito natural. But I would feel it 1 George's child ! Still she dtKJB not fear it i;reatly. Sht has so much to offer — so much , they have nothing but I tve. Ank her part in private theatricals at the emit of Napoleon Tf'Jrd.' ' I see Snowball down for the * White Queen,' says the second voice ; ' site will look the part very fairly, at least, if she can- not net it. She is not unlike the picture of the Q'leen of Scots — the same oval type of face, the same alluring sort of smile, I should fancy. Snowball will not make halt' a bad Mane Stuart. I saw R'stori in thepirtin New Yotk not long ago.' ' Well Snowball won't equal Riscori cer- tainly, but my sister Inno says, she does herself and Meie Maddelena much credit by lier luudering. Look at this venerable part ; on our right,' says M. Vi ;tor Desereknx, the photo,^rapher, lowering his voice, • *>er blaek eyes are going through us — you p u ticularly- like gimlets.' Rene Macdonald, still half smiling, glances carelesly. The ' venciable partv ' 1 loks botli haughts and ^'spleased he ueea that. Who are these oung men who are disoussun; her j rin ;'istra burst forth at the moment, and drowns l;i< persillaue, and the perfor- mance ooinmenoHx. Ces demoiselles, in airy white Swiss, Hash on and olF, 'epeik pieces,' sing songs, play the piano, make lovely courtesi-^s to the au'lience, aptiear and dis- appear. Madam Valeutiue sees them, and sees thtitu not , they are uot the rose, they but grow near that peerless flower. She is hot with impatience— her nerves are pulling hard . Wliy does not 6his foolery end, and the drama begin ? It is the piece r8eIy clasped haudi>, nhe is a vision. Not Mi»ry Stuart herself, in the days when her radiant loveliness wj4 a world's wonder, could — it "^tunas to thoiie v,ho look — have outshone i.hi.^ * My faith I' says the lowered voice of M. Di'-»^reaux. 'That little sister of yours is a daziiluii^ beauty, my friend, ilene i How is it ? I h:ive onl^ thougiit her a pretty Utile girl, hitherto.' is Hone Maodonald asking himself ibuesime question ? He loans forward, his dark eyes kindling, watching every motion,, drinking iu every wor !. If this Snowball — little madonp Snowball, witu whom he has been '^^j:: i, k-eliii / all hii life ; whom he Lafl pelt*.'! Hind .vit:,. her namesakes, every winter; wt-.-n! hi has snubbed and contradiote(j, ; rd put doi-. •, on every ocuaxion ? Tois fairy vi*;' jo ihis radiant R-iotJ ftlanche, the mockiiif», t ^la- perating mischief-inaker, whose breath r»e has half shaken out of her body 'ratwhile, for hnr praok-s, whose '.I'i. he has iviaked, whose misdeeds on th« hgh seas he ha; re- probiteii? He feels i*f':>:id. Has h.e been ulind — or is tho dr«B she wuara - I'e has never seen her walkiug iu silk attire botare — 's it hifl three monthg abseno in New "i ("-k — what is it ? He has never seen this girl before, sioina to him, in his life — never, certainly, with the same dazzled eyes. Will she be his commonplaje, every-day Saowbill to-morrow, and will this glamour have gone ? Me almost hopes so ; he does not know bimaelf — or her -in this m'tod. And still the play goes on — other p«ople seem to be under the spell of the siren, too. She ia singing, now, with ' tears in her voice,' in a vailed, vibrating tone, that goes to the heart : •' Adieu ! O plaisant pays de France, O ma pattie !" And sp on. She is leaving that sunny land for a bleak land. How low, how hushed is her voice ! She seems to feel the words she sings. You may hear a piu drop iu th*t loug and crowded hall. \nd now the curtain is down, and the musio is playing, and the tir?t act is over, and Rene Maodonald, like one who wakes from a dream, leans back, and passes his hand across his eyef, ai it to dispel a mist. 'My word of honour, Maodonald,' aays young Deseresux, * she is a marvel. She never looked like that before. How do you suopose she docs it ?' The whole judienoe is in that flutter and stir that invariably follow the dropping of a stage curtain. All are discussing ' Li Reine Blanclie,' her beauty, her surprising acting of tiie part, her vaiiue resemblance to the lovely Scottish (iuoeii, Rene Maodonald sits nearly silent, lost in a aort of dream — waiting with a tingling of the pulses, a thrilling of the blood, a ciuick- eitir.g of his calm heart-beats, altogether new Hud inexplicable. • Why should he care —like this— to see Snowball ? He never has oared before? The orchestra are playiny Hnmething very brilliant—in the midst of it tho curtain risea again. Yes— there is Mary Stuart, widow once mor'j exiled — imprisoned. She stands ou tho shore of Lichlevea, and Willie Don* glas stands at her feet. Tho white robes are gone — the floating curls are hidden away under a velvet ' mood —the face is sad and pde. Willie Douglaa LneoN there, urging hur to Hy. M. Victor Descreaux, with one eye on th* play, keeps the other well ou other tbi»g», and notices especially the rapt attenttMi of the diguitied elderly lady, whose hard ataf^ LOST FOR A WOMAN. bleak -to eee ire? iiig very ,&\a riHta willow e stands ie Dou- floating I itood *■ DuUglM e OD tb9> thiaga. int'uMx o£ >»t Rene cauKht his attention from the first. He Hees hfr now, all throu^^h this aot, sitting erect, a tlusb en her thin cheeks, an eager light in her Hne ^yes, i\ll present are interested, but none to the same extent. Who is whe ? he wonders. Snowball has no relatives that any one knows of. Whosoever she may be, she is vividly absorbed ia the fair little heroine o' the drama. And now it is the third and closins; act — the very last scene. She miijht be called La iJoiie Noir as she stand?*, all in black — blauk velvet — (een)— that trails f-^r behind, and gives height and dignity to slim sixteen, a stiflly starched ruiT, a dear little Mane Stuart cap ou her blonde head. In that sweeping robe, that rutf, that cap, Mile. Trillou feels a very impoitant little person- age indeed, and triads the boards every inch a queen. She stands— her queenly head ■well thrown back, her royal eyes Hashing, her royal cheeks flushing, voice ringing — (confronting and denouncing her great enemy, Elizabeth of England. One of the good sisters, with more love for the memory of Mary Stuart than strict Hdelity to his- toric facts, has written this drama, aud herr, face to face, the rival oueeuH stand and glare at eaoh other. Elizabeth, a tall, stout young lady, in ru(T and faithingale, aud couspicuoUHly llamu-coloured hair, cowers, strong minded though she be, before the outraged majeftty of that glance, and is alto- getiier crushud an-Mache8? Mario Scuart is sentenced aud iloo nel to die. The last scene ; :'n, ' that my mind is qiiito made up. When I leave 8t. Gildas my graud«daughtor leaves with me I ' CHAPTEll X. ADIKU ! O PLAISANT PAYS DE FRANCE I Three lonjjparlours.en suite, are filled with admiring, congratulating, pleased papas and mammas, as 8'. I^natia with Madame Valen- tine, make their way through. Many eyes follow (turiouily the uistin^uishedlookiug elderly lady so tl«)i;ant]y simple of dress, so proudly severe A face— a face that seems cut in ivor' hearing uninistakahly the stamp of * the wc. .1.' There are introductions — the two titled people, the bishop, a few otherA of the more elect — ind it then escorted to an easy chair, Hlii{htiy raised, whence, at her eaad she mii^ht sit and view the rooms. A very brilliant picture it is, very animated - all the smiling papas and mammas, and the * sistrrs and the cousins and the aunts ; ' the pupils chit tly in S A'iss and rosebuils, but the a(;tresHcs all retaining their fancy dresses. Tae Kmpreks Josephine, in the costume of the Fir^t Empire, her waist>belt under her irns, balloon sleeves and puffed hair, is sauntering arm in arm with that imaginary young mise, who but now, in a scarlet blouse and black velvet mask, chopped off a royal head. Joan of Arc is present in a helmet of shining silver paper, a sMeld of the same ir- vincible armour, a i-a sword by her side.and valour on her lofty Lrow. Marie Antoinette Hits by pretty and piquant, and looking none the worse for her misadveutures, all and sundry in the temple. All the su^jar plums of French history are there— BUnche Castile, queen and saint; Genevieve, peasant girl and patroness of Paris. An out to him in a est boy ! When )y Rene ! ' sighs nolf off. 8 a(;o,' answers Bd by hifl recep- * jiHt in time to ,iok at ine, dearest child ; give me your haniU ; let your heart Bpeak ; say ' I am looking at my father's mother, who wishes in her old bjkc to make up to his orphan daughter what hIic denied to him.' It is reparation, my child. If you come, it must be willingly, else nob at all. I could not take with me a reluctant captive. Speak, my child ; it is for you to say how it shall be.' They are in a crowded room, but to nil in- tents and purpoaea they are alone. No one obaerves them — if they dr>, A-hat is tiiere to see ? An elderly lady in an arm-ohair, h')ld< iiig the hands of a gracffwl ^irl in tlie dress of (the Queen of Scuta — both fuce!4 earnest, one pleading, one drooping, and atartled, and pale. ' I shall not hurry you.' the elder lady goes on. * I know that you arc half-stunned by the surprise and suddennesH of this, now. You shall have days — weeks, if you will. You ahall consult your friends— this good doctor, this wise mother Matldelena. I will not tear you from your dear (.nes ; you shall always love them, an I vmit them : but yoii shall not leave them all your heart. See ! my Dolores, I am a very rich woman ; but that is not to weigh with you. You are to he an heiress, and my darling. All that wealth can give you ahull bo yours — the pleasures, the brightness, the f.iireat thinfi;s of life. Love, too— the love of these good people you possess a1rea ^le to hear my- self plead ! I, who, I think, never pleaded before. But |you must coixe, my dear oue, when I go, and willingly. The life you leave is «ood— you shall go to a better. Tne frituda vou quit are kind — you shall still find kinder. You shall travel the whole world over, if you choose ; you shall see cU those fair, far-oli lands of which I know you must have dream* ed. Your education hhall be uoinpluted by the best masters. I am proud rf uiy grand- daughter to-day — I shall be fa/ prouder of her years hence. ' ' Oh, madame !' It is tfll poor little Snowball can say, over- whelmed ttycs are tii6 handi her they far away mist. •I will return to gently, niood ; h girl besit like pear otf,' aaya niellowin( strongly ii entine cac Hut to easv. •'There A tall, wl tne other at once. ' Ah then, and say to h as elsewhc Snowba looka back ' Siiall madam V • Surely up.' ' Shall Saall I ha ♦There You shall remember If you coi go " for ^ •And t • Say g not for w must be t befor w« send youi Suowbi takes a e* prolonger lows. I straight i is leaning room, au< A small I eyes look 'Rene •Yej, • Is it 1 tense bn she is my * I see not belie LOST FOR A WOMAN. 91 I havt) been ;e a reproach HBver have — you iitulur- I'a )lnui{ht«r ! [)I<1 woman ; near to me 1 f»jar. for I "\{ I pleicl nil to tlieHQ trn grattjful. me, (ieureat your huart my father's iilQ to make nlie denied ild. If you uob at all. ant uaptive. Bay how it ut to nil in* e. No one b is there to ■oh air, hold- in the ilress ces earnest, ;artlud, and ekler lady alf-stunned ' thin, now. i you will, -this good iia. I will ; yon shall 1 : but you art. See 1 •man ; but ou are to All that yourg— the r«'at thioj^s these good lere awaits las to give. J hear my- tr iileaded dear cue, you leave 'lie fritnds lid kinder, ver, if you air, faroir tve dream- tpltited by my t^rand- trouder of say, over- whehned by this torrent of persnaainn. Her i-ycs are Hthd with team, hut it ii not uu tiio handsome, earnest old face bt ndiug over her they rust. They follow K^ne'a tall tl),tur(>, far away iu the crowd, and see him through a uiist. • I will not detain you now ; you want to returo to your friends,' madam aays, very gently. Slie hardly knows hurRt-lf in this mood ; her heart melts as she ^a^es on tins girl beside her, the lait of her line. ' Muu, like pears, grow mellow before they drop otr,' says a wise and witty iioston poet ; the mellowing procefs must indeed have Ket strongly iu, when hard, haughty Madam Val- entine can use such tones and wonlsas these! Hut to this girl— George's daughter -it is easy. 'There is the dootnr,' Snowball exclaims. A tall, white head and benign face appeuis at tne other end of the room, and she bnghtetm at onoe. ' Ah I the doctor. Well, my dear, go then, and send him to me. I have much to say to him, and it may u well be said here as elsewhere.' Snowball darts off with alacrity, pauses, looks back. ' Sliall I — ' hesitatingly, ' shall 1 return, madam ?' ' Surely, ohild, before this company breaks up.' 'Shall I — ' the fair head droops again. Saall I have to go with you — to your hot«;lJ?' 'There must be no have to in ilie case. You shall do as you like best- quite treely, remember that, hut I do not tven wuh it. If you come with me it will be only when I go " for good. " ■ • And that will be, madame ?' ' Say grandmamma, my little one. Oh ! not for weeks to come, I foraee that. Yuu must be thoroughly reconciled to the change befor we leave St. Gildaa. Now go and Bend your doctor.' Suowball goe!>, and the doctor comes and takes a seat beside madam, and it in a very prolonged and earnest conversation that fol- lows. For Snowball, she uoes to Kene, straight as the needle to the north star. He is leaning against a pillar iu an angle of the room, and glances gloomily as she comics up. A small pale face and two pathetio youug eyes look up. ' Rene I ' •Yej, Snowball' ' la it not awful— awful ! '—a long, hard, tense breath. ' Oh ! Rene, do you suppoue she is my grandmother ? ' ' I see uo reason to doubt it. I really can- not believe any old lady, however ecueatrio, would come in, in cold blood, and claim yon, if ntHtn duty did not drive her to it.' Even iu this supreme moneiit It -uh cannot (|Uito lay atiide the familiar style of snubbing, although his tone and look are uumutukably dreary. ' Ueno' — pathetically — 'don't bo horrid. I know it iH not in your natiini to be anything elsM, but juat for ouoh, " uHFum<>, if you have it not." Do yon know she is going to take inu away ? ' ' Poor old lady 1 • • • Rene 1 ' 'I mean,' Rene says, lau)^hing but rut-fully, ' I am awfully sorry, upon my word 1 am, Snowball. Cf courne, 1 um going away my self, it may be for years and it may be for ever, a^ Kathleon Muvourneen suvk ' ' Katliltien Mavouruet u suyn nothing of the sort. It was—' ' Well, the other fellow ; the fact remains, whatever Iriaman said it. l^ut while away enjoying life in New York, and going in for sculpiute as a profession, und u;iat<>iny as a study, and artists and ductors in embryo for chuni", it would have bef n soothing to re- niem)>er that you were pining iu your loneli- netis here, the last rose of siimnu-r, a sort of vestal virgin on Inle I'erdrix, i^rowmg up for me expressly^ and counting ttie hours until my reiurn. Now all that is at an < nd, and vuu are going to start in lit'o on } our own hook, and set up, I dare Hay, for an heirtss. I don t wii«h your long lost grandmother any harm, Snowball, but if we ever get her on Drt-u Inland, ahe shall never leave it alive ! ' A pause. Suowball stands, a youthful picture of pallid woe ; Rene standi nervously twisting the ends of a still innocent und youthful looking niustuuhe, and feeling sore and savaji^e. although his manner of expressing these emotions in degage euouub. ' 1 wish she were at the bottom of Bay Chalette ! ' he bursts forth, at la8t. ' Con- found the oM duine ! Alter deset ting you all ttiese years, and never couceniing herself iu the slighttsc degree to know whether you were deaii oi alive, to come now and claim you 1 Suowball, don't go I ' * 1 must,' mournfully. ' When does she propose to take you ? ' ' Not until I am leaily,' she says, ' which will be never if I have my own way. You should have heard her, Rene ; oL>e would think I was a prize — something piecious and peerless — to hear her go ou 1* ' Ah 1 ' relapsing into cynicisms, ' sne'U get over that. Stie doesn't know you, you see. I say, where does she live wheu at home ? ' V: ,."^.. ^"^w ^.^. ^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I rM |2.5 1^ 1^ lis -... 1^ US iS. L25 ,.4 ^.6 ^ 6" ► m^ '/, m ^ ^ «> '/ /^ Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WE. MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ^ m 92 LOST FOR A WOMAN. ' I don't know. 1 never Mked. What does it matter ? ' despairingly. • It does matter. If it ia in New York I could see yon. Find ont will you the next time you talk to her 1 For me — I will ad- dress myself ^> her no more. I am only mortal— my feelings might rise to the sur- face, and there might be a tragedy. I am all at home in my anatomy. Snowball. I could run her under the fifth rib, and she would be out of the world and out of mischief before she knew what had hurt her — ' ' Rene, don't talk in that dreadful way, please. Are you going home after this is over ? ' ' Of course. Ynu don't mean to say you are not golner, too ? ' ' Certainly I am going. I shall remain on the island until , Ob, Rene, what shall I do ? I hate to go. How shall I leave you all? And when Johnny comes baik ' emotion chokes further words. • Never mind, Johnny J There are others in the world, thongh you never seem to think so ! Snowball,' earnestly, ' if you really don't want to go, don't go. She can- not make you. ' But Snowball shakes her head, and wipes her eyes. ' It is my duty, Rene ; I belong to her, not to anybody here. But it b-b breaks my heart ' ' It has been so often broken ! ' begins Bene, from sheer force of habit, then stops remorsefully. ' Dan't cry,' he says, 'I hate to see you, and you will make the point of your nose pink ! ' A pause. * You will write, I suppose ? ' gloomily. 'Oh yes.' The pink suggestion has its effect. Snow- ball dries her eyes, and represses a last sniff or two. Another gloomy pause. * And, Snowball I ' struck by a sudden alarming thought. ' Yes, Rene.' •There is that fellow — the nephew, or cousin, you know, M. Paul told us of him. He lives with this old lady — hang her J and was to be her heir.' • 'Yes.' 'Well — He isn't married.* ' No ! ' not seeing the drift, ' No, Snowball 1 ' 'Yes, Rene.' ' You won't marry him 1 ' •Oh-h!' a very prolonged 'Oh!' of im- menee amaze. Then suddenly Snowball 1t)urBfc8 out into her clear, joyous laugh. 'Mo. of course not,' says Rene, not look- ing at her ; ' besides he is as old as the ever. lasting hills. Very likely he will ask you, thou eh. You had better not — not — ' ' Well ? ' impenously, ' not what ? ' ' Mairy any one. in fact ! Fellows want to marry an heiress, don't you know — for- tune-hunters and others of that sort. But yon won't, will you ? ' ' No ! ' says Snowball, and it is the old saucy, detiant Snowball all in a moment. * No, Rene dear. Having known and loved you all my life, how could I ever look twice at any other man ? I will wait for you, mon frere, until you grow up ! ' And then laughing over her shoulder, Mary, Queen of Scots turns her pretty shoulder to this darkling young Bothwell, and flits away to join her royal sister, Blanche of Castile — in every-day life Mile. Innocente Desereaux. » » ♦ It is the. evening of the last day, two weeks later. Her boat is on the shore, and her bark might be on the sea, only they hap- pen to be going by the 4.50 up express. And Snowball and Rene are pacing the sands of Isle Perdrix for the last time. All adieux have been arranged ; Dr. Macdonald, with tears in his eyes, has bidden her go , Mere Maddelena endorsss his words, her trunk is packed ; madam la bonne maman waits impatiently, jealously, to bear away her treasure-trove. In these two weeks she has grown passionately fond of the child — it is Snowball's sunny nature to work her way into people's hearts. For Rsne— well, he has ' looked at her aa one vho awakes ' — looked at her with eyes new-opened from the moment she shone forth La Reine Blanche ! ' My path runs east, and hers runs west. And each a chosen way ; But now— oh ! fur some word, some charm. By which to bid her stay.' Something like this is in his thoughts, a cold ache aud fear of the future fills him. She is going — going into a world, brighter, fairer than bis, far out of his reach. She is to be an heiress, a belle, a queen of society. And he — well, he will have his heart's desire — he will be a sculptor if it is in him — a marble-carver, at the least, and dwelling in a world of which she will know nothing. He may return here, but there will ba noSnow- ball to meet and welcome him with radiant eyes and smile. And he feels he would give all his hopes, the best years of his life to keep her here, to know she remains waiting his ooming, rejoicing in bis success— his vr;y own. A selHsh wish it may be, but a most thoroughly natural and masculine one. He thinks of the story of the Arabian genie who carried his princess about the world with him, safelj derstands with him, whether h It is a je waits, one own. They wj boat wait, no eye, ui the lookot lent. In never mu( The yellow day lies o ters, the e waves lap a very ha Adi sings sings, Quit SU' i _ lit « gray hat gold hair words hre • It wil comes,' si < you and • Aiwa] • I belie vi for Johnn in the wo ' I love be cross, •Love- for Johni 'Did 1 Rene, Re 'Are y He sto flush risi: flashing Sorry to • Sorry I am? It of it—all pleasant And I gc can com; dear as ^ 'You you will me ' •Neve you all- world b( •Ah! know. will ask you, -not—' what ? ' Fellows want ou know — for. of that sort. it is the old i a moment. known and lid I ever look will wait for V up ! ' her shoulder, \ her pretty n^ Both well; royal sister, lay life Mile. last day, two the shore, and >nly they hap. up express. 6 pacing the st time. All r. Macdonald, Iden her go , is words, her Donne maman io bear away wo weeks she 1 the child- re to work her LOST FOR A WOMAN. 93 oked at her as ler with eyes snt she shone ins west, iome charm, B thonghts, a re fills him. )rld, brighter, eaoh. She is n of society, heart's desire 8 in him — a dwelling in a aothing. He ba no SnoW' with radiant e would give is life to keep e remains his success — b may be, but lascnline one. Arabian genie le world with him, safely locked up in a glass box —he un- derstands the senie, and his sympathies are with him, itAftei- to-day who is to tell whether he will ever look upon her more ? It is a jealous old G;rand mamma that who waits, one whu will know how to guard her own. They walk in silence. Old Tim and the boat wait, thtir good-by will be here, where no eye, unless the the fish-hawks are on the lookout, can behold. And tbey are si- lent. In life's supremest hours there is never much to be saiil ; the heart is too full. The yellow haze and hush of a sweet summer day lies over the sea and land, the bay gut- ters, the eky is deepest blue, the little oily waves lap and whisper. Isle Perdrix looks a very haven of peace and rest. Adieu I O plaisant pays do France, O ma patrie t La plus oherie. Qui a nourre ma jeune enfance ; Adieu, France, adieu t ' sings Snowball, softly, not knowing she singe. She wears a travelling suit of pale gray, lit with ribbons the hue of her eyes, a gray hat and feather, all the bounteous pale gold hair falling free. She speaks, and her words break the spell. ' It will be lonely for Johnny when he comes,' she says, in the same soft voice, * you and me gone, Rene,' ' Always Johnny 1 ' he says, impatiently. ' I believe you care a thousand times mure for Johnny than you do for — for any one else in the world. ' ' I love Johnny,' she says, gently ; ' don't be oroBS, Rene — now, I like you, too.' ' Love — like! Snowball, you always cared for Johnny most.' ' Did I ? I care for you too, Rene. Oh 1 Rene, Rene, I am sorry to go I' ' Are you. Snowball ? Really, truly sorry?' He stops and catches his hands, a swift flush rising over his dark face, a quick lire flashing in his brown eyes, ' sorry to go ? Sorry to go from me !' * Sorry, sorry, sorry I Don't you know I am? It has been such a good life, every day of it — all happy, all full as they could hold of pleasant things, and thoughts, and people. And I go from all that. Rene, nothing that can come — be is what it may — will be half as dear as what I leave.' ' You mean that I Snowball, Snowball, you will not forget us — you will never forget me ' * Never, Rene ! Never while I live. You — you all — will be more to me than the whole world besides.' * Ah I you say so now. but you don't know. And people change. And it is such a different life you are goioi? to. Snowball, if I thought you would forget ' He stops, his heart is passionately full, full to overflowing, but what is there he may say ? ' I never will. I am not like that. I will write to you often — often, I will come back here whenever I may. And v, e may meet, Rene — you and I — out in that world beyond Dree Isle. Give my dearest love to Johnny, when he comes back, if you seo him before I do. And Rene — my brother — forgive me for all thd things I have said, for all the times I have made you angry in the past. I liked you, dearly, dearly through it all!' Forgive her 1 Old Tim is waiting im- patiently — it will be full time to light the lamp before he gets back from the other side. Will they never have done standing there, holding hands, and saying good- by. It is a blessed release, Timothy is thinking in the depths of his misanthropic old soul, as he sits and smokes his dudceu, sure there was iver an always mischafe and divilment wid that gerrel, and nothin' else, sioce she tirst set fut in the island. ' An' her an' Mabter Raynay— sure they did be fightin' like Kilkenny cats mornin', noon, an' night,' ruminates Tim, 'an' there's for ye now, afth^r it — houldin bans as if it was playin' ring-a-rosy they wor, instid o* jumpin' out o' their skins wid joy — in their sleeves. Dear knows it's many's the dhry eye there'll be atther the same Miss Snow ball.' It is over. Snowball is here, running with red eyes down to the boat, and Rene if^ standing where she has left him — motionless in the twiligiit. Old Tim shoves off; the boat glides across the luminous river, St. Gildas side is reached, and grandmamma in a carriage awaits her darling. One backward glance the girl gives. Rene is standing there still, with that most desolate of feel- ings, 'left behind.' She can just discern him, a lonely figure on the island shore. Then she is in thu carriage,in grandmamma's arms, her tears being kissed away, and Isle Perdrix, and Rene, and St. Gildas are already as ' days that are over, dreams that are done,' I an 04 LOST FOR A WOMAN. A I?ART THIRD. * With weerlnp:, and with laughter, Siill la the aiory told. CHAPTER I. * NOT AS A CHILD SHALL WE AOAIN BEHOLD An old-fash'oned Roman house, the por- tone entrauob aa 1 stairs palatial iu size, a great stoue court, where a tuuntain tosses its spray high in the sunshiue ; grained arches, ablaze with colour, trets, vines, birds, butter- flies ; great pots, and vases of flowering pUnts everywhere, and statues glearaiog waitely throu^^h a glowof warmth and colour, green and gold. Between the draperies ot one great window there i* a last glmt tf amber light. You see a loggia, overrun with to cs, a sky full of leaves, a glimpse of orange trees, with their deep green leave?, and spiiakle of scented snow, and jessamines, in profusion, rearing their solid coues of flowery gold. An old- fashioned Roman sala, with father faded screens, of amber silk, set iu finely carved frames, walls nearly cove -ed "with dark oil paintings, a great glossy cabin- et, a miracle of wood-carving, and that last pink and yellow giiut of sunshine lighting up all. A peaceful picture, a rustle of myriad leaves iu the beautiful twilight, whose air Italians so jealousy shut out and fear, a twitter of multitudinous sleepy birds, work- men and women going home, a crescent moon rising, like a rim of golden crystal, and Ave Marias linging, until the evening is full of the music of belt, from storied campanile and basilica, to little arches set up against the sky. It is all a dreamy old-world pic* tare, and the girl who stands heedless of the dangerous evening air, leaning against the tall, arched window, gazes over it, with eyes that drink in with delight the quaint still sweetness of it all. She is the|lastand faint- eat touch of that fair picture, as she stande, tail, supple, straight as a dart, slender as a young willow and aa graceful. The last light lingering there, in the fading west, falls lull on her face, and fails to flud in it a flaw, so fair, so fine is the lustro of her skin, so deli- cate the small features, so perfect in its faint colouring, the tinge of rosy light in the oval ch ;el 8 Her abundant hair, of palest gold, is diawn back from the broad forehead ; a few cloudy pearls, and a knot of jasmine, in the amber glitter. She is in evening dreas, a trailing iusirous silk of so pale a blue as to be almost silvery — pink roses loop the rich laoe of the square cut corsage, form shoulder knots, and drop in clusters here and there among the lace flounces. She wears no jewels, except the large starry pearls in her hair and in her ears, and clasping the girlish throat and large beautiful arms. Dress and woman are lovely alike, as she stands with loosely clasped handshanging, leaning'against the gray stone, the cluttering viues framing her, dreamily listening to the music of the Ave Maria bells. A servant entering with candles arouses her presently. She looks up with a start. ' Already, Annunciator ? Is it so late ? And the signora — has she not yet returned ?' 'Not yet, signorinn.' Tne young lady moves away from the win* dow, and the Italian servant clones the shut- ter and shuts out at once the exquisite eve- ning pinture and the malarious eveaing air. * How very imprudent grandmamma is,' the signoriua says, glancing at the pendule on the chimney piece, ' and in her weak state of health. Sir Vane at least should know better. ' She begins slowly walking up and down the loig sala, lit now by the wax-lights and oue largf^ , antique, bronze lamp. Her lustrous yard-Ioog train sweepa behind her, her pearls shimmer with their milky whiteness iu the amber s' rands of her hair, in the silvery blue of her dress. So pacing, in pretty impatience, she is a charming vision. Now and then she glances at the clock, and pauses anxionsly to listen for carriage wheels iu the court-yard. Pi' Grrandmamma ought not,' she eays, half- aloud, half impatiently. ' Does she want a second Roman fever, before she is fully re- covered from the first ? Sir Vane is prudent enough where his own comfort and health are concerned — he might interest himself, a little at least, in hers.' There is a tap at the door. ' May I come in, dear ?" says a voice, and the door is pushed a little way open, and a pleasant old fMe — not Italian by any means — peeps in. ' Oh, come in, Mrs. Tinker — come in, of course. It is too eaiily to go yet, and even if it were not, I could not go until grand- mamma comes back from her drive. She promised to return early, and here it is quite nine o'clock, and ' ' Eh ? My maid, what is it yon are saying ? Not back? Bless thy pretty heart, my deary, she has been back these two hours, and is in the drawing-room with company. Leastways, may hi not company, so to say- it's her lawyer, Mr. Carsoii.' The young lady pauses in her walk to regard the old lady with blue, surprised eyes. •Why, that is odd? Back these two 8 here and there She wears no rry pearls in her aping the girlish ms. Dress and she stands with , leaning'af^ainst g vines framing ;he music of the candles aronses with a start. Is it so late ? i yet returned ?' y from the win. clones the shut- e exquisite eve- 8 eveaing air. andmamma is,' ; at the pendule I her weak state st should know q; up and down nrax-lights and p. Her lustrous her, her pearls irhiteness iu the ihe silvery blue itty impatience, w and tben she les anxionsly to fd court-yard. she eays, half* oes she want a Bhe is fully re- ane is prudent >rt and h«alth rest himself, a s a voice, and open, and a by any means ' — come in, of yet, and even o until grand- drive. She lere it is quite m are saying ? ty heart, my se two hours, ith company, y, so to say — her walk to ue, surprised k these two LOST FOR A WOMAN. 95 - Did she not go for her the Corso with Sir Vane, hours, and I — usual drive on then, after all V * Not wi' Sir Vane, my deary. She gave him the slip, so to speak. Madam doesn't like to be watched and spied on, yon know. Yes, she went tor her drive, but not wi' Sir Vane, and not on th( Corso. She went to her lawyer's, and brought him back mi' her here. And there they are in the drawing- room ever since.' * Well, Mrs Tinker ?' The young lady says this interrogatively, for Mrs. Tinker looks wistful and important, and as if charged with a heavy load of fn- formation. and anxious to go off. * Eh, Dolores, my maid ? - can't 'ee guess what's the business ? Maybe I oughtn't to tell — but it's good news, and I am right glad to have it to tell. The madam' — coming closer, and dropping her voice to a whisper — 'is making her will 1' * Her will I' The girl repeats the words, turning pale. ' In -is grandmamma worse, then? Ob, Mrs. Tinker, surely she is not going to ' 'Bless my tender heart, my deary ! No — it isn't that. But she is old, yon know, and eh ! my dear, we none o' us can go on living forever, and it's well to be prepared. The last will left everything to him. It wouldn't do to die sudden-like, and leave a will like that. So there's a new one to- day, my deary, and me and the butler, we've put our names to it. And seeing that I'm that long in her service, and have tried to do my duty faithful, my good mistress, she's had it read to me. And, oh ! Miss Dolores, my maid, thanks and praise be 1 all's left to you, or nearly all. And who has a right to your own grand r>apa'a money, that he made him- self in lawful trade, if not his own son's child ?' She lifts one of the slender white hands, and fondles and kisses it. ' Eh, my sweet, but there'll be a great heiress, when old Tinker's dead and gone. I've been sore afeard, my birdie, that death might come before I would see this day. I couldn't 'bide the thought of all that riches going to him. I never oonld 'bide him, from tirst to last. All for himself, my deary, and longing for the day to come that would make him master over us all. But that day will never come now, for which praise and thanks forever be ! ' The girl listens, silent, startled, pale. * And Sir Vane ? ' she asks. ' Gets a share— not so much, but enough for him. But you are a great, great heiress, my bairnie. You are your grandmother's rightful heiress, and hsve what was left to him before. An-^ right it is that it should be so. I don't .old with giving the chil- dren's portion to the ' * Tinker I ' ' To a far out cousin's son, then t What rights has he, alongside o' yours, Master George's own bonnie daughter? Don't'ee look at me like that, honey ; it's the old madam's own, to do what she likes wi.' 'No, no, Mrs. Tinker, it is not. I mean this new will is unfair, unjust. What ! all these years Sir Vane has been led to expect that he will have the lion's share — has been told it should be so, and new, at the eleventh — Tinker, I must go to grandmamma. It must not be.' 'Eh, my maid, that yon can't. The lawyer is still there, and no one is to go in until she rings. And you would not get poor old Tinker into trouble, would you, my bairn, because she is.too fond of you to hold her foolish tongue? The madam did not mean me to tell you ; she wants to do that herself. Wait, my deary, until she does ; there is no such haate. But I say again, and will always say, that it is a right, and just, and proptr will.' ' There is the bell now ! ' the young lady exclains. 'Go, Mrs. Tinker, and tell her I want to see her. Tell her I must see her before I go our.' Some of the old imperiousness of Snowball is iu the tone, and her ' must ' rules the household. Snowball it is. and yet no such person as * Snowball Trillon ' any more exists, not even ' Dolores Macdonald.' This fair and stately young heiress, in pearls and roses, and silvery silk, is Miss Valentine, granddaughter and idol of wealthy Madam Valentine, a beauty and belle by right divine of her own lovely face, and a power here among the English-speaking circle of the Eternal city. Three years have gone since that July evening, when Snowball's blue eyes looked through her tears on St. Gildas. Three years, and those blue eyes have looked on half the world, it seems to their owner since, but never more on that childhood home. Three years, in which many masters, much money, great travel, polished society, have done ali it lies within them to do for the island hoiden, the trapezeist's daughter. This is the result : A beauty that is a mar- vel ; a grace that leaves nothing to ;be desired ; a well-bred repbse of manner, that even ex:eting madam can find no f.ut with. Sometimes |the old tire and spark e strike through, bub ra^eh^ a grandnamma'g presence. It savours ot the past, and the past is to be forgotten — is to be as though it '6c ti" m had never been — persons, pUoes, alL She is to forget she ever was Snowbtll— ever was anythioK but a graceful blonde prinaess- royal, with servants and courtiers to bow 'down and do her homage ; an heirees, with the world at her feet ; the peerless daughter of all the Valentines, with the sang azure of greatness in her veins. And the girl does her best, not to fc i;;et, but to please grand- mamma, by appealing as though she did. They love each other with a great and strong love — grandmamma's, indeed, waxes on the idolatrous. S>!ice the loss of her son, hers has been a loveless life, a dreary and bar- ren life, a sandy desert, without one green spot. She has tolerated Vane Valentine, never, at the best, any more — of late years she has distrusteer with the will accept list nothing, m and the his time. eth behind his eyes light not sometime — ; perhaps the larger share yet. It ia his right — his right in view of all these years of waiting and expectation. If all sense of justice is not dead in Katherine Valentine, she must see it herself ; she must be made to see it. And so in grim silence and resolution Sir Vane establishes himself in the Philadelphia h'luse, autl waits for them to come. They come — lifteen months from the time they left St. Oildas. And fifteen months of travel, of maatur^, of madam's society, have done much for the wild £(irl of Perdrix. She has shot up, tsUl and graceful as a stem of wheat, with huir like its pale silken tassels, all that is best and brightest in her made the most of, the blonde beauty enhanced — a lovely, womanly girl of eighteen. A vision thus to dazzle any man — gilt as it ia with rc;Hned goll. Sir Vane Valentine looks on with utidazzled eyea. He is too de- fective in circulation ; too cold-blooded, too wrappe eua »H he aeeu it. •Wuat ia your objection?' he coldly aakd. ' There ia a threat disparity,' madam aaya. ' More thaufcwunty yuara. It ia tuu much.' ' You will be guud euou^h to recollect I . have spent thoae twenty yeara in your r aervice — by your desire. Do you think it ia the life I — any man — would choo8e,if left to himself?' There is auppreased passion ia uia tone, fire iu his eyes, auger in hia voice. Madam looka up. A spark hua bjen atruck fioin the manhood within him, aud she likes him none the lesa fur it. ' I forget nothing, my good Vane,' she an- swera, nut ungeutly. ' Compensation is due you. I ailnnt it. My granddaughter la young — she has seen nothing of the world iu one aunae, in spite of her fifteen months of travel -nothing of men. iShe ia a chUd in heart and yeara— a beautiful and innocent child. Give her time, let her aee a little of life before we trouble her with questions of marriage, or fortunes at stake. I love b' very dearly ; there la nothing so near to heart now as her happinesa. If you make it, I am willing — after a time — to sign her to you Indeed, in many waya, for many reasons, I should prefer to see you her husband. I know you. You are of one fjiue — the honour of our name is in your k ^eptng— you two are the last of a very old I f mi y. But iu spite of this, I shall never .ijrce her heart, her inclination. If — in a year from now say— you can win her, do so. I shall favour your suit* Should she accept yiiU, all queationa of conflicting intereata will be at rest foiever. Suould she refuse you, you shall not have wasted thoae best years you apeak of in vain. But she ia to be m/ heiresa — that must be understood. The . balk of her grandfather's fortune shall go to : htsr. Aa your vtife, it wil* come to you in- directly, through her, but the income only — the tortune itaelf shall be settled upon her and her chilaren . 8be is Greorge'a daughter ; her intereat must ever be paramount now. Meantime your chances are good ; you will be with her ; she will see you daily, and leara to care for you — I hope. For you — . you ren e nbt r the words of Shakespeare : • The man that hath a tongue I say ia no man If with that tongue he cannot win a woman.' She rises with a smile aa she says it, and holds out her hands more gently than he has ever known her before. ' You have my wiabea, my dear Vane,' she says kindly. 'I believe it la in you to make a good husband ; aud my Dolores ia a mate for a king ! ' ' Shall I speak to her, sunt ? ' he asks, holding the hand she extends iu both his, 'or shall I ' ' Mo,' she interrupts ; ' not yet— not for a ye»r at least. Let her enj >y tnis one year uf girlhood unfettered aud Ir^ie. Wait this one more year and woo aud win, aud wear her then if you can.' So the compact is made, and Sir Vane Valentine, with stately aud old-time gallant- ry, lifts the jeweled hand to hid lips and so Btals it. Indeed Sir Vane ia stalely, and alow, and stiff, ana solt-mn, and sombre by nature, aud walks throuk{h life in fall dress, as though it were a perpetual minuet. Miaa Valentine meeta hun and gives him one slim white hand, and looks him over with the frank impertinence uf eighteen. * Tall, lean, yellow, sourish ; little bald spot on the top of his head ; eyes like jet beads — don't think I shall like him,' aay tne saucy, blue, learless eyes. ' Uh 1 to have Johnny here — my own ever dearest Johnuy! — or even Rene 1 Life would be too delij^ht- for anything if only it waun't quiie so prim and ceremonious, aud if only 1 nad my two ijya.' . 'And it seems to me I have seen Sir Vane Valentine somewhere before,' she adds, tak- iug a second survey of the baronet. But she fails to place him. Indeed, she had but bare- ly honoured the paaaing guest oi lale Ptrdrix with the most careless aud casual of glances. Miss Dolores Valentine has certainly not got her ' two hoya ; ' but one cannot have everything. She haa her till of the good and pleasant tnings of life. She does not include iha professors who still visit her- her music, and German, and arawing masters —in tbat category, but she does her best to please grandmamma, and takes to dancing and sing- ing by instinct, as a kitten takes to milk. French she is proficient in, of course ; Ger- man and Italian follow in due order. Sbe is apt and ready, a ' quick study,' and bids fair presently to be a very accomplished young woman indeed. Madam inatila the habit of good society, the repose of manner becoming in the daughter of a hundred Valentines. She reads a great deal — history, travels, bi- ography, fiction, poetry — she ia quite raven- oua in the matter of books ; learns riding, and delights in daily gallops over the hills and far away, with a groom behind her. In a quiet way she sees gradually a good deal of seen LOST FOR A WOMAN 99 ie says it, and bly than he haa lear Vane/ she in you to make orud ia a mate unt ? ' he askp, » in buth hia, yet— not for a ' tais one year I. Wait thia ma, aud wear and Sir Vane (1 -time gallant' hid lipa aud ao a ataieiy, aud nd Bombre by i in tiili dreua, minuet. Eiud gives him )ok8 him over t° eighteen. Ii ; little bald eyea like jet I him,' aay tne Oh ! to have areat Johnuy! be too delight- quiie BO prim uad my two Been Sir Vane the adds, tak- net. But Bhe hud but ^are- t lale Ptrdrix tal of glauces. certainly not cannot have the good and :s nob include r- her music, iters —in tbac 3at to pleaae ingand sing- kes to milk, course ; Ger- rder. She is and bids fair liahed youug the habit of ler becoming . Valentines. ', travels, bi- quite raven- arus riding, er the hills iind her. In i good deal of society ; goes out more or leas to youthful, innoxious evening parties, the theatre, the opera ; is admired wherever she goea as a beauty and aa heiress, and leads altogether quite a charmed life. It ia a very different life in every way from that old one, so far off now that it seem j like a dream, but in ita diHerent way, to the full aa good. Every day, every hour, ia full to over- fiowiog with bright and pleasant life. She regreta her boys, and writes to them when she haa time to think — to Mere Maddelena, aiid her,fiieudInaocente|Desereaux, but'their memory is a tntitj dimmed by time, and ab- sence aud new delights. Even Sir Vane, seen with daily familiar eyes, ^rows leas gruesome, lesa el'^erly, becomes indeed rather a favourite cavalier servant, a friend and cousin, without whom the smoothly-oiled wheels of life might jir a little. He so sees to the thousand and one little hourly com- forts — the pit asant petits|souvirs that go to mvke up life, that she tinds herself wonder- ing sometimes how she and grandmamma would ever get on without him. When he rides out with her he is a much more agree- able esuort than the groom ; he attends them everywhere ; half ttie good things she so mucii enjoys would be unattainable with- out him. A.nd he is really not so elderly — and then he 1:2? % title, and ia treated with deference, and is, takeu as a whole, the sort of cavalier one can be proud of. And the ' snmmiug-up of the whole thing is that Miss Valentine decides that she likes Sir Vane very much, aud that if he leaves them, and goes to England, as he talks of doing, &he will m 89 him exceedingly. How it comes about that the truth dawns upon her it would be hard to say. He ad- heres to his contract with the madam, and gays nothing directly. But there are other ways of aayiug than in spoken words. In a hundred ways he makes her see his drift. The blue-bell eyes lift in a sort of consterna- tion) Marry ! she has not begun to think of it. She has literally had no time — she has seen no one — to be looked at twice at least. She is busy thinking of a hundred other things. Marry Sir Vane 1 he wishes it, bonne maman wishes it—she has found that out, too. Sir Vane looks upon the Valentine fortui^ as his right, and bonne maman means to give it to her. That she also learns — who is to say how ? If she marries him everything will arrange itself as everybody wishes ; if she does not, there promises to be worrj and disappointment, and a great deal of bitter feeling. Marry Sir Vane Valentine 1 Well, why not? Why not ? Miss Dolores Valentine has been brought^up in all the creeds and tradi- tions that most obtain in French demoiselle- hood of the haute noblesse. First and fureinoat among theae is the maxim — mademoiselle marries without murmur the parti papa and mamma select. To have a choice of her own, to fall in love — could any- thing be in wcat taste, be.moru vuUar, more glaringly outre aud indelicate ? i'apa aud mamma decide the alliance, there is an iuter- viewatten, under maternalaurvuiiauueduiiug which monsieur is supposed to sic, aud look and j^long, and mademoiselle to be mute and demure, and ready to accept the goods her gods provide. If monsieur be tolerably young, aud agreeable, and good to look upon. BO much the better • if he be old, saus teeth, sans hair, sans wit, sans e>firythiog hue money, so much the worse. But appeal there can hardly be any from parental authority. There is always the cloi»ter ; yes, but woat will you ? We all cauuut have a vocation for the nun's vail, and the couveut grille. And these very old husbands do not live forever 1 She has not thought much in all her bright summer-day life, she has never had occasion for anything so tiresome ; others have done it for her. She knits her delicate blonde brows, and quits Irowns her i^rjtty forehead into wrinkles over this. She even writes, and lays the case— suppositioually before her infallible oracle. Mere Maddelena. Mere Maddelena has been married herself aud knows all about it. Tne answer comes' But certainly, my child, aays notre mere, it is^all light — that. If the so good bonne ma- man wishes it, and great family interests are involved, and he is worthy as you say, and you esteem him, then why hedtaie. A daugh- ter's first duty is obedience, always obedi- ence ; le bon Dieu blesses the 'dutiiui;;hild ' — and so on through four pages of peaky writing and excellent French advice. Jisteem him ? Well yes. But the pretty penciled brows knit closer than ever. How about this love, her poets and novelists make so much of, lay such stress on ; positively insist on indeid, as the first and moat important in- gredient in the matrimonial dish ? Is this kindly, friendly feeling she haa for Sir Vane love ? Who knows ? Notre mere says here* it is not necessary, it may be most foolish and unmaidenly ; esteem and obedience are best and almost always, safe. And then what does it signify ? She likes him well enough, better than any other. Since one must be married, better marry a gentleman one knows and likes than a stranger. A strange gentle- man would be embarrassing ; one would not know what to say to him after marrying him ! But one could always talk to Sir Vane. And he is never tiresome, at least hardly ever I Since marriage or convents are states girls ,,;^;;iMVe>5^l8S B'!'.t lOTM'ICA 100 L03T FOR A WOMAN. are born t<> ohooae between, by nature, and aa Bparks Hy upward, why make tmnhle and vex one'a friends ? Why not accept the in- evitable and the bridefi;room oh laen There is her friend la Oontesxa Paladino, only nineteen, the count nearly sixty, quite fat and gouty, and she does not seem to mind. And la oontessa, who was altogether poor and obscure, and a little nobody be- fore her marriage, is a personage ot import- ance now, and sister-in law to a great nion- signore, who, in his turn, is a great friend of il Papa-ll'). She lives in a big palazzo, and drives on the Corso every day, and mya she did not begin to live until she was la con- tessa. Oa the whole one might do worse, a Milordo Valentine, a^ they call him here, is far better than a Conte Guigi Paladino of Bixty, all fat and gouty. Oue'need never be ashamed of him at least. Her decision, you perceive, is much the same as the bride- groom's own ; it is not what one would most desire, but it might easily be worse. 80 the fair brows unbend, and the inconse- quent girlish mind is made up. Since it must be to please dearest grandmamma she will marry Sir Vane Valentine I CHAPTER III. * TO LOVB OR HATE — TO WIN OR LOSE.' So matters stand on this bright evening, when Miss Dolores Valentine walks up and down the lamp-lit Sala in lustrous evening robe, and listens to Mrs. Tinker and her talk of the new will. No one has ever said to her directly one word on the subject matrimonial, but it is in all their minds, nevertheless, and mademoiselle knows it. Why not take the initiative herself, come generously forward and put them out of their misery. It is through a sense of deli- cacy and consideration for her, no doubt, they hesitate. Well, she in turn will show them she is not lacking in nice perception. One must marry it seems ; it appears to be a state of being no pr tperly reguated young lady can hope to escape — since it must be done, then it were well 'twere done quickly. Of late Sir Vane has been looking more tban commonly black and bilious, and Eugene Aramish ; has talked in moody strains of returning to England, and lather committing social suicide, than otherwise. Bonnemaman has been rather silent and grave, a little perturbed, and as if in doubt, and has contracted a habit of regarding them both with anxious, half'closed eyes. The moral atmosphere is unpleasantly charged with electricity. Mist Valentine feels it incumbent upon her to apply a match and touch it off, and with one graud explo- sion uiear away the vapours forever. ' Mti Tinker,' she says, pausing in her meditative walk, ' go to grandmamma, please ; see if the lawyer has gone, and if she will admit me.' Mrs. Tinker goes. In all things, great and small, this young prinoesi' will is autocratic. In a minute or two she IS back. Madam is alone in the drawing-room, and bids her comd. Gathering up her lustrous, shimmering train. Miss Valentine sweeps away, bearing herself like the regal little personage she is — golden head well erect, slight figure held straight as an arrow. * Bless you, my pretty — my pretty ! * murmurs adoring Mrs. Tinker, ' look where I will, among contessas, and marchc'tas, and them, I see no one tit to hold a caudle to you.' Swinging lamps sparkle like fire-flies down the lofty length of this blue drawing- room. Madam, in black silk and guipures, sits enthroned in a great blue and gilded chair, with rather a weary, care-worn look upon her pale face. But it changes to a quick, glad, welcoming light, as her grand- daughter enters. ' Dressed, my dear ? ' she says ; ' have I kept you wa^tog? It it still toj early, i it not ? • For they are due at a party at the big, grim palazzo of the laughing oontessa — not one of the great Paladino state balls. Miss Valen- tine not being yet properly * out' — a rather small reception— madame's weekly At Home. 'Too early? Yes,' Dolores answers ab- sently. She draws up a low seat, sits close to madam's side, folds her small hands on the elder lady's silken lap, looks up with two, wide, blue, utterly unembarrassed eyes, and plunges at once into her subjeci;. ' Grandmamma, Mr. Tinker says you have been making a will.' ' Mrs Tinker is a foolish old gossip. Bat it is true. Mr. Carson has just gone/ * Mrp. Tinker says it is a will in my favoar, leaving me almost all your money. ' ' Tinker ;s worse tban a gossip ; she is an old fool . But it is true again. I have. ' One jewelled hand rests lovingly,«linger. irigly on the fait head. She looks down with worshipping eyes on the fair, upturned, sweet young face. , My pretty Dolores,' she says, 'you will be — you are— a very great heiress. You are dowered like a princess, do you know it ? ' ' I know that you must be very rich, grandmamma.' * And it is a very fine thing to be very LOST FOR A WOMAN. 101 ipply a match grand explo* jver. using ia her randinamma, gone, aad if I, this young a minute or i,lone iu the (Id. ehimmnring way, bearing onage she is i figure held ly pretty ! ' * look where rcheias, and a candle to ke fire'flies lue drawing- id guipures, and gilded e-worn look shatigea to a I her grand* ys ; ' have I to ) early, -a ;he big, grim —not one of Miss Valen* t' — a rather ly At Home, answers ab* it, sits close II hande on cs up with rassed eyes, jeci;. ys you have ossip. Bat ;one.' my favour, t.' asip ; she is I have.' igly.Jinger- I down with rned, sweet ' you will You are now it ? ' very rich, to be very rich, my dear. It brings the world to your feet, ffave you found that out in these last two years ? All our English circle here in Romy— ay, and these titled Italians also, tilk of the rich id beautiful Signorina Valentine. And you have known poverty, too, there on your island. Which do you fiink is befet ? ' She puts back the strands of yellow hair witi» a oomplacpnt smile, and waits, sure of the answer. Hut that answer is not quite to order when it comes. • I was very happy there on my island, gaandmamma— ah, happy I happy I Every- body was good to me—sio good. And I lov- ed them all dearly. 1 never wanted for any- thing. I never thought of being rich— never wanted to be. But, yes, I suppose it i«i a fine thing ; it gives me music, and books, and pr*>tty dresnes, and jewels, and handsome horstis and oarriagns, and oarties, aijd pleas- ant people, and it mhkea the beggars shower one with ble^sjings ; but somehow, I think I could be quite happy without so much money. It's not everything. I suppose I am not am- bitious. At least,' seeing madam's brow darken, * it's not worth quarreling over, and having hard feelings about. And I am afraid,' nervously, ' there may be much hard feeling about this new will.' ' What do you mean, Dolores i ' a little sternly. ' Don't be displeased grandmamma. Only is it quite fair to Sir Vane ? ' ' It ia quite fair— it is perfectly fair. My money is mine to do as I please with ; to dower hospitals, if I see fit. 1 see fit to give it to my grAiiiidaughter. Wnat more right or natural than that?' *Ye8, );;rand mamma, but still you know Sir Vane expects * 'My dear,' sarcastically, * Sir Vane ex- pected I would die some fiftefn or more ^ears ago and leave him my ducats. I be- lieve he considers him?elf a wronged man, that I have not done so. Perhaps he is no more mercenary and lelHsh than the ma- jority ; perhaps it is natural enough he should wish me out of the way, and my for- tune his, but you see even Sir Vane Valen- tine cannot quite have everything to suit him. I do not think he has much to com- pltia of, on the whole. I do not fetter him any way. If he remains here constantly, it his own wish. I think he finds me liberal in all ways. And if I have re-made my will, and left you my heiress, I have not forgotten him. Something is due him — much is due him. I grant that, after all these years of waiting and expectation. Noblesse oblige, my dear — I forget nothing. I an\ as desirous as he is to see Valentine restored, and the old name, a power in the land once more. Your inheritanon would amply do that. Dolores, you plead hii cause — plead against your own interests. It is possible— child, let me look at you — is it possiblo you care for Vane Valentine V Red as iho heart of a June roue, for a moment, grows the upturned face, but the blue, frank eyes neither falter nor fail. • Ai my very good friend and yours, giand- mamma — ves* I see him every day, you know,' naively, as though that was a reason. ' I am sure I don't know half the time how we would get on without him. * Oh, yes, madre carrisima, I like him very muon I' ' Ah !' grandmamma laughs a sarcastic little laugh, ' in that way — I understand. As you like the family cat ! Vane in a tame cat in his M-ay too. But as a husband. Petite, we have not time to mince matters — it grows late. As a husband, how does Sir Vane strike you ?' The blush fades, the little hands fold re- signidly— a deep sigh comes from the pretty lips. ' Oh, grandmamma, I don't know. It ii very tiresome to have to mairy. Why need one — at least until one is quite, quite old — four and twenty say ? Grandmamma, I wish — I wish, very earneitly, this, that you would destroy this last will. Let it be as it was before — let Sir Vane have the great Valentine fortune, and then it will not be necessary for me to marry him. or anybody. Money makes so much trouble — it is so hard to make enemies, and bitterness, and family quarrels just for its sake. If I aui not an heiress, no one will want to marry nie. I could live with you, for years an years to come, pleasant life of ours, and then — mav be — by and by ' • W^ell ? and by and by ?' says grand- mmama, half amused, half provoked, ' Oh ! you great baby ! how differently you will think when you come t«> that antiquated age — four-and-twenty ! You would hardly thank me then if I took you at your word to-night. No, my dear, as it is, so it shall remain. You are my heiress — it is your birthright. If you have a mind to marry Vane Valentine, well and good ; you might easily do worse, and great interests will then be combined. It is what I would de- cidedly prefer. If you have not a mind, then there is no more to be said — your in- clinations will not be forced, and he must take what I give and be content.' • But he will not be,' says the young lady, ruefully, ' that is the worst of it. And he will look upon me as his rival and enemy, and iae bitter and angry, and feel wronged. If [ have a mind to, indeed I 1 wonder at 102 LOST rOR A WOMAN. you, grAndmkmin* I Of course, I have no mind to him, or any one else, but right is li/ht, and if you with it—' ' I do wish it.' ' And he wiHhe« it — why, then — ' ' You consent, my dearest Dolorea, is that your meaning ?' MadcmniHelle rises hastily to her feet, with a little foteitfo gesture of both hsn^ls, palms downward, but she makes no answer in words, for nt the moment enters Sir Vane, ready to escort them to the party. They ro in silence. The Corso is all ablazfl with light, and thronged with people and carriages, as thoy drive slowly through. Overhead there is a purple sky, golden stars, a shining half-ring of silver ; and Dolores, lying back in a corner, wrapped to the chin in snowy cashmeie and swan's-down, looks up at it, and thinks of the moonlight nights long auo. Bay Cholette. one great sheet of polished silver ; the black crags of Isle Per- drix tipped with shafts of radiance ; the little white cottages, looking like a minia- ture ivory temple. Where are they all— thoy who dwelt together on lonely Ijle Per- drix, now ? Old Tim is there still in his lighthouse ; Ma'am Weesy dwells alone in her cottage ; Johnny is among those who go donnto tie 'great water.' in ships; sn I Kene is— somewhere — studying his beloved ait. It is more than a year ago since she heard from him. He too was traveling ; and that too rt-minds her, she has never answered that last letter. Mere Maddelena is still at Villa des Anges, and Dr. Macdon- aid — ah 1 Dr. Maodonald's name is written in marble, and he has gone to be a citizen of that City whose maker and builder is God. The great, grim stone front of that tall palazzo is all a glitter of light ; music comes to them as they enter. A dashing young officer, in the glittering uniform of the Giiardia Nobile, meets them on the thres- hold, and devotes himself with empressment to the fair Signorina Iiiglese from that mo- ment. He is a handsome lad, and a gallant, a cousin of the Paladin, and deeply, hope- Jessly in love with Meess Valentine. A dim «u?l)icion that it is so dawns on Miss Valen- tiufe'h mind this evening, but she is not sure; she is quite pathetically innocent, for eigh- teen, of the phases and working of thegrande passion. ' May I, grandmamma ?' she says, looking over her shoulder gayly, as, permission granted, she flits away by his side. For Sir Vane— he is distinctly cross. He * 1 J ^'* stand near madam's chair, with folded arms and moody brow, looking darker «nd thinner, and older than usual and frowning on the gay company before him. He watches with jealous eyes, the ffolden head, pearl-orowned, of bis youthful kinswoman with her glitti ring NoMe (hiard t>y her side. Is this to be the end ? The young fellow will be a marchese one day ; he IS in the deepest depths of the sovereign pas« siou. It is patent in his linuid Italian eyea for all the world to read. Is this to ho the end ? And Carson was at the house to day, and a new will was made — a final one this time, no doubt, and the Valentine foitune has been left irrevocably to this amber hair- ed girl. After all his wasted yearn, his lost youth, his hopes, is this to be the end ? ' Is there anything the matter with yon, my good Vane ?' madam asks at last, struck as no one can fail to be> by the dark look his face wears. ' There ii nothing the matter with my health, if that is what you mean,' he an* swers, shortly enough, ' Ah ! that is satiNfactory. Your illness then is a mild disease, I take it.' ' Does it follow,' still curtly, ' that I must be ill at all, beoaase I do not choose to talk in this din ?' Sir Vane has often been irritable — so dis- tinctly as this, never before. But she is in exceptionally good humor herself, and great allowarce is to be made for bir Vane, she is aware. ' If you do not choose to talk, that is an- other thing,' she says, coldly , when you do I have a word or too to say to you, you may like to hear.' * Indeed ?' ' anything pleasant will be rather a welcome change. My let- ters from home to-day were most con- foundedly unpleaa^nt. Everything is going wrong, everything from the manor to the cottagts tumbling to pieces. I musr, go over, Dorothy saye, if anything is to be done. I can go, of course, although I fail to see of whai particular benetit my goinj^; can be. I feel rather hipped, I must confess, in the face of all this. And that does not add to one's comfort.' He motions to where Dolores, still on his arm cf the N be Guard, is waltzing ovtr tie waxed floor, to the music of Gourond. ' It is of that I speak. Come closer, my good Vane, we can talk here as securely as at home. You saw Mr. Carson at the house to-day, I infer ?' • Ye8,'cnrtly. ' 1 have made a will— a new — will — my final disposition this time. The bulk of my fortune is left to my granddaughter— natur- ally.' 'Naturally,' he repeats, with a half sneer, setting his teeth behind his mustacbep and biting babk a sullen oath. • Doloi objiclc'. share. ^ pleaded 'I am —the fu Mhe IB shiu is B obj<]Ct to is a que spoke of it, you w • VVel ' Consi good Va There for a iii( is a noin he bearti. low in after ail eyes, tri tune is pretty — ofl 'All ess ! Oil and now surge an • You piciously derstand • That speechlei There ar You 1 I was it moment thing t( • return h for that ! 'Do ; and lool care for that von •You think,' man see I do da hardly c doubt' ♦ParH very gl spire lo' parity o b 5 over Vane ? - And : her aid* them, I hours i! talk of of the h un eyeii, the bi« y"«thful Sol.'le(Jii»r4 end? The one dfty ; he vereiyn paa> Italian pyet M to he the OUR6 to day, inl one thin ine fnitune amber hair- trn, hia lost » end ? r with yon, lant, struck I dark look ter with my san,' he an- ''our illness that I must ose to talk le— 80 dig. it she is in , and great ^^ane, she is that is an> when you to you, you Dant will My let- moat con- Dg is going >U')r to the at go over, ie done. I il to aee of can be. I Fess, in the not add to atill on hia ng ovtr tie ond. closer, my securely aa the house —will — iny )ulk of my er— natur- half sneer, itache, and LOST FOR A WOMAN. ICS * Dolores diaoovered, and, atrange to aay, obj«jo;c''. She wiahed you to have the larKer ahitre. 8ne oouHidered it due to you, iShe pleaded your cauite mo^t urgently. ' I am intinicely obliged to my fair oouain — the fu ure MuruKusa 8.tlvui ' '•She 18 not your oousui — at least, the ooufin- ehiu ia ao remote that it need not count. I objdot to bhe marriage of uouaina. And thnre ia a queatiou of marriage hure, Vane. We spoke of it, alie aud 1. I tidd her X wiahed it, you winhed it, aud she ' * Well ?'— broathlesHly. ' Consents. Dolores will marry you, my good Vane.' There ia ailence. He standa erect, and for a moment diawa hia breath in hard. It ia a nomeut before he can (|tiite realiz) what he heara. Marry him ! Tiien that Call fel- low in bl»ck and g lit ia no favored lover after all. He looks at her with kindliog eyes, triumphant eyes. At last T The for- tune ii) secured ! And ahe ia pretty — very pretty — yea, beuutilul — a bride to be proud of ! Add she ia dowered like a grand-duoh- ess ! Ouly u moment ago all seemed loat^ and now — Limps, (lowers, waltzes, muaic, surge around him a8 things do iu a dream. * You say nothing,' madam saya, sus- piciously, aud in some anger. ' Am I to un- derstand ' * That a man may Le daze.l, stunned, speechless, from sheer good fortune — yes. There are shocks and shocks, my dear aunt. You have just given me one. — I was in despair — I may tell you now— one moment ago. I meant to throw up every- thing t( -iiorrow, to go back to England, aud return here no more. I thought ahe cared for that fellow. And now — to know this ' Do you mean to say,' demandd mada uj. and looks up at him earnestly, ' that you care for the child apart from her fortune— that von love her, in short ?' • You need hardly ask that question, I think,' he answers, calmly. ' Could any man see her, in her beauty and sweetness, as I do day after day, and not love her 7 You hardly compliment our lovely Dolores by the doubt • ' Pardon. I thoucht— I mean— well, I am very glad. Yes, she ia lovely enough to in- spire love in any one. There is a great dis- parity of years,* with a sigh ; 'hut that must bj overlooked. You will be g'lod to her, Vane • — mv poor little tender one !' And Sir Vane protests, and takes a seat by her side, aud while the music swells around them, and the dancers dance, and the rosy hours fly, they two sit there and plan, and talk of the future, and the restored fortunes of the house of Valentine. CHAlTEll IV. •NOTIIINO COMKS AMt.HS HO MONEY COMES WITHAL, There is a piouio three days after, and they go to the Ville Ludovia . It ia lovjly pio ui. weather, and thd gay little oonteHaa is uevrr happy but when in the midat of something of tilt) sort. T. • lay they a • a narti ca le — Sir N'ane, madam, la conteash, and Doloris. Aud to day Sir Vane dotorminea to put his fate to tlio touch— to spea'i to Dolores detinitely. Not that there ia aay real need of such a pro- uceiiiug, but Sir Vane it not a bVcnchman, and helievea iu djiug this aort ot thing pro- perly and iu order, and in Eiii{li«h fashion. They drive through the suuay streets, where hooded capuchins, and picturesque ar»iB 8 and il wer girls, and fruit-sellers, aud friara of or.iers gray, aud cavalcades with jingling bells, and brown beggars lie in the Buu, aud the sharp chirp of the cioala cracks through the green gloom, and Howers end ; oranve trees, aud roues, and Koman violets, and Vitt tr Emanuerssoldiers are everywhere. Overhead there is a hot, hot sun, but with it there is a bre<>ze, an air like velvet, the streets are a blaze of light, and life, and colour. It ia not the old picturesque, papal picture, of cardiual'e carriages— il i'apa Ke — benign and white robed iu their midst — but a glowing vista of moving life and colour still. Tliey a>oeud to the hti^hts amen? ruins, ami the red petticoats of c<>ndatii ft into the dense kIooiu of olive and ilex woods, where luncheon has been ordered, aud waits them. There ia hard brown bread, aud ciisp, silvery lettuce, and tigi* that ure like globes of gold, aud ice-cold wine. And ft ter dinner as they stand under the sh^^de ot the ilex for a mo- ment alone, Sir Vane finds his opportunity, aud rp -aks. yhe is looking very fair, and very young' — too young, the man ot forty bet'ide her thinks —impatient of those forty years. She ia dressed iu white, crisp, gauzy bilk, as spot- less as her own maiden heart. The amber hair falls long and loose over her shoulders in girlish fashion, tied back with a knot of pale pink ribbon. Her cheeks are flushed with the heat to the same rose pink glow. Thr.^^ glow deepens to scarlet aa she stands,, with white drooping lids, and listens, S'le wishes he would not — she shrinkp, irom wliat he B^y^ His wo dsof love and pv /.am sound forced, cold ; they repel Y\n\ No answering sympathy aws)«es with' a bfjr — she shrinks an stiti hears. Was ik neoe.ssary to say this? Grandmamma has toUl him Love? uo, she feels none of ik.-*shedr,eg not believe he does either. She vi r«lie ved when he ia '1 104 LOST FOR A WOMAN. silent, and looks about her, half incliofsd to run avay. But he baa caught one of her hands, and so huLia her. ' Dear little hand,' he says, clasping it be- tween both bis own, ' when is it to bu mine, Dolores ? ' 'Orandmamma will arrange all that,' answers niademoiselle, aod hastily with- draws it , * it is a matter in which 1 desire to haf e no choice. I should like it to be as far off as possible — ' 'Ah! that is cruel — the first unkind word you have spoken to-day.' •Otherwise.' quite calmly, ignoring the interruption, ' I urn prepared to obey. Anti, 23 "ai time, I , should be glad, Sir Vane, if you will nob speak of this again. It is not needed, and — 1 find it embarrassing.' There is no necessity to say eo : her deep- ly flushed cheeks speak for her. Sir Vane promises with alacrity. He is Dot at all Sony to be rid of the bore of wooing. Her wish renders it easy to make a merit of his own desire. He lights a philosophic cigar, and strolls .ff to enjoy it, as la oonteesa comes up with madam. Later that afternoon, strolling down the hilJaide, Dolores flads herp<^lf alone ; the others have paused to admire a ruin farther up. Where she stands is just beneath a shrine — a shrine set in a tall, precipitous, flawer-crowned cliff -a Madonna, in a little blue grotto, with claspod hands and up raised eyes, and a tiny lamp burning like a star at her feet. Some devout client has wreathed the feet with flowers, but they are withered now and drooping, after the noon- tide glare. It occurs to Dolores to say a little prayer and remend the tlaral offeriog. Wild roses are in a'oundance ; she breaks off some long, spiky branches, wounding 'her fingers in the effort, and mounts some loose laage rooks to reach Our Lady's feet. Standing so, two white arms uplifted, the gauzy nleeves falling back, both hands tilled with rose branches, she is a picture. So the young man lying quietly on the tall grass a few feet iff, watcning her at bis ease, him- , self unseen, thinks. She statids on the stones, and essays to 'twine the ro^es round the base of the statue. rBut her footing is precatious, the topmost • stone — loose aiwaja— slips, fads her. She tries to p asp something, fails in this too, Aud is toppling i^gloriously backward, when like uupeeu watcher springs from the grass, -*"* witii ci;e leap catches her in his arms *n4 8he drops into them with a gasp, a horrified ' Oh V tbeii draws precipitately back. ' Sense 1' begins the rescuer, trying to un- cover, but ac the M)uad of hi& voice, with a second look in his face, there is a quick little scream of ecstasy ; two milk-white arms are flung round his neck, and hold him tight, tight, and a voije brimful and running over with transport, cries out : • eene r CHAPTER V. ' NOTHING COMES AMISS, SO MOXEV COMES WITUAL.' 'Rene! Rene! Rene!' cries this ecstatic voice, 'dou'c you know me? Oh! Rene, how glad — how glad 1 am !' ' Snowball !' he says, blankly. Intense surprise is his first feeliog— his only feeling for a moment— mingled with doubt. 'Is it Snowball ?' * Snowball, of course. Oh ! my dearest, dearest Rene ! how good it seems lo see you after all these years once more !' She loosens her arms by this time, and looks at him again. He stands half laugh- ing, half embarrassed, wholly glad, but not glad iu the sanr>e effusive way. And with that second look, it dawns upon this impul* sive young person that she has been em- bracing a Rene very different in appearance from the Rene of old. This is a tall young gentleman, and, in a dark way, an exceed- ingly good-looking one. And he wears a mustache. And he is a mau 1 And &11 the blood of all the Valentines arises up, in deepest contrition and cuufudiou, in the fair, pearl-like face. It is Rene, and not Rene. And he is laughing at her — that is to say, there is a smile in his dark eyes, and justt lurking at the corners of that new mustache, though he is evidently making a decorous effort tO' efface it. Wnat would grandmamma, and„ oh, what would Sir Vane say if he bad seen. Red as a r Iv th( Trilloi •Hj vitupc you fa anyth of fin< ball, '0- find it LOST FOR A V'OMAN. 105 is a quick milk-white nd holtl him and ruauing XEV COMES thia enstatic Oh 1 lienf , y. Intense only feeling ubt. *Is ic my dearest, 18 10 uee yuu i time, and half lau^h- lad, but not And with this impul' ^s been em< appearance a tall youpg an exceed- he wears a 4.nd G.11 the ites up, iu in the fair, And he ia there is a lutkiug ui he, though IS effort to nma, and» if he had 3 Bweete»t„ picture of ike her ia the hug; e does not, itrary, he as though ckiog. \ tu thick kave been rate that iiow you think. I ou aiwaya ising your so «xaftt> Iv the disputatious tone of wild Snowball Trillon. * Have you never gu'en up your habit of vituperation ?' he asks ; ' or is it only me you favour with it ? I am glad if you keep anything exclusively for me — even yi ur <^ick of finding fault. But my dear little Suow- ball, how glad I am to see you .' ' O-h h ! it has taken you some time to find it out. You are like the man who had so much mind it took him a week sometimes to makn it np. I knew I was glad to see you at first siizht. ' ' You don't quite jound so,' still laui^h- ing ; ' ma foi ! hew iall you are, and how — ' ' Well,' imperiously, ' what ? ' * Pretty. Pardon my out outspokeneas. We never etood on ceremony with each other, you may remember.' ' I remember. I am sorry I cannot re- turn the compliment,' gravely. 'You have not grown up at all pretty, Ilene.' * No ? ' laughing once more. * Ah I how sorry I am to hear that. I never regretted being u^ly before. But handeooie is as handsome does, you know, Snowba'i, and I am doing most handsomely, I assure you.' ' Are you ? At sculpture, I supnose. Do you know, I don't think much of sculptors and artists. Oue sees so many of them. And they are all alike — smoke grimy pipes, wear blouses, and never comb their hair.' ' Mine is cropped within half a quarter of an inch of my heaf Luciter ! Yes, I under* stand. Ah ! they have missed me ; here is grand mama.' Grandmamma ascends the slope, and ex- claims somewhat at the sight of her missing granddaughter, standing quietly here, in deep converse with a ' rank ' siranger. Dolores springs forward, and offers her strong young arm. ' See, grandmamma ! an old friend — the oldest of old friends. You have heard me speak of Rene MacdouaM. This is he.' ' 1 know M. Rene Macdouall very well,* says madam, smiling, and holding out her hand. ' I have hearu his name on su average ten times a day for the last three years. I think I may claim him as an acquaintance of my own, however. I aur^ almost certain I have met him before. ' • Very likely, madam. Rome several months.' * Not in Rome — at a certain sohool fete, at a certain quaint little Canadian town. A young person we both knew played the role of Marie Stuart, and two young gentlemen^ sitting near a certain eloerly lady, very fully and freely discussed the actress.' ' Pardon,.' Rene says, laughing ; 'I recol- lect. Madam has excellent ears and eyes, to remember «o long and so well.' I have been in 106 LOST FOR A WOMAN: ' Grandmamma never forgets a face or a name/ says Misa Valentine, quite proudly ; * she is gifted with a second sight, I think. Dear me I how very, very long ago that day seems now.' • Life has drogcjed so wearily, you aee, monsieur,' says madam, pinching one rosy ear, ' with this young lady since she has b<9en torn from her island friends. Three years appear like a little forever, do you hear ? But I know to my cost, that, 'though lost to sight, to memory dear,' Johnny, Rene, Ino, Weesy, notre mere— the changes have been rang on those beloved names every day, and many times a day, since.' ' And madam has been bored to extinction by us all,' says M, R^ne. ' I fear so much of us in the past will naturally prejudice you against iia in the present.' ' It will not be difficult to make you an exception, young sir,' grandmamma says, graciously. She is in high good hvimour with herself, her heiress, and all the world to-day. * Here come Sir Vane and la contessa.' They come up, surprised in their turn, but in a moment la contessa has recognized an acquaintance. ' II Sitjnore Scultore I' she exclaims. 'My dear Dolo, I told you I was having a bust of myself done, did I not ? No 1 Then I am. I go to the signore's studio every day. You must come with mo tomorrow and see it. The signore does the most exquisite things, I assure you.' Sir Vane, standing a littleapart, comes for- ward at thii) moment, and there is a presenta- tion. Rene bows rather stiffly, and in a mo- ment recognizes the dark, Uitmeless stranger whom he, and Snowball, and Johnny rowed over from St. Gildas that evening years ago. ^ ' So you are the man,' thinks Rene, eyeing bim with but half-hidden disdain ; ' and you etme as a spy.' Next day, what he has hoped for, but hardly dared expect, comes to pass. When ]a contessa arrives to sit for the bust. Miss Valentine is with her. But — his workmen around him; the double doors of his studio open to the world, the sculptor at his work is a dreamer of dreams no more. On the contrary, he is rather a despotic young autocrat. He places la contessa, cives her her directions, requests Miss Videntine rather peremptorily to amuse herself with a volume of designs in the recess of a window, and not talk. That young lady opens her blue eyes at the tone— it is one she has not been used to of late— then smiles a little to herself, and proceeds to examine every article in the studio. In due course she reaches the statute called ' Waiting/ and twitohea off the covering unceremoniously. There is a faint feminine exclamation. Rene, chipping and cutting in silence, is thrilled by it. Then she stands, as he did last night, a very long time looking at it. She glances at him once, rather shyly, but his eyes— dark and stern they look to-day — are fixed on the marble features of the Contessa Paladino. At last she obeys his first command — goes to the window recess, takes up the big book and tries to interest herHelf in the pictures. But she cannot — her thoughts interest h. r more. She lies back dreamily, and looks out of the window instead. A flood of quivering sunbeams, the sound of bird voices, the flutter of multi- tudinous leaves, an odour of roses and jasmine, the plash of a fountain down in the stone court — that is what she sees and hearc , She is in a dream. Rene is yonder — the brother she loves ; she wishes she could sit here and go on dreaming forever ! The sitting ends. A shower of silvery chatter from the vivacious young countess proclaims it as she rise, and flutters her silky skirts. She admires il Sicrnoie Scultore very mu<:h — la contensa. He is handsomer; she thinks, than any work of art in his studio — she admires those lua< trous, beautiful, dark, grave eyes of his, that reticent, stately manner. If only one CDuld have all this and that, too, she some* times has thought. All this means the glory of the world, and the splendour there- of — a big palazzo, family diamonds, weekly balls, all that comes when one accepts a n.)ble husband with sixty years and much gout. That stands foi a tall, slendour artist sposo, with 1 aidsome oyes and grave glances, a dark Saint Sebasti.'in sort of face, and a perfect manner. Only theae things never go together, and one must take which one likes best— no mortal is so favoured by the gods as to have ail. Maaam Valentine, going home from her afternoon outing on the Corso, drives up in s*'ate, presently, for her granddaughter, Sir Vane in attendance as a matter of course, and ofi^ers him a commission. W^ill he make her a bust of Dolores 7 She has wished for one for a very long time, but never could induce the restless child to sit. She ex- claims at the beauty of la conteRsa's, and some others, for though Rene dislikes por- traits, he accepts commissions as yet, being much too poor in fact to decline. One or two rather great people have eat to him, he is bep'*^ning to be known and talked of, and to swim away to the golden shore of success. Will he execute a bust of Miss Valentine, and will he so very good ? It is a blank cheque madam offers in her moat empress* fnoniounly. olamation. silence, is , as he did tin^ at it. »hyly, bat k to-day — res of the obeys his tow recess, to interest I cannot — She lies he window ibeams, the ' of multi* roses and own in the and hearp. , onder — the ) could sit ■ of silvery ig countess lutters her 1 Sienoie sa. He is ly work of those lus- yea of his, I only one she soma- means the dour there- id?, weekly accepts a I and much slendour and grave ort of face, eae things take which voured by e from her Irives up in uji;hter, Sir of courfie, ill he make wished for lever could t. She ex- :es8a's, and islikes por- yet, being le. One or ; to him, he ked of, and of success. Valentine, t is a blank )Bt empresB* LOST FOR A WOMAN. 107 like manner. ' and M. Rene will fill it up to suit himself.' An angry glow suffuses the olive pallor of his face for a moment ; then his eyes lift, fall on the young lady in question, and the reply on his lips— a rather haughty reply, too, dies. What business have impecunious young marble carvers with pride ? it is a sin lor their betters. Let him take his blank cheque, fill it in handsomely, and put it in his pocket. If madam deais with him as a queen, is she not the Great Be^um he called her? Does she not so deal with all trades* men whose wares she purchases ? Let him pocket his pride and his price, do his work, take his wage, and be thankful. Snowball will be here daily, and for many hours each day ; she looks as if she would like the sittings to begin this moment. And so M. Rene Macdonald bows in that grande seigneur manner of his la contessa so much admires, and which would be much more in keeping with the eternal fitness of things madam thiuks, if he wrote his name Don Rene ; and it is settled that Miss Va- lentine is to be immortalized in marble, and that the sittings ate to commence at unce. CHAPTER VL ' whatever's lost, it first was won.* Sir Vane Valentine stands a little apart, and strokes his mustache, and looks cynical. What a fool the old grandmamma is, after all ! And the fellow is so picturesque in that dark green working-blouse, with his four-and-twenty years, and old acquaint- anceship too ! Well ! it is not a question in which he is going to interfere. He is not in love — let her take care of herself. She has promised, and will keep her promise — he knows her well enough for that. What does the rest signify ? The sittin g;s begin. Sometimes' la contesra comes, and plays propriety ; sometimes Mrs. Tinker ; sometimes grandmamma her- self. There IS nothing to alarm any body; they seem on the verge of an open quarrel half the time, these two. Dolores is espe- cially and perversely contradictory and disputatious. Monsieur Rene does not say much ; he smiles in exaE>perating supfri- ority at her perpetual fault finding. But the sharpness, the acidity is only surface deep ; la contessa at leant, sees that. Even Mrs. Tinker has an inkling that the feud between them is not deadly — that it is not absolute hatred that flashes out of the blue eyes when they meet the brown. ' My pretty ! ' that good old person sayn, ' what a handsome pair you two do make i Oh, my dearie, if it was only him and not t'other one 1 ' For MrR. Tinker does not like •t'other one,' does not approve « f the coming . alliance. ' £h, my maid, 'tis but ill always to mate May and December,' she says, with a dismal shake of her head. Never in her life has she liked Sir Vane Valentine : never has she forgiven him for stepping into the place of her lost Master George ; never has she swerved from her first affttctiun. He is in love with old madam's money, not with this sweetest maid under the sun, and she could find it in her heart to hate him for it. ' Don't 'ee, my lovely ! don't 'ee, dearie ! ' she has said, over and aver again — 'don't 'ee marry Sir Vane ! he is no match for thee, my pretty ; he is old enough to be thy father , and he is dour and dark, inside and out. Don't 'ee, my maid !— don't 'ee marry him 1' ' I must, old lady,' Dolores answers, sigh- ing ; ' it is kismet — it is written. Grand- mamma wishes it ; I must please grandmam- ma, you kuow. And I have promised — it is too late now. Sometimes * ' Yes, my maid. Sometimes ? — ' 'Sometimes.' dreamily, half to herself, 'I have wished— of late — 1 had not. If 1 had only waited another day even — ' ' It was the day you promised like, you first met Mr. Re«»ney ? ' says, with artful art- leiisness. Mrs. Tinker. And Dolores starts up from her dreams, flushing to the roc s of her fair hair. ' Hush, nurse 1 What am I saying ? You must not talk of such things. It is wrong — wrong ! ' She lays her hand on her heart, beating wildly. «^' You must not say harsh things of Sir Vane. He is vtjry good, and — and I havo promised. It is too 'ate now.' There is a pathetic ring in these last words; they end in a stifled sob, as she hurries from the room. But it is only that she is very tired, perhaps . she was up at a party, the largest she ban yet attended, last uight, and the weather — Lent is drawing near, and the weather grows oppressive. It is so oppress- ive, indeed, that she dots not go out at all that day, although M. Rene Macdonald ex- pects her, and la contessa, who is more than willing to do chaperon duty, drivett up, punctually for her. Stie has a headache, she says, and' lies in her darkened room, and sends away grandmamma, umler pretence of trying to sleep, and lets Tinker sit be- side her instead, and bathe her hands and head with cologne. She does not go to the studio for a week, although the bust is nearly completed now, and only a few more sittings are required. Weeks have passed since that meeting on the hill aide, and madam is talking of quitting 1^ lOS LOST FOR A WOMAN. %K0 Rome immediately after Easter, and goiug to Florence. They have lingered, indeed, more on ccoonnt of thia veork of art th %n any- thing elae ; and this last whim of Dolores is rather trying in conRequence. It is not quite all whim, though. The girl really droops this warm spring weather, and all her bright, wild-rose colour deserts her. Grandmamma is very impatient for the completion of the work. To have thia marble likeness of her darling will be such a comfort to her when Dolores ts far away. Ic is not a^bust-, as was at first intended; thejidea and the tigure have grown, and the sittings have been mostly standings. It is called ' At the Shrine.' It is a slender girl, with uplifted arms, hands tilled with rose branches, head thrown back, face upraised, trying to reach and adorn a shrine of the Madonna. The pose is grace itself ; every outline of the beautiful hands and arms, every curve of the slight, supple form is there in the marble. The fair, youthful face, like a star, a flower, a rose, is tilled with the sweet seriousness of whispered prayer. Madam is charmed — is lavish of praise. CHAPTER VI. ' You have caught her very trick of ex- pression when she is in church — or looking at a holy relic — or listening to the grand mu»ic of a mass. I can never thank you BUtfiuiently, my dear M. Rene, for this trea- sure.' ' M. Rene has all the talents,' cries la con- tessa. * I think I like best our Dolores when she is a little mutinous — coquettish — what you will. Not with that look of the angele. She is everything there is of the most charming, but she is only a girl after a'l.' She glances keenly at the silent artist. ' How say you, M. Rene ?' she demands, gay}y ; ' is our Dolores most charming as an angul— a saint tike this,' tapping the marble face with her fan, 'or as we kn'>w hci- — a bewitching, alluring little coquette /' ' A coquette,' repeats grandmamma, not best pleased. ' Dolores is never that. The child is a perfect baby where that fine art is concerned — who should know that better than you, contessa mia — past mistress as you Are of the profession.' But the little countess only laughs at the rebuke, still looking at the sculptor. ' Signer Rene declines to commit himself. Well, he is very wise. You will have an ex- quisite likenebs „t least, madame, of our dearest Dolores when — by the by, 'innocent- ly.' ' when is it to be ?' ' In the autumn,' madam ana wen, absent* ly, her glass still up, exclaiming critically the statue, ' thry will spend the winter in travel, and go to England in the Soring, I shall remain in Rome, I think.' She sighs and drops hfar glass. ' When will you send me my treasure, Mr. Macdonald ?' ' In a very few weeks now, madame.' He answers gravely, buR li cou tessa still keenly watching, is not much the wiaer. He is always so grave, this austere ynung M. Rene ; it becomes him, she thinks. One cannot figure him frivolous, or frittering his time away with foolish talk and teeble platitudes. Silence is golden on such lips as his. But all thu same he is hopt-lesslv, irre* trievably, despairingly in love with Dolores Valentine. It chances — for the first time in all these months of meeting — that next day Miss Valentine and >.. Rene find themselves alone together, in the studio. Mrs. Tinker ia there, it is true, in the flesh — in the spirit she is countless worlds away in the land of dreams. It is a very warm afternoon, there IS that excuse for her. And the slumbrous rustle of the leaves, the twitter of the birds, the heavy perfume of the flowers out- side the open window, are soporific in their tendencies. The sitting is almost over ; Rene has chipped away in the drowsy still* ness, without a word, Miss Valentine too is half asleep in the perfumed g'-eeuish hush. It is near the hour of Ave Maria and tb« time to go. And there is to be but one more coming after this. ' Only one more,' he says aloud, as if in answer to her thought. 'Can -you realize that it is almost three months sii^ce we met there at the villa Ludovisi? When have months so flown before? ' She sighs, and is silent. Yen, they have flown — life's best days always do fly. ' You leave Rome soon ? ' Ueuti as'tr. 'Next week,' another sigh. ' I suppose you stay on, Rene ? ' ' At my work — yes, I have all I can do. Snowball, suddenly stopping in his chipping and looking at her full, ' you are going to be married ? ' It is tVio first time, the very first, that the subject has ever been alluded to. Sir Vane has been there many times, of course. And it is no secret, and la contessa has discussed it freely. Of course he knows, has always known, but no syllable has ever passed his lips before. His eyes, his voice, are stern now ; she feels arraigned guilty. Her head droops, her eyes fall before his. 'Yes, Rene.' 'To Sir Vane Valentine?" 'Yes.' A pause. LOST .VOR A WOMAN. Ii09 ; critically i winter ia Surio^, I She sighs 1 you send dame.' lutesaa still wiser. He yi'ung M. ir.ks. One ttbrmg bis aud treble Ducii lips as leaslv, irre- itb Dolores in all these day Miss selves alone Tinker is n the spirit the land of -noon, theie i slumbrous ter of the lowers out- ■iBu in their most over ; irowsy still- ntine too is senish hush, ria aud the >ut one more ud, as if in ^ou realize ice we met When have they have tiy. k! as'tr. 1 suppose 1 I can do. his chipping going to be st, that the Sir Vane urse. Aud diacuBsed has always r passed his e, are steru lity. Her his. .8 He works again ; Mrs. Tinker sleepb. Slanting suubeams quiver about them ; Dolores droops a little in her chair. ' Do you remember,' he says, presently, •the way we parted on Isle Perdrix? Do you remember our last walk — our last talk 7 I asked you then not to marry this man, and you ' 'Rene!' * And you said you would not. Even then, you see, I was among the prophets, I felt it would come. Snowball,' suddenly again, in deepest, tersest tcues, ' why do you marry him ? ' 'Rene ' ' Why do you marry this man ? You do not care for him ; he cares nothing for you. There is the fortune — yes. Is money every- thing, then ? are you, too, mercenary, Snowball?' •Rene, listen ' ' ' • ' ' ' "' ' • Ah, what is there to say ? I know — I know." Your grandmother wishes it — you owe her much — he wishes it ; a fortune is at stake. Yes, I admit all that. But there is something else in marriage besides money ; there is love. Where is the love here? There is love of riches ; Sir Vane has that, 1 grant you. But are you to be so bought and sold, Snowball ?' Her answer is a sob ; she covers her face with her hands. • He icaves her nothing to say. Love ! What is this rapture that fills her as she listens — tills her with ecstasy and agony at once ? He throws down chisel and n^allet, and comes and stands beside her, with ail that is in his heart. •Is it too late?' he asks. 'Siovball, listen to me — look at me. My heart's dar- ling, don't you know that I love you ? How can I see you given to this mart — so old, so c( 1( ,, so mercenary, so unworthy, and not speak ? I have no right — no, I am poor, a struggling artist ; you are an heiress, but you are my Snowball too, whom I have loved always — always, always !' * Always ?' she repeats, and tries to laugh ; ' how can you say so ? We have been quar- relling all our lives.' ' Ab, there are quarrels and quarrels. I have loved you always. How can I stand by in silence and see you given to this love- less marriage — this unloving man ? It is never too late. Snowball j draw back while there is yet time.' •There is no time ; it is too late. No one urged me, only I knew it would please them all. That very day of our first meeting, not an hour before you came upon me, I gave him my word.' 'One hour before— one hour too late !' he says, bitteriv. ' Well, perhaps there is a late in these things. What hope could there be forme, at the best? Yonr grandmother would never have given you to me. It he were but worthy — if he but cared for you, you for him, ever so little, I would die before I would Bpeak . I would have bidden God to bless you, and gone on my way, my secret in my heart, to the end. But it is be- cause I know you will not be happy. Happy !' he starts up, and begins walking; up and down, with flashing eyes ; 'you will be miserable ! That man is capable of any baseness — of being brutal, even to you.' • Rene, hush ! you frighten me. You must not. Oh, how wrong all this is. Do not say another word 1 How can you make me — make me ' She covers her face again, and cries aloud. ' Forgive me !' he says. He is by her side in an instant, stricken with remorse. ' You are right. 1 will say no mote ; I should not have spoken at all. But your happiness is so dear to me — so dear. I (vould give my life to secure! it. And after to-morrow we may meet no more. The thought o" that has been maddening to me all these weeks ; the thought that so soon —as soon as you will be that m^n's wife, and cone out of my life for- ever ! Fp*' deals hardly by some of us. Snowball. ' There is silence for a little. He stands by her chair. Has the weeping ceased ? The drooping face is hidden still ; the loose bright hair vails it, and falk across his arms, as he leans lightly on her chair-back. • Snowball,' he says, ' little friend, tell me this. I will ask no more, and it will be something — everything— in aJl the years without you, that are to come. If I had been sooner that day on the hill-side — that fatal first day ' He breaks off, he can see the quiver that goes throu&;h me bowed figure as be speaks, but man-like, he will not spare her. • Tell me,' he pleads, • one word only, it is so little — so little, Mon Dieu, and 1 lose so much ' But the word does not come. There is a movement instead, a small cold hand slips into his, the slender, chilly fingers clasp his close. He is answered. • Miss Dolores, my maid,' murmurs a sleepy voice, • it is nearly over ? I've been dozin a bit, I'm afeard, ia the stillness like and the heat. There's them evening bells ; it must be time to be going.' So Mrs. Tinker brings them back •-o the world, and out of their dangerous dream. Ave Maria is ringing from campanile and belfry, up against the purple Roman sky, and it is time to go home to grandmamma, and dinner, and Sir Vane. ,^ It ia very warm W no LOST FOR A WOMAN. c still, the air quivers with a sort of white after-glow, but the girl shivers as she rises. It is going straight out of paradise to — well, to a gray, grim, old-fashioned house, and gray, grim, old-fashioned people. But duty calls, and there is a silent hand.clasp, and she goes. The carriage is w iting outside the'wide stone court, and they enter and are driven away. Long after they have gone, long after the workmen depart, long after Ave Maria ceases ringing, long after golden clusters oorue out, and burn in the purple. Rene Macdonald stands there with folded arms, and stares out at the gemmed, flower- scented twilight with blank eyes that see nothing of the beauty, with blank mind that holds but one thought — a thought that keeps iterating itself over and over again with the dull persistence of such things, putting itself into words of its own volition, and diugdiuGiing through his brain : ' One hour too late ! One hour too late I CHAPTER VII. ' FIRE THAT IS CLOSET KEPT, BURNS MOST OF ALL.' Madam's treasure, ' At the Shrine,' comes home duly, and Miss Valentine goes no more to the studio. Whether la contessa has dropped a hint, whether madam herself suddenly awakens to a sense of latent danger, whether Sir Vane has sneered audibly ia spite of himself, who knows ? Miss Valentine goes no moro to the studio, and by grandmammthe way of all flesh. At this moment the door opens suddenly, and a young lady — an apparition, it seems to Jemima Ann — in gray silk and amber ring- lets, comes in, and pauses at fcight of the stranger. ' Ob, come in, my dearie I' says MiS. Tink- er. ' 1 was just going to you to ask your advice. You've often heard me speak of Je- mima Ann, who was so good to you when you stopped for a week at her aunt's, acd who waited on ' — lowering her voice — ' your poor ma ? ' Well, this is Jemima Ann, Miss Do* lores, my |lovey, and she is out of a place, aod ' But the young lady waits for no more. Her fair face flushes up, she crosses the room and holds out both hands. ' And you are .Jemima Ann I Oh ! I have beard all that — of your goodness and affec- tion — all that you did for me, for my poor mother, in the past. I was a bal^y then, too young to know or thank you, or feel grateful — but I feel all now. I thi^nk you with my whole heart. If there is anything we can do for you — anything — you may be sure it shall bedono.' Jemima Ann gasps, stands, stares. • You !— you !— why. Lor' I You never air little Snowball, grown up like this I' ' Little Snowball — no one else — to whom you were so very, very good. N<.t so little now though, you see. And what are you doing in Rome, of all places, Jemima Ann V LOST FOR A WOMAN. Ill she is Hum- ng-room, to and rather ler a young roclaim her rord. Taat kely, • Mis' In a nervous t is a pretty afore— niKh claims Mrs. B9 in direst isn't Jemima rul glad you ith a family, w, the lady, o' p I ky and so I'm out o' Mis' Tinker, ad poor Aunt Ann pats her Mra. Tinker itha has gone ae best, must h. 3D8 suddenly, n, it seems to d amber riog- j bight of the rs Mi'S. Tink- to ask your speak of Je- you when you nt's, acd who — • your poor inn, Miss Do- Lt of a place, for no more. isses the room Oh 1 I have less and affec- for my poor »aVy then, too r feel grateful . you with my ing we can do le sure it shall itares. You never ce this 1' llge— to whom iNc.t so little phat are you lemima Ann ? Jemima Ana explains, with considerable oonfusioo, caused by the shock of hudiog little Snowball in this graceful young ?ady. Aunt Samauthy died, the boarders dispers* ed, Jemima A'ln went down to Boating (strong na^al twang on the first syllable, (Look anrviuH there with a lady out of health. Be'u liviu' with that lady right along Fence. Lady ordereii to Europe by doctors for change of air. To ik Jemima Aun with her as kind o' nurse- leader. Up and died, here in Romp, a week ago, after all her trouble orostiiu' over. And Jemima Ann finds her- self a stranger in a strange land. By chance she had heard the Valen- tine family were here, and allowed Mia' Tinker might be atill with them. On that chance has come, and — is here. ' And here you shall stay ?' cries impetu- ous Miss Valentine. ' Why should you think of going back all that way and friends who owe ycu so much here ? Some day I will go back myself if I can,' — a wistful, longing, homesick look comes into the blue ayes — ' and I will take you. Meantime,' — gayly — 'consider yourself my maid.' 'And that is little Snowball !— little Snowball I So peart, and chipper, and sassy, and cunniu'-like, as she used to be I Little Snowball growed up into such a beautiful and elegant young lady as that !' says Jemima Ann, still dazed. Shj accepa the offer, of courae, ' r'ghtghd to get it,' as she says, and is especially de- tailed oil into Miss Valeutinb's particuL - service. Sir Va .le puts up his glass, an 1 stares at her, the 1:; :r time they chance to meet, aa though she were a monster of the antedelu- viau world come to light here in this Roman household. Certainly she is as unlike as possible their Italian servants. He has for- gotten, of course, the slipshod handmaid of the Clangviile boardius; house, but Mias Hopkings has not forgotten him. • Oh ! you may stare,' she remarks, men- tally ; ' you aint so ni'ich to look at your- self, when all's said and done. You never weie a beauty the beat c' times, and fifteen years standing to sou' ain't improved you much. I'm awful sor*^/ to hear Misa Snow- ball is going to throw herself away on you. Don't know what she sees in you, I'm sure. I wouldn't hev you if you was hung with diamonds — 'though you mayn't think so. Madam hf is her eyebrows over this latest whim of Dolores, but laughs and makes no objection. She will be an unique maid cer- tainly, but if it ia the child's fancy— and a servant more or less in an establishment like this matters little. She is an American, friendless in a foreign laud ; it is like the dear girl's gentle, generous heart to compas* sipuate and care for all such. But if madam knew — knew that this atolid, homely, rather clumsy Yankee woman had closed the dying eyes of Mile- Mimi Trillon, had min- istered to her for days before, knew the whole wel' hidden secret of the trapezist's life and death — be very sure the massive portona of the old Roman house would never have seen her pass in, ani many leagues of blue water in- tervened between her and the fair, stately daughter of the house. But grandmammas are not to know every- thing ; the long, long conferences of the past are held with closied doors, in the dim, fra- grant dusk of mademoiselle's boudoir. Ly- ing back, her sliai tii;ure draped in those pale lustroys silks and Hue laces madam loves to deck her darling in, her fingers laced be- hind her golden head. Miss Valentine nestles in the blue BtCiin depths of her low chair, and ll8^en8 by the hour to Jemima Aun Hopkins, telling of that time so long ago, when little Suobwall Trillon came sud- denly into her life to brighten its dull drab, and of the beauty and brightness, and tragic death of the young mother. Of the belated suppers, of the many lovers, of the hilarious state in which poor Mimi sometimes came home, she discreetly says nothing. Jemin a Ann has a delicacy and tact of her own, under her ginger coloured complexion and down- east dravil. •At the Shrine ' comes home, and is placed in madam's most private and particular sit- tingroom, with a pink, silk curtain so draped as to throw a perpetual rosy glow over it, and friends come and gaza, and ad- mire, and other orders flow in upon the talented young artist. Only the young lady herself says nothing— she stands and looks at it, with loosely clasped hands, and a misty far away look that madam has an especial objection to in her great star-like eyea. 'Well, Dolores,' she says, sharply, 'are you asleep— lu a dream— that you stand there, and say nothing ?' Do you not admire this exquisite gem ?' ♦It ia very pretty, grandmamma.' ' Very pretty, grandmamma,' mimicking tlie liatlesB tone, ' and that is all you find to say. I must tell this to my clever Mr. Rene, that you are the only one who has not seen h?i statue and not been charmed. I say he has caught your very expression— it is the moat perfect thing of its kind I ever saw. It will be a great— the greatest com- fort to me, when I - when you are gone.' 'Dearest grandmamma.' The girl comes and puts her artns about her, as she sits, and the fair head droops in her lap. ' You are too 112 LOST FOR A WOMAN. good to me. You love me too much. No one will ever care for me a>;oinf? away.' •Nonsense, my dear. An old grand- mother, however fond, cannot expect to keep her little one to herself always, /i.nd what do you mean by one loving you again ? Sir Vane ' • Ah,* says Dolores, and something m the sound of the little word makes madam pause a moment. ' You doubt it? Yon need not my dear. He is fond of you— very foud of you, believe me. He is reticent — reserved by nature — it is not his way to show it, and he is older than you — it is the one thing I object to in this union, but for all that, my dearest, T am confident he loves you wih ail his heart.' •Ahl' repeats Miss Valentine, and laughs, "has he told you so, grandmamma ? It is more than he has ventured to tell me. With the best inclinations in the world to be credulous in suuh a point, I fear the effort would be too great. But what does it mat- ter after all,' a si^h htre, that is half a sob, * it will be all the same fifty years hence.' ' My darling, that is a dreary philosophy from youthful lips. Why are you so sad — so listless, of late, so weary of all that used to set you wild with delight ? Is it that you are out of health — that this heat ' ' Oh yes, grandmamma I ' rather eagerly ; ' that is it — this heat. Any one would wilt, with the thermometer up among the nine- ties. And the spring is so long, so long. I gri)W tired of this perpetual staring sun- shine, and the omell of the roses and orange trees. 1 would give a year of my life for one day of poor old Isle Pordrix, and its sea fogs, and bleak whistling winds.' And then, to madam's infinite dismay and distress, all in a moment, the fair h?ad is buried low, and the slender form is rent and shaken with a ver tempest of sobs. > ' My child ! my child ! ' io all madam can say in her deep consternation. ' Oh I my little one, whac is this ? ' But with a great effort, the summer tem- gest ends as quickly as it began ; a few ysteric sobs hurriedly suppressed, and then a great calm. ' Forgive me, grandmamma — dear, dearest, best grandmamma that ever was in the world — forgive me for this I I did not mean — only I am so tired, so tired out with it all. If I were away, I would be better. Take me away from Rome, grandmamma. ' ' Is there anything in it ? ' thinks madanA, in dire dismay, a little later, and alone. ' Did she go too much to that studio ? He is very handsome, and she knew him always. How foolish, how extremely foolish and rash, I have been I ' But it is not too late yet — at least madam thinks so ; one may always hope so much for yonng persons under twenty and time and distano are such capital cares. They depart at once, with their maid ser> vants and their man-servauts, and the hou^e in Rome is shut up for the present. Madam proposes, drearily enough, to occupy ib with her faithful Tinker this winter alone. * * * » • M. Rene Macdonald, among his clay casts, and plaster figures, and brown, dark eyed Roman models of saints and brigands, works away alone these sul ry M >}| lays. He does not mind the heat, lie likes ix, ; he is absorb- ed in his work, feverishly so, indeed. He grows thin in these long, lonely, hard-work- ing hours ; his brown eyes — ' eyes like golden Geuor velvet,' la coutessa has once said — take a deeper, darker orbit ; his olive cheeks grows hallow. ISu la contessa, who Hits in and out at times, like the birds of Paradise she is, tells him gayly. But he grows no less handsome, bhe thinks—pining, pouf ! for la bambioella. Pretty ? Yes ; ia contessa could make a prettier face in pink and white wax, any day 1 And it is for her this Signore Rene, who looks like one of his own gods, and carries himself like a king ; who bas the face of a R iphael, and the geti.is too — grows thin and silent, and stern, and shuts himself up like a hermit in his cell. \j% contessa does Signore Soultore the honour to be deeply inierested in his face, introduces him to half his patrons, lavishes invitations upon him, and meets with the usual reward of goodness ia this world — in- difference, ingratitude. M. Rene wishes, irritably enough sometimes, this flirting little butterfiy would spread her gorgeous wings, and fly off to other victims and leave him alone. But la contessa thinks other< wise — she can plant her sting like a wasp, butterfly though she be. If this artist —marble like his own crea- tion — will not fall down and admire, shd will at least awake within him some other > f eel« ing. He munt be human at least in some- things^ — human enough to feel pain. All she can inflict he shall have as his punishment. She flutters in to tell him in her vivacious way when the Valentine's leave Rome ; she flutters in to tell him cue sparkling October day, just five mouths later, of a fashionable marriage at Nice. He has spent these months in the solitude of his workshop, and sculpture at its best, is not a sociable art. He has been working hard, commissions have been plentiful LOST FOR A WOMAN. lift >U>h and ,Bt madam ) much for time and maid ser- , the hou^e Madam ipy ib with Due. • I clay castB, dark eyed ,nds, works 1. He doea I ia abBorb- ndeed. Ho hard-work- • eyes like la has once t; hia olive utessa, who the birds of ly. }iut he ika— pining, ,y ? Yes ; la face in pink it is for her le one of his ike a king ; lel, and the t, and stern, lermit in his ouUore the I in his face, 08, lavishes its with the g world — in- ene wishes, this flirting er gorgeous 19 and leave ;hink8 other. Iif.e a wasp, ^ own crea- aire, she will I other - f eel- aat in some- iin. All she Ipunishment. ^ vivacious P Rome ; she [ling October fashionable I the solitude at its best, leen working plentiful ennngh, and a fair guerdon n{ both fame and ^old has been won. He might have woo friends, too, frienda well worth the winning, had he ao chosen. But he ia un- Bouiiil in these days ; evon amona; his brothers of the chisel he cares to cultivate few frieniiships. But he is in fairly good spirits on this particular day, for the early fiost has brought him a letter from a friend, oDg liviug ia Russia, but now en route for Rome. Piiul FarDvr is on his way to Italy, and it is to Paul Farrrtr, Rene owes everything, the recognition and cultivation of his talent — his ftfciidio in R »me, his first aucoesa. In a couple uf weeks at most Paul Farrar will be here. So R^ne i^ whistling cheerily as he ciiins. and for onue the haunting ghost that seldom leaves hini ia laid — a ghost in ' sheen of satin and shimmer of nearls' ' °th bright hair anii biuH-hell eyes. Tnen, litie a scented, silk-draped aupiritiou, the Contessa Paladi- no stands before him. She la not alone — a Neopolitan marchese and a British attache form her bodyguard, Shu has Leen absent from Rome nearly all summer, and is full of uparkliug chatter and silvery talk as usual. * And the wedding is over — mi^^prdo's — but you have heard that, of course, signore mio ?' she says, gayly, apropos of nothing that has gone before. * I hear nothing, madame. News from the great world never pierces the wallsof my work shop, except what you are good duuu^h to tell me.' The little touch of sarcasm in the last are not lost on la contessa. Neithei is the quick contraction of eyebrows and lips, and a perceptible paling of the dark face. ' Che I Che ! then it is for me to give you the good news. But I surely thought — such friends as you seemed— that she would have done it herself. And it is all quite two weeks old, and you have not heard.' She has her victim, as naturalists impale beetles, on a pin, and watches with dauoinf?, malicious eyes the efiFect of her words. But ho works on, and gives no sign. * Li Signorina looked lovely, exquisite— every one said so ; and Dio mia ! how she was dressed I Itwaathe wedding-robe and jewellery of a princess. The bricie-maids — eight of them— were all English ; four in pink and four in blue. Milordo was solemn and stiff, and black as usual— blacker l.han usual, I think. They are to travel until spring, and then return to their native fogs. Bonne mamma comes here you know. Of your charity go to see and console her, Sig- nore Rene; the poor grandmamma I She ia desole soonaolato.' He says something ; it ia brief, and aounda inditfereiit, and still works on. 'I aaw Sir Vane and Lady Valentine,* says the Englishman, who is examining thr figure * Waiting ' through his glass. • She i* very beautifnl, quite the most beautiful per- son I have — ' he checks him.«elf just in tim for la cnntflssa's eyes are already looking.dafj gers — ' this face resembles her, I think. 1 * jt aportait ?' And Rene works on, only cnnscioua of on thing — an nnutterel wish that they woul go. But they do not. Tney linger, an • look, and admire, and criticise, until he feels as if the Hounil of their voices were driving him mad. La contesRa remains until she is absolutely forced to depart, and goes with a petulant sense of disa)ip>iintment under her gay * Addio pipnore.' Sie really cannot tell whether this exa>jperating young sculptor, as I crnoon of a raw and rainy October day. x^n express is thundering rapidily Romeward in even more of a hurry than usual, for it is trying to make up half an hour lost time. In - compartment there flits by himself a man, bearing upon him, from head to foot, the stamp of steady travel.' He is big, he is brown, he has dark resolute eves— eyes at nnce gentle and strone, kindly and keen. The mouth suits the eyes ; it is rquare-out, determined looking, with just that upward curveat the corners that tells you it would nob be necessary to explain the point of a joke to him. Hia hair is profuse and dark, sprink* led a little with gray, though he looka no- more than forty, and is inclined to > e kinky aud curl. His square, broad shoulders and erect mien give him a little the look of & military man~. But he is not : he is only ib successful speculator, co»ning to Rome after a prolonged sojourn in Russia and the East. n i 114 LOST FOR A WOMAN. C A fevr (lays ago he landed at Maraeillea, uow he in speeding aloag rt a tbunderint( rate toward the Utdy City, and » certain greatly eHteeined, young friend he expects to . lind ttiere. ' Rene won't know me with all the beard off,' he thinks, stroking from custom the place where a heavy mustache used to be. ' It was a pity, but it had to gA. It was ho • confoundedly hut there in Cairo I would have taken ufl my tlush as well, if I could, and sat iu my bunes. Let us hope no one who ever knew me in the old days will bo loating around Rome. If so, I shall be found out to a dead certainty.' For it is Paul Farrar, minus that silky black-brown beard and drooping mustache thst became him so well. The ohangfl alters him wonderfully. It is the Georgu V.ilen- tine of twoandtwenty years ago ; somewhat bigger, somewhat browner, much more man- ly and distinguished-looking, but otherwise BO much the same bright, boyish-looking George that any one who bad ever known him in those old Hays — before he was drown- ed in the Btlle O'Brien — must have recog- nized him now, despite that melancholoy foot, almost at a glance. • if I were going to the New World now,* he thinks, half smiling, as they fly along, ' instead of the very oldest city of the old world, it would never do. I don't covet re- o'>goition at this late day. No good could come of it. I am unforgivfin still, and every- thing is disposed of, as it should be, to the little one. Pity she married Sir Vane — never will be half good enough for her. let him try as he may. But I don't think he will try. Rene would have suited her — pity, again, they could not have hit it off. Not that madam would ever have consented — her hopes and ambitions are the same to- day as they were when her only son dis- appointed her, like the headstrong young ' fool he wa Ah, well, these things are -written in Allah's big book — it is all Kis- t met together. Whom among ua is stronger y than his fate ?' The train stops at a station and Mr. Far- rar gets out to light a cigar and stretch his legs. A drizzling rain is faliins, a chilly -wind is blowing, he pulls down his felt hat, pulls up his coat collar, and strides up and down tne platform during the few minutes ■ of their stay. Doing so he glances carelessly into the carriages as he passes. One, a first-class compartment, holds two elderly women, a lady, evidently and her maid. The lady, a grand-looking personage, of serene mien, and silvery hair an.i face, rests against the cushions with eyes half clo^ied. . The servant sits near the window and gazes out. At sight of these two Mr. Farrar re- ceives such a shock that for a moment he stands stands stock-still, a petrified gazer. His face pales startingly under his brown Kkin, he Ijoks as though he could not be- lieve his own aense of si^ht. That woman looks at him, sits up, looks again, with a low, frightened ej icuiation, and glances at the miittreH9. A second later, she looks out again — in that second he in gone. 'What i<« it, Tinker?' aitks, wearily, MadaM "tine. *0 ami my doar mistress, I saw a man, v .^iy a glimpse of him, but it made me think of— of ' • Well ?• pettishly. 'Master George. It was that like him. Dear heart, what a start it did give me, to befcurp.' ' Nonsense,' madam says, sharply. ' How can you be such an old idiot, Tinker. You should have more regard for my feelings than to speak that name in that abrupt way. Does' it stili rain?' 'vearily. 'Tinker, I wonder where my dear child is by this time ?' ' lu better weather than this, poor lamb, wherever it is,' responds Mrs. linker, with a shiver. ' Lawk, my lady, I feel chill to the bone. I do hope now Anselmer will see to the flres all through the house. It would be the very wust thing that ever wus, for you to go into dnmp rooms after such a journey as this.' ' Do you think she looked happy. Tinker, when we left t' pursues madam, unheeding the weather, absorbed in the thought of her resigned treasure. ' She cried, of course, at the parting, but do you think she looktd happy, and as a young biide shuuld? I grow afraia sometimes— afraid * ' Well, ma'am, to speak ) lain truth, Sir Vane ain't neither that young, nor that plea- sant as he might be. I always thought him a melancholy and sad gnntlemac, myuelf. But tastes differ. Maybe Miss Dolores is happy.' Mrs. Tinker's face, as she says it, is dismal beyond expression. ' I'm sure I hope and pray so, poor sweet young lamb- no more fit to be used bad than a baby. But ' She breaks oft as her mistress has done- unfinished sentences best exprees their fears. Both are filled with foreboding and vague re- gret, now that the deed is done beyond all recall. Her darling is not haypy — she sees that at last. And the fault is hers — she wi o would give the remnant of her old life to make her BO. She has, indirectly at least, forced her into a loveletis marriage, with a man double her age, a man ill-tempered and mercenary, a man uo more capable of valuing the s^'ett- ness, b< has of I deed. and she the arnr the rer upon h latel The evening 5^ he doa the Bin' unrest t the we(l old friei thero t the new tines ; ii a proloo if all is The loc with wh the part night an she afraii 'Oh, u old lips r you back should ta with agli And tl face— a r deep, ser young ti altogethe mate, eve heiress •She pang; given hei happy . always — s without h he has ta she said t( — is mon why did I he will no the fortui stake.' But this very heavj wet, wild toward th bells of Eo Suddenl- of the carri the sound screams, a heaven stri ness. LOST FOR A WOMAN. lis Farrar re- moment he tied g»zer. his browa nUl not be- 'l»at woman (tin, with a gUncei at >e louki out • 9, wearily, ess, I BftW a it made me lat like him. L give roe, to ply. • How inker. You feelings tbau abrupt way. •Tinker, I d is by this 9, poor lamb, linker, with feel chill to elmer will see le. It would r wus, for you ich a journey appy, Tinker, in, unheeding bought of her of course, at k she looked ould 1 1 grow lain truth, Sir luor thai ple»- Is thought him smac, royaelf. iiss Dolores is |as she says it, • I'm sure I youue lamb — than a baby. Us has done- rs their fears. t and vague re- bne beyond all [ypy — she sees fhers— she wlo lid life to make ^ast, forced her I a man double Ind mercenary, liug the B^vett- ness, beauty, youth, he has won, than he has of doing a great, generous, an unseltish deed. Her ohild wished to remain with her, and she forced her from her — thrust her mto the arms of Vaue Valeutina. And now that the remorse, and sorrow, and fear, come upon her, it is too late — for all time, too late t The train rushes alon j( on its iron way ; evening oiusing, fogkty, and windy, and wut. 8be doaiis a little as she lies wearily Mmong the staiFy cushions, but she is too Hlled witu unrest to sleep. It is three weeks nosv since the wedding day, and she and her f.iithful old friend are journeying back to lluuie, thero to spend the winter. Next Kprwig the newly- wedded pair are to go to the Valen- tines ; in the summer she is to join them for a prolonged visit. Tiiat is the programme, if all is well. But will all be well, be happy '.' The look of pale, shrinking fear of mm, with which her darling clung to her, just at the parting, haunts her — will haunt her night and day. until they meet again. Is she afraid of Vane Valentine ? ' Oh, my debrest, my sweetest 1' the poor old lips murmur in the darkness, ' if I had you back — all my own once more — no man should take you from me, unless you went with a glad and willing heart,' And then there rises before her a man's face — a dark, delicate head, a grave smile, deep, serious browu eyes, a slender, strong young figure, a broad, thoughtful brow, altogether a face unlike Sir Vane's, a fitting mate, even in beauty, for the golden-haired heiress. 'She loved him,' madam thinks, with a pang ; ' and he is worthy of her. If I had given her to him she would have been happy. And I might have had her near me always — always 1 What will life be like without her ? Poor ? Yes, he is poor ; but he has talent ; he will win his way ; and as she said to me, with her pretty baby wisdom —is money everything ? My little love 1 why did I give you to Vane Valentine ? But he will not dare to be unkind to her. No ; the fortune is hers ; there is too much at stake.' But this is sorry comfort, and her heart is very heavy, as they speed along through the wet, wild ni^ht, and the windy darkness, toward the many towers, and palaces, and bells of Bonae. Suddenly— what is it ? There is a swaying of the carriages, a dull, tremulous vibration, the sound of many voices, of women's screams, a shock that is like earth and heaven striking together, and then — nothing* nesa. ' Cloar the way I let me through 1 ' cries out an impetuous voice, and a man strides between the atfrighted throng, suddenly huddled here on the wide Campagna. Overhead there is the black, wind swept sky ; beneath there is the sodden, rain- swept grass, the wrecked train, women and ohddren, terriHed, hurt, talking, sobbing, screaming — ooufuaion dire elsewhere. Those who are safely out are tiying to extriitate thosn who are still prisoners, fore- most among them this tall, sunburned man, who forces his way to one particular wrecked carriage, and wrenches open the door. • Mother 1 ' he cries ; ' Mrs. Tinker 1 Are you here ? For God's sake, speak I ' There are groans ; they are there, but past speaking. Mrs. Tinker is not panu hearing, however. Through all the shook of pain and fright, she hears and trembles at that call. Help comes, they are brought out, both hurt. Madam Valentine quiet insensible. Mrs. Tinker looks up through the mists of what she thinks death, and tries to see the face on which the lamplight shines, the face that is bending over her mistress. ' Bid him come,' she says, faintly ; ' bid him speak to me again before I die ! It was the voice of my own Master Geurge ! ' He is with her in a moment, holding he ' in his arms, bending down with the hand* some, te' der face she knows so well. • My d \r old friend ! ' is what he says. ' Master George ! Master (George I m^ own Master George! Has the great As. come, then, and the sea given up its deat that I see and hear you tlus night ? ' ' Dear old nurse — no. 1 never was drowned, you know. It has been a mistake all these years — it is George Valentine in the flesh. Do not talk now — lie still— we will take care of you. I must go back to my mother.' ' My dear mistress ! is she much hurt ? ' '^Very muob, I fear; she is senseless. Take this stimulant and keep quiet. You are not going to die — do not think it.' But Mrs. Tinker only groans and shuts her eyes. She is bruised, and broken, and crushed, and hurt, but no bones are broken, and her injuries are not serious. She is so stunned and bewildered with fright and pain that she can hardly wonder or rejoice to find her Master George after all these years alive. The accident, after'investigation, turns out to be comparatively slight. A few persons are hurt more or less, all are badly scared. Madam Valentine se< ms to be the only one seriously iujar'>d. That she is injured there 1 116 LOST FOR A WOMAN. o»n be no question. She liei, while they tr«v«l alowly int man that made that ?' ' Yes ; send for him, Tinker, will you Tell me ' — a painful effort — ' how long— how long do these doctors give me ? I see thei^n in consultation in the room beyond. ' ' Oh ! my dear mistress,' crying wildly, ' not long, not long— till to-morrow, they say,' sobs choke Mrs. Tinker,' 'till to-morrow, maybe.' A spasm crosses the strong old face. She shuts her eyes, and lies still. Then she opens with the same earnest, wistful them again gase. * Tinker, it is strange, but just at that time, when the crash and thedarkrr.s came, I lenmed to hear a voice, and it called me — it said mother I It was the voice of my son, Tinker — my deaf, dead son.' Mrs. Tinker is on her knees by the bed- side, with clatped hands and ntreaming eyes. ' Not dead I mispress 1 O^, praise and thanks be. Not dead — not dead I Living all this t.ime, and with us now. It was his %oioe yuu heard call — his own dear living voice. Mistress 1 mispress !' with a scresm of affright, ' are you dying ? Have I killed you ?• She has fallen back among the pillows, so white, so death-like, that Mrs. Tinker starts from her knees with thut ringing shriek. The doctors fly to the bedside. It is not death, but a death-like swoon. ' I told her, Master Oeorgp, I told her, and the shock killed her a'm ost. On ! do'ee go away, before she com^s to agiiii. The sight of you will kill her outright for fitire.' But George does not go. His mother'^ eyes open at the moment, and rest on his fau<^ — rest in long, solemn, silent wonder. ' Mother,' he says, gently, * dearest moth er, it is I — George. i)o you not know me ? Mother I' • My son.' She lifts one faint hand by a great effort, and lays it in hia hand. She lien and looks at him with wide, dilating eyes, that have in them as y^t only solemn, fearful wonder— no joy. ' Dear mother,' he kisses the other hand lying on the quilt, ' are you not a little glad. I love V'ou, mother. I have wanted to come back all these years, but I was afraid — I was afraid I was not forgiven. Dearest mother, say you forgive me now.' ' Hia eyes, his voice, his words. It is my George — my George — my George 1' ' You are glad then, mother ? You will say it, will you not ? If you only knew how I have longed all these years for the words: I forgive you.' Let me hear you say them now.' ' Forgive you I' she repeats. 'Oh 1 my God, it is I who must be forgiven. I have been the hardest mother the world ever saw. Forgive you I My best beloved, I forgave you long ago. 1 forgive with all my heart. Oh ! to t hink of it I to think of it ! a wan- derer and an exile all these years, and all the while my son, my heart has been breakiug for the sight of your face. If it is death that has restored you to me, then death is better than life. My son ! piy son ? kiss me, and say yott forgive me 1' Hid on her i 'loi to go W son w«fl is found It is I n^aia tc lie ro8< marble RO litis, see it to by her « othnr d.'i ' A.id way, foi for you Grtorge. ' H« 81 little— ti but the ( no new t No, he V ' That are the t of that b • Do n. matter? •It do. i« right,' iiishea in veice. * must clai you will • Moth 'It is w while. J nun wit ledge you of claim c fortune ii: sign it. me.' ' Moth< * Pro mi Throuu[h have lost what I oa tors in my serva you ; pro I aoknowl^c rightful Promise n the last re No— he turhed as 'I prom he slowlv •You'h terrible ea es of the sc LOST FOR A WOMAN. m irnest, wiatful t jiint at that imrkrf.'S cAtne, it called me — tioe of ray •on, ea by the bed- breaming eyes. 1, praise and dead I Livini? It was his irn dear living with a scream Have I killed the pillows, so I. Tinker starts ing Hhriek. The It is not death, T told her, and On ! do'ee go lin. The sight iV otire.* His mother's and rest on his ent wonder. ' dearest moth- k noc know me ? y a great effort, le liea and looks es, that have in •ful wonder— no the other hand not a little glad, wanted to come as afraid— I was Dearest mother, eordi. It is my orge !' her ? You will I only knew how for the words:! r you say them lats. • Oh 1 my orgiveo. I have ( world ever saw. doved, I forgave ith all my heart. uk of it ! a wan- rears, and all the as been breakiui; f it is death that m death is better a ? kiBS me, and Ui iUftn as she bids him, ani his tears f al on her fuue. ' I om die now,' she says ; ' tell th«m all to Ko while wo lilexs do 1. " K.»r this my son was d.ad and is alive again, was lo«t and is found."' It is noontide of another day. They are nyaia toyother, there in that durkened ronm. Tie rose light H kmIs the pur**, piHsionleas. uiarblo fiico of D )lores. The dyini< woiimn BO li«s, propped up with pillows, that she may see it to tho end. For iivrtn the son who ttits by her auU cannot drive out of her heart her otht^r diirliiig. • And then it is only loving you in another way, for she i^ yours,' she s/iys. ' I love her for your sake as well ati for her own, my Grtorge. ' H«j siys nothing. His brow* oontract a little — there in something he wouldlike to say, but the «n I drawn near now, she id fitted for no new shocks. And she loves the child. No, he will nut speak. • That remiudH me.' she says, faintly, 'you are the baronet, not Vaue. 1 did not think of that before.' • Do not think of it now. What does it matte;? L"t it go.' ' It does matter. It shall not go. Right is right,' some of her old imperious command tlisheu in her dim eyes, rings in her feeble voice. * You are the baronet » not he. You must claim yonr right, George. Promise me you will when I am gone.' • Mother, is it worth while ?' 'It is worth while — a thousand times worth while. Itight is right, I say. Hd is a just min with all h^ faults; he will ackuow- ledge your superior rik^ht. He has no shadow of claim on the title while you live. And the fortune ia yours too - your daughter will re- sign it. It must be so, George — promise me. Mother- * Promise me, if I am to die content. Through my fault, through my cruelty, you have lost both title and fortune. Let me do what I oan to repair it. Before those doc- tors in the next room, before my lawyer, my servants, I have already acknowleil^ed you ; promise me you will make the world acknowledge you, that you will resume your rightful rank, your place in the world. Promise me before I die. You cannot refuse the last request of a dying mother.' No — he cannot, but he looks iutiiitely dis- turbed as he reluctantly gives the pledge. 'I promise— to let Dolores know,' is what he slowly says. ' You hear this ? ' she asks, appealing in terrible earnestness tothe two silent witness- es of the scene— Mrd. Tinker, kneeling beside her, Rene Maodnnald standing at the foot of the bed. ' You are liateninx. Monsieur Rene? You will witn«-si for ino that he keeps his pledge ? He must assert his rikihts. Dolores is your friend — I comritission you to tell her this. Sie will do nhat is right, I know —it is a heart of gold. And it is her own father. How glad the child m ill br. You will love h»-r very much, (Jeora^, and care for her? Do not iHt her husbiuid be un- kind to her. Ho is a just man— Vane — iiut hard, and a little grim. When I am gone, Mousieur Rnne, go to K igland and t« 11 tho little one. Stie will gladly ^dve up a fortune aud a title for her fatlier's sake.' ' M/ dear mother, you do wrong to auitate yourself in this w>iy. D.i not talk. 11 titu is going now. Will you say guid-hye to tiim. and try to sleep?' ' To sleep, to sleep,' she murmurs, heavily, ' I shall sleep souudly soon, my son —soon, soon. 1 am sorry to leave you. Do not go away, stay here with me until the cud.' ' I am not croing mottier — it is Rme.' ' Addio siKUore,' she says with a wan smile, *I like \ou, I always liked you. And you will tell my little one when 1 am gone. She liked you, too -she liked you best. I know it now. Do not t«ll Sir Vane ; he would not like it. Yei, she liked you best.' ' Her mind is wandering,' her son says, hurriedly, but he glances questioningly at R^neashe says it. In the dim gray-gri>en light of the deatl. -room, he sees thn profound pallor of the dark face. So, poor ilene ! They watch by the bedside during the lon^', slow hours of the afternoon. She rambles sometimes, and murmurs broken sentences- generally, though her mind is quite calm. George sits by her side, holiing her hand, administering stimnlants and medicines, watching every breath. And so death finds her when it comes, quite peace- fully and painlersly, her last smile, her last look, her last word, for him. When Ave Maria rings out in the pearly haze of twilight, Katheriue Valentine lies dead. CHAPTER IX. * IN HIS DRE.4.M3 HE SHALL SEE THEE AND ACHE.' The studio, the late afternoon lights filling gayly its big chill length. The sculptor stands busy, bis fingers deep in molding wot clay,, two swinging bronze lamps sparkling like K re flies in the half light. The autuma day has been damp and dark, the sky out there, Been between the wet vines, is the 118 LOST FOR A WOMAN. i I colour of drab paper, a fopr that London could not flurpasB fihrouds the Eternal City. LookiDf; rather moodily out at it, sits George Valentine, ensconned in a great carved and gilded chair, and encircling him- Belf with a second fog of hia own making — the smoke of his cigar. Both are silent, the younger absorbed in his clay cast, the elder in his thoughts. A week has passed since the funeral. Presently George Valentine leaves off staring at the yellow tog, and turns his Attention to the artist, still busily ab- sorbed in modeling hia wet clay, and stares at him*. * What an odd fellow you are, Rene ! ' is what he says. Kene looks up. It atrikes Mr. Va- lentine, aa it has not struck him hitherto, that his young friend is altogether too worn and hollow-eyed for the number of his years, and that he has grown more taciturn than he ever used to be. ! * What 18 it you say I' Rene asks. ' I say you are a queer fellow. Why, look here. For the past sixteen years or more you have known me as Paul Farrar. All in a moment, aa it must seem to you, I start up, like the hero of a melodrama, not myself at all, but somebody else ; not Paul Farrar, bnt the lone-lost son of a lady you very well knew— a Tichborne Claimant No. 2. You are summoned suddenly to a death- bed ; you meet me thero. under another name and identity, and you accept the metamorphosis without question or comment. Over two weeks have gone since then, we have met daily, s^ill not a word. It may be delicacy of feeline:, it m*y be indifference, it may be good breeding— I don't know what name you give it, but it is queer, to say the least. ' •It is good breeding,' says Rene, laugh- ing. ' I have been always taught that it is impolite to ask questions. Besides, mon ami, how could I intrude on your secrets — painful recollections, perhaps ? You knew me ; when you saw fit, you would tell me. Meantime — ' ' Meantime, absorbed in secrets of your own, you don't burn with curiosity to hear those of other men. You look hipped, my You work too hard, and you don't eat enough. I've watched you. No wonder you grow as thin as a shadow. No touch of Roman fever. I trust, my boy V * Wtill — who knows ? There are so many kinds of R .man fever. Yes,' Rene says, half jestingly, half seriously ; • I suppofie 1 may call it that. I certainly cauijht it here in Rome. Never mind me,' impatiently ; ' I will do well enough. I am a tough fellow, lean though 7. be. I'il pull through all right. Tell me of y jurHelf, tres cher. You give me credit for l^ss interest in you than I possess, if you do not see I am full of curiosity — though that is not tho word either — to hear your story. It should be a romantic one. As to being surprised— I don't know. You always seemed a man a little out of the or- dinary to me — a man with a history. No ; I was not much surprised to find you were somebody besides my father's friend, M. Paul Farrar, George Valentine has gone back to hia scrutiny of the weather ; he watuhts it through the blured panes with dreamy, re- trospective eyes. There is silence ; he smokes, Rene plunges his fingers into the soft clay, and an angel's face breaks through. I'he elder man's thoughts are drifciug back- ward to that other life, that seems now like a life lived in a dream. * What a little forever it is to look back upon I' he says, 'and yet like yesterday, too. That old time at Toronto, when I led the luxurious, idle life of a youthful prince, as spoiled, as flattered, as headstrong, as self- induglent as any prince — how it comes back as I sit here, and I am no longer the George Valentine of forty years — battered, world- worn, gray — but the lad George, who rode, and danced, and dreamed, and thought life a perpetual boy's holiday, and who fell in love at nineteen with a trapeziste, and ran away with her and married her.' Half to himself, in the tone of one who muses aloud, half to Rene, who listens and works in sympathetic tileuce, he tells the story — the story of the one brief love idyl of his life. ' I came back to my senses more quickly than I lost them,, he says, 'as I suppoHO most people do who make unequal marriages. I had simply made utter wreck and ruin of my life. She is lead, poor soul, this many a day— she was Snowball's mother. I will say nothing about her that I can leave unsaid. Only — when I left her, after tea months of marriage — you may believe me when I say I was justilied in doing it. She was not in love with me. I found that out soon enough ; she was not of the women who fall in love. She was so utterly wrapped up in herself, she had no room in her poor little starved heart for any other human creature. Perhaps she may have been fond of her child, but I doubt it.' * You left her after ten months,' Rene re- peats. Something in the statement seems to tit badly with some other fact in his mind. He regards his friend with a puzzled look. * Juat ten months, my young friend— we parted thus for our mutual benefit. I never ongh all right. You ^ivu me ;haD I possess, )f curiosity — ither — to hear romantic one. know. You out of the or- history. No; find you were 's friend, M. » back to hia le watuhts it h dreamy, re- sileuce ; he igers into the "eaks through. Irifciug bauk- eems now like is to look back ^'csterday, too. (vhen I led the hful prince, as strong, as self- it comes back ger the George ttered, world- ge, who rode, thought life a (rho fell in love I and ran away ne of one who i^ho listens and i, he teils the ief love idyl of a more quickly I suppose most 1 marriages. I and ruin of my 1, this many a er. I will say a leave unsaid. ■ ten months of le when I say I \he was not in t soon enough ; rho fall in love. J in herself, she e starved heart >. Perhaps she Id, but I doubt inths,' Rene re- ement seems to ict in his mind, puzzled look, uiig friend — we ecefit. I never LOST FOR A WOMAN. ^U saw her again nntil I saw her ^all from the slack-rope in Badger's circus, one day sonito six years after. * 'Six years after,' again repeats Rene, the pupzled look deepening in his face. ' And Suowball was but three years old then !' * Precisely. I^'s a deuee of a busmess. Rene ' 'Well?' * Saowball is not ny daughter.' A stunned pause. ""And yet— Rene could not tell you why -the sh^ck of astonishment is not so great as it ought to be, * I thought you would say that.' he says, in a hashed tone. • And your mother— we all, she herself, her husband— have been de- ceived.' 'It's c bid business, old fellow, I dt)n't deny, and all owing to the false report of my death. But the merest accident — a slip on the ice, a sprained ankle— I did not sail in the fatal Bale U'Rrien. Another man took my place — a poorer devil even than myself — so poor that to keep him from freezing to death that bitter winter weather I shared my scanty wardrobe with him. He, George Val- entin^, as his clothes led all to think, perish- ed that stormy night, and the Paul Farrar who lived, and had a hard tight with fortune for many a year, was a castaway about whom no one was likely to be concerned. I did not know I was forgiven. I only knew another heir had been found for the great Valentine fortune. I did not know Mimi, my wife, had married again, in good faith enough, Tom Randal. I was engaged in a hand-to-hand tight for bread in those early days. When 1 did ,know, it was too late. I came to Clang- vdle, honestly resolute to see my mother, and obtain her pardon. Time might have softened her, I th u^ht, and condoned my offdioa It seemed such a very extraordinary thing that Mimi, my wife — Tom Randal's widow, if you like -should be there at the same time. There she was, with little Snowball, and I soon discovered, from Vane Valentine, that he knew all about her) ex- cet.t the fact of her second marriage ; that very few people ever knew) that she had visiced my mother, an I threatened to make public h«^r nurriage with me, unless boui^ht otF Vane Valentine only knew me as Paul Farrar, of course. I had met him at Fayal somt) tune before. A new thought struck me. Without presenting myself in person 1 could judge of my mother's feeliu; toward me by her conduct toward the child Huppos- ed to be mine. If, after Miini's tragic.il fa e, she showed pity for the child, I would have come forward at once, and revealed myself. I longed f r forgiveness, R ine ; I longed to go back iu the world of living men, from which fot years I had seemed to b>) thrust out : I longed to be once more my mother's son. One kindly, womanly act toward the child— I would have asked no more — I would have come forward, pleaded for par- don, and striven in the future to repair the pasc. But that act never came. The child — unseen, uncared for, as though she were a dog or a pet bird of the dead woman's — was banished, and given over to the hands of stranneri". She thought her her grand-child, and still banished her unseen. Perhaps it was the doing of Vane Valentine — Heaven knows. It secured to kill my last hope for* ever* The heart that could be so hard to the child was not likely to soften to the father, ' 1 accepted the decision in silence and went my way, taking the little one with me. Of course 1 tell in love with the child at sight — every one did that. She was the most bewitching baby iu the world ; but you remember her, no doubt. You know my life since then, the life of a wauderer always. But for the accident that night on whiiih we met there never would have been either re- conciliation or forgiveness. I had made up my mind, you see, after the episode of Snow- ball, that there was no hope f jr me. But it has been decreed otherwise. My poor mother 1 her's was a lonely life. She wrapp- ed herself it^ silence and pride, and shut out the world. Cau a mother forget her child? Ou her death- bed she told me I had been forgiven always. It will comfort me when I am on mine to remember that.' Rene stands silent. After a pause George Valentine goes on : ' Perhaps there, just at the last, I should have told my mofier the truth. 1 think I would, but that I knew the explanation would bo too great a shock for hr-r to bear. And she loved the girl so dearly, as I do, as you, as we ail do. Dear little Snowball ! what does it matter? If she were my daughter in reality I could never be fonder of her than I am.' Jjg'It matters a gread deal,' Rene answers, • and so Vane Valentine will think, and say, when he hears if. It robs him at a word of title and fortune. How do you think he will take that?' *Ho had better take it quietly, or it may be, worse for him. If he is harsh to that cbila he shall rue it. And you, too, my friend — you have becDme involved in thib family tangle. It will devolve upon y(m, I sup- pose, as y»u have already promised, to go and tell Suowball. I wish— I wish my mother had not insisted upon that, ^he expitse, if it must come, will be the auce and all to stand.' 120 LOST FOR A WOMAN. ' Right is right,' says !(leoe. ' To be Bure ; but if a man prefers the wrong ? Supposing he ia the only one to Ruffer ? It is rather a nuisance, isn't it to be forced into a court <>f app^^al whether or not. Look here, Rene, Vane Valentine will not resign what he baa waited f )r so lon^, got- ten so hardly, without ti^hiing it out to the bitter end. Do you know whk to it, if he is harsh with her. Come wiiat may I glial not spare him.' Still Rene is silen^. He stands with foldedarmsand knitted brows, staringmoodil}' out at the pale flood of moon-rays silvering the stone court. George Valentine has risen, too, and is pacing up and down. ' You will see for yourself,' he says, ' when you go there. There need be no haste ; TUey do not return to E igland, I be ieve, until spring. Go over then, and see, and tell her. For mvself, I shall remain in Rome this winter. Oae look at her will tell you, more than a score of letrera. whether or no she is happy. I seem to have a sort of prc- hti thou- sentiment about it, that she ia not— that she never will be* I distrust that fellow— 1 al- ways have. He has the soul of a miser, grasping, sordid, cruel ; and he was in luve with another woman, a cousin. Snowball never cared for him, I feel sure. How could she?— old, cold, self centered, unfitted for her iu every way. Ddar little Snowball, so fresh, so bright,' so joyous— how soon will change all that, it is a pity, a thi sand pities, mon ami, that you ' ♦For heaven's sake, hush I' Rene Mac- donald cries out. fiercely. 'Do you think I am made of this?' striking passionately the marble against which he stands—* that I c- listen to you ? Do you think there la ever an hour, sleeping or wakine', in which she ia absent from me ?' .1 try to forget sometimes— I force mybelf to forget, lest in much thinking of what might have been but for this fortune and that man, I should go mad.' , . v.- Gdorge Valentine lays his hand on ms shoulder, and stands beside him— mute. S >mething of this he has suspected. How could it be otherwise ? But ha speaks no word. Tne voioe that breaks the silence is the voice of a girl singing, to a piano, in the apartment above. An English family have the second floor. The voice of the girl, singing an English song, comes to them through the open windows, through the slumbering sweetness of the night. " In the day-time thy voice shall go through In hid dreams he shall f=ee thee, and ache. Thou sha t kindle by niRht, aud suudue mm Aaleep or awuHe.' 'If you would rather not Valentine says, at last, * it may for you ' , . 'I will go,' Rene answers, between his teeth ; ' I must see for myself. If he makes her happy— well, I shall try and be thank- ful and see her no more. It he is what you think him— what I think him— let him look to it. Say no more, tres cher, there B )me hurts that simply w U uut bear ling ; this is one of tnem.' go,' George be too hard are haud- •Mar Aesop mi.uta to a w« A 81 to piei silvery ing wt Aq air ot— that she eliow — 1 al- of a miser, wan in love Buowball ure. How ed, unHtted e Siiowb*lJ, ow soon hti ity, a thou- Kene Mac- you thiuk I oaately tho 8—' that I ik there is in which ry to f«)rget ■get, lest ia ve been but I should go and on bis him — mute, cted. How 3 speaks no le silence is lano, in the lily have the ;irl, singing m through slumbering 11 go through , and ache, uodue nim go,' George be too hard aetween his If he makes (1 be thauk* IS what you »t him iouk there are I bf ar hand* LOST FOR A WOMAN. 121 I?-A.R.T FOURTH. CHAFTER I. MY LADV VALENTINE. • Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs la Aesop were extrem ly wise ; tiiey had a ^n at mi .u to 8ora« water, but ih 'y would not le '■ p in- to a well because they cuuid not get ouu ug