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Florence Warden 40 At the World’s Mercy.......... 41 Beyond the City................ A. Conan Doyle @ 42 A Change of Air...........- -,,..Anthony Hope o * 483 The Corsican Brothers..... *....Alexander Dumas sa 44 Diana of the Crossways.. ..... George Meredith = 45 The Dolly Dialogues..... ive na Anthony Hope S 46 Doris’s Fortune...... SORRY cnn ana Floregce Warden oS “¢ Forging the Fetters............M lexander - 48 A Golden Heart......... . 1... Oh “Sotte M. Braeme = 49 The Song of Hiawatha......... Henry W.Longfellow 60 Her Second Love..........05... Charlotte M. Braeme ms 51 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker...‘* The Duchess”’ . ba é 52 The House on the Marsh....... Florence Warden be 53 A Little Irish Girl,.........60.. “The Duchess” : 54 A Little Rebel... .cccscccenccscs ‘* Phe Duchess’? < 55 Lord Lisle’s Daughter,.........Charlotte M. Braeme ~ 66 Lord Lynne’s Choice........... Charlotte M. Braeme : 67 Merle’s Crusade... cee. success Rosa N, Carey 58. A Marriage at Sea..............W. Clark Russell 59 The Nine of Hearts..... aero is B. L. Farjeon 60 The Other Man’s Wife..... .s-.-John Strange Winter 61 The Price He Paid..........085; E. Werner Oe PPM Otero ce es Robert L, Stevenson 63 She’s All the World to Me egies Hall Caine 64 Ships that Pass in the Night... 65 Robert eee Seven Days.. 66 Stageland.. Beatrice Harraden .. Rev. C. M. Sheldon Jerome K. Jerome 6¢ The My stery “of ‘ Woodleigh (CRG ites Sib es PSG pee ia Bik Be ee Charlotte M. Braeme 68 My Sister Kate........... ,...OCharlotte M. Braeme 69 On Her Wedding Morn..... ... Charlotte M. Braeme “0 The Story of a Wedding-Ring; or, Lured Away.........-...Charlotte M. Braeme Fer sale by all newsdealers and booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on re- ceipt of 25 cents each, by the publishers. Address GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS, 17 to 27 VANDEWATER StrRErT, New York. John Bloundelle-Burton, 913 The Silent Shore; or, The Mystery of St. James’ Park............ Beatrice M. Butt. TODACWEHCIAS ¢ sues tapas: sewn 189 EK. Lasseter Bynner. T4064 NIMPOLEe sine a Seis 494 F460" Tritons eke ee 4069 Lord Byron. 719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrim- BOOT ORS ee ware Seat 163 E. Fairfax By. H2itbntansled) 4.50 ae. 251 5388 A Fair. Country Maid... .268 Mrs. Caddy. 127*Adrian Bright........... 400 Hall Caine. 445 The Shadow of a Crime. 242 520 She’s All the World te VEG FSGS NY NS yee 1234 The Deemster..... ..... 843 1255 The Bondman... SS YE 2079 A Son of Hagar......... 304 Mona Caird. 1699*The Wing of Azrael... 305 Ada Cambridge. 1588 A Marked Man.......... 855 1967 My Guardian............ ‘21389, The Three Miss Kings. . .¢ Mrs. H. 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L. C. Carleton. 1902 The Man of Death 1907 Kagle Eyes, the Scout... 1910 The Trapper’s Retreat.. 1911 The Wild Man of the Illustrated.... William Carleton. Willy. Reilly. 7: 2 Shane Fadh’s Wedding... Woods. 1553 LarryMcFarland’s Wake 1554 The Party Fight and Waneradys heed. cok ee 1556 The Midnight Mass....... L557 Phil Parceleincss. assess 1558: An Irish Oath... 23a... 1560 Going to Maynooth ieteheimie 1561 Phelim O’Toole’s Court- SBUD cae COR tc eptcay 1562 Dominick, the Poor Scholars. iyo ae 1564 Neal Malone..+.......22:. ‘> Carolus.’’ 2210 The Story of L’Aiglon.,.. Alice Comyns Carr. 571*Paul Crew’s Story....... Lewis Carroll. 462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Illustrated by John Tenniel 199 Copies for $1, Post-paid, aS OHN STRANGE WIN TER, ae weuee ov Spore BABY,” “ manvaee,” “svrromn,” ms, ‘(CHAPTER L mx SWEET SEPTEMBER. 3 ‘It was such a fair day and such a fair view! he ge cou re and blue lobeiag and Hae neat ion | tidy ) some as they walked along together. | a ee ee t I come in?” the a said. WC inpongy a cad took a curve to the ery feted Ge ge i meadow and rising gradually until they reached t eo of the old house, with its oe red front a : = « Thank you very oank” for Hiei me kone ‘ae ae said shyly, but with an upward ater of he ae “Yes, but tell me,” ‘he arivcred: not Tetting : hie hold of the racket, “ the aunt has gone to 6 Yes. ee : “ Does she often got” © Qh, ‘No, not often.” aro marion dieres you ‘now, and I oe ‘tha perhaps sometimes when the auntie was coming you might be coming too, and I might show you rownd little—the lions and all that, you know. That was all “But I don’t think,” said Dorothy Strode, taking m literally, « that Auntie would ever want to be shown round Colchester, or the lions, or anythin; g You see, she has lived at the Hall for more than fifty yoers and probably knows ee ieee a » thousand nase as well as eyes do.” a oS. a little at ae own nistake, ‘han added ve: suddenly, “ But don’t you think ; your aunt might like — to come and have afternoon tea in my quarters S ak oe ladies generally love a bachelor tea.” ar ae ae «J don’t think she would,” said Dorothy boneaiie: a “You see, Mr. Harris, my aunt is rather strict, and | aS never does anything unusual, and y At thats o moment she broke off short as afairlysmart dog-cart = -\ driven by a young man passed them, and returned the salute of the occupant, who had lifted his hat as a soon as he saw her. 3 “Who is that?” asked the soldier rather Sealant frowning: a little as he noticed the girl’s pee bacg -solour. ae That is Mr. Steven” she answered, looking Choe straight i in front of her. a “Qh, Mr. Stevenson. And who is he when he's at : home ?” the soldier demanded. __ _ “Very much the same as when he is not at home,” . answered Dorothy with a gay laugh. He laughed too. “But tell me, who is he?” Qh, one of the gentlemen farmers round about.” It was evident that she did not want to talk about = the owner of the dog-cart, but the soldier went on without heeding, “And you know him well?” one “I have known him all my life,” she said, with studied carelessness. RO, In the face of her evident unwillingness to enlarge upon the subject, the soldier had no pho but to let her take the racket from him. | p at ee she digs holding out mer hand to es E: ve fs aS ae A ay ee AR ma ay od-bye; : me ies org holding it Ae a or de: tas as than was necessary; “but tell me vies - come and call?” | J ae “Yes, I think you might do that” , as “You will tell your aunt that you met me, and e that I am coming to call to-morrow ?” “That is a little soon, isn’t it?” she said, lughing “ Besides, to-morrow there is a sewing mesa ae “And you go?” : “ Always.” “And you like it?” inoredalously. _ “No, candidly I don’t; but in this world, at least ir in Graveleigh, one has to do # great many things Mane — one does not like.” “And you might have to do worse things tists ae to a sewing-meeting, eh?” he suggested, for it suddenly flashed into his mind that there would be no gentlemen farmers in smart dog-carts at such wae ry feminine functions as oe " “That isso. Well, good-bye” = a : : - “ But you haven't said when I may come,” "he __ eried. «No; gay one day next week,” with a gay lang “But which day?” - *Qh, you must take your chance of that. cae | _ bye,” and then she passed in at the wide old gate, and disappeared among the bushes and shrubs which _ lined the short and crooked mba Ag jority to : the house. : For.a moment he stood there ooking after her then turned on his heel and retraced the steps which - he had taken i in Dorothy Strode’ 8 company, and as scaly she had Seka hie name, “Mr. Hervia,” it as that | farmer-fellow came along to etait her atten. a y J ove! he had come away and never told hig that his name was not Harris at all, but Ayliner—Riceed \ylmer, commonly known as “Dick,” not only in> _ his regiment, but in every place where he was known S “at all. Now how, his thoughts ran, could the little Aa woman have got hold of an idea that his name was Harris? Dick Harris! Well, to be sure, it didn't sound bad, but then it did not suit him. Dick Aylmer he was, and Dick Aylmer he would be to the © nd of the chapter, except—except—ah, well, well, — hat. ‘was a contingency he need not trouble himself bout at present. It was but a contingency and : remote one, and he could let it take care of itself until the time came for him to fairly look it in ‘the face, when probably matters would wpe and ony arrange ee. ie had ae. his wooing! And with ee 5 he turned 1 im at the ieee of ie J ane’ 8 Pe wher os : Ah, you. are back, “she said, “ “Now, is ‘ih that poe nice girl?” eee ahaa Charming,” a Dick, sitting down beside : by: the tone. She was fond of foci herself a and peronls aes like to make a match uD for her. Sh : «] heard you say a little fine ago that you wer “going away he remarked, ase a moment's pane 7 | ie able to drive from one’s own door to the | - iteelf—one starts so much fresher, you ae _ to Kissingen, though itis , trifle. late for oe place. ‘Then on by the Engadine, Italian Lakes, and to had seilles. After that to Algiers for several months.” _ ‘ oA al he said in surprise, “really?® “Yes, I need a warm climate in the winter, and it = : gives Mr. Sturt a change both of life and of sport, B80. that he does not really feel being out of England. for go long.” “And you come back next epring? ¢ « Yes; sometime next spring,” she answered. _ ~ Dick hylings got up then and began to make his adieux. “Then good-bye, Mr. Hae” said Lady Jane, with — B iti cordiality, “and I hope to find you still at - Colchester when we come back again. If not, you must come end see me in London during the ae season.” oe “ Thanks, very many,” he said, “but my——” _ “Qh!” oried Lady Jane, in dismay, “look, look 1 the fox-terrier is worrying the Persian kitten. Do : rescue it somebody, do, do!” fe s _ In a moment the kitten, a little the worse for wear a and tear, was safely in her mistress’s arms, and a great fuss did she make over it. In the midst of it, Dick Aylmer, knowing that his fretful horse was dancing about on the other side of the house, said good-bye again and escaped. “ And, by Jove,” a said, as he turned out of the gates, “she does not — know myname either. Iseem bound to be mysterious _to-day, somehow or other Evidently she mistook me for Haines—or, rather, she mistook me for the _ other in the matter of names. Ah, well, she’s going Sue wore alls ne ‘Harris, or Haines, or Aylmer,” and then ho . added to the horse, “ Get along, old man, will you?” _ He slackened the pace, however, when they got : 0 the turn of the road which skirted the sloping - eel meadow i in front of the Hall where she lived, and the good horse crawled up the side of the hill as if it had been an Alpine height instead of a mere bend of © the road. But there was no sign of her. As he -. passed he caught a glimpse of the gay flower-beda and of a big tabby cat walking leisurely across the terrace, but Dorothy Strode was not to be seen, and _ - when Richard Aylmer recognised that fact as a fact, he gave a jerk to the reins and sent the horse flying elong in the direction of Colchester as fast as hie fous : mea legs moald carry bim. CHAPTER IL DAVID ‘STEVENSON, oROTHY STRODE ssid very little to her wet — : J about the gentleman who had brought her home — os Lady Jane’s tennis party. Not that she volau. oar ale alte back, but in truth there was int one of the a ffisens! foul Colchester at the os oe 2 _ ghe had been his partner in several games of tenniy, and finally that Lady Jane had sent him to see ha ___ safely to the gate. “Our gate, I mean, Auntie,” said __~ Dorothy, not wishing to convey a false impression. “And David Stevenson, he wasn’t there, Fie suppose?” said Miss Pena e, as she sino her claret. on “No, Auntie, he wasn’t,” Dorothy answered. “ You gee, Lady Jane does not like David irae Sot much.” | “J know that,” said Miss Dimsdale shortly. ie On the whole Miss Dimsdale would have likea ‘Dorothy to marry David Stevenson, who was youl and a good-enough fellow to make a good husbantt. oe had a well-kept valuable farm of four hundred — acres a mile or two from Graveleigh, with a cos- "venient and spacious house thereon, of which he was very anxious to make Dorothy the mistress. But - Dorothy had, with a strange perversity, said nay _ over and over again, and she seemed in no desire to change her mind now. Miss Dimsdale gave a sign as she thought of it—for David Stevenson’s mother had been her dearest friend—but all the same, she was not the woman to eas to force the childs " Inclination. | «Mr, Harris asked me if he might call—if m might come and see me,” said Dorothy presen : after a pause. “Mr. Harris! and who is Mr. Harris?” asked! Mae | epmines startled out of s reverie about David _ Stevenson’s mother, who, by-the-bys, = ano bess » ee’ acy se ‘and dear friend as eho was of Marion Dimsd: ee in and married the man of Marion’s “Mr, Harris! He is the officer I told you about, a he the one who brought me home,” said a _ Dorothy, in surprise thet her sunt bee dio not remember. s, ie ae Oh, yes—yes. oe what aia you say?” | mae - “J told him that I thoughthe might” “And when?” ee. . oo Oh, I told him to take his chance,” Dorothy ae See ead: ee ind Quite right,” said Misa Dimsdale, we had: no notion of making the way of a gallant too easy and > pleasant to him. “Well, we shall see what he is like when he comes, if we happen to be at home.” ae ‘She began then to tell Dorothy all about her day in Colchester. What the lawyer had said, how she had been to the bank, and had looked in at the -_paddler’s to say that the harness of the little cob _ which ran in the village cart must be overhauled and generally looked to. Then how she had found ~ time to go in the faney-work shop and had bought one or two new things in that line, and last of all on she had been in to the jeweller’s to getanew — ele and this had been offered. to her at such a reasonable _ price thai! she had been tempted to ye it, 7 co a - ; a - “ behcte: ‘chila, there, I won't tele you. about, ‘it 5 "There it is on the chimney-shelf.” — os _ And Dorothy naturally enough jumped up had ran to open the box in which the belt was packed, } “DAV STEVENSON. opening it eagerly, and uttering a cry of delight when she saw the beautiful ornament lying within. — It was a lovely thing, and in her pleasure and pride _ at the possession of it Dorothy almost forgot ner new admirer, Mr, Harris. . Not quite though, for when she slipped it on over — her pretty white dress and ran to the pier-glass ae between the windows of the drawing-room to see the effect of it, she suddenly found herself wonder- _ : ing how he would think she looked in it, and instantly the swift colour flashed into her cheeks, so that she hardly liked to turn back to face the ; : gaze of her aunt’s calm far-seeing eyes. Miss Dimsdale meanwhile had walked to the Z window, and was Whar out into the soft evening a dusk. “Some one is coming along the drive,” she caid. ahs aoe «J think it is David Stevenson.” es A gesture of impatience was Dorothy’s answer, ‘ a gesture accompanied by an equally impatient — -. gound, but she never thought of making good use of her time and escaping out of the room, as a girl _ brought up in a town might have done. No, she left he the glass and went across the room to the table where her work-bisket stood, and took up an- elaborate table-cover vhich she had been working at ina more 2) or leas desrtory fashion for six months past, and by - the time David Stevenson was shown in she was a. ra stitching away as if for dear life. Miss Dimsdale, on : as meee him. a “Good evening, Did the: ae very 5 Enaty x «How very nice of you to come in to-night! We : have not seen you for a long time.” ae -©No, Pve been dreadfully busy,” he ‘answered, se and I am still, for the matter of that. But T hadn't — peen you for a long time, and I thought I'd come ever and see how you were getting on.” : _ “That was very good of you,’ ” gaid Miss Dimedalo; ree then she moved to the bell and rang it. “We will have a light, the evenings are olosing in very fast.” | « Yes,” he answered. ee \ i “Then he went across where already his eyes had : wandered to Dorothy, who was a, sewing away se te lies the dusk. , eo “How are you,. ‘Dorothy 2 he asked, 5 Tam quite well, thank you, David,” she replied, = 5 . Jost letting her hand rest for a moment in hia, — . _ “T saw you this afternoon,” he went on, seating ee : “Fimself on @ chair justin front ofher, = ae ee «Why, yea,” said Dorothy, “ ‘you took your hat oft ae D to me.” er He wasa One prow good-looking fellow, big. aad — ss snk and young, with the unmistakable air of a man who is his own master; but in Dorothy’s minda Vision rose up at that moment of another young man, __ who was also big end strong, and very unlike David ae $itevenson, ac be - David frowned at the remembrance of the after. a “moon and of her companion, and just then a ‘neat i “If you Roe ma’am,” said Barbara to her aie tress, “ Janet Benham has come up to speak to you. She's in great trouble about something.” ae Janet Benham in trouble!” cried Miss Dimsdale, i : ; dismay. “Oh, I will come at once. Dorothy, cae : __ and talk to David,” she added, for Dorothy had — made a movement as if she, too, wanted to go and " har more about Janet’s trouble. - Be - However, in the face of her aunt's distinct com- ‘wand, she had no choice but to remain where she was, and she took up the work again and began ~ _ a-stitching vehemently as if she would fain sew he wexation into the pretty pattern. | ee David Stevenson, on the contrary, was more ‘than ” well satisfied at the way in which matters had fallen, = end inwardly blessed that trouble of Janet Benham’s _ nope much as Dorothy did the contrary. He jerked — bis chair an inch or so nearer to hers, and leaned for- __ “ward with his elbows upon his knees. Dorothy sat ‘ap very straight indeed, and Kept her attention oe strictly upon her work. 8 _ “Who was that fellow I saw you falta to this, afternoon, Dorothy?” he asked. _ a - A man that Lady Jane asked to see me home,” : answered Dorothy, promptly. ieee . Qh, you had been to Lady Jane’at” in a die tinotly mollified tone. | ee “Yea, I had been to Lady Jane's,” peuinied : Dorothy, matching a bit of yellow «ilk with sala - enre. elas didn’t you go?” : . me. ” oe Well” I can’t help that,” anid Dorothy ve indifferently, | “TY don’t know so much about that,” he said ane. rather gloomily. “I think you might if you liked. Not that I want you to trouble about it, or that ‘e ae Jee ane . never pee me | now—she's taken a "dislike oe = ek a8 care a single brass farthing about Lady Jane or her parties. In any case, I should ony go because ot might meet you there.” “Oh, that’s a poor ee reason, ee Dorothy, ee Hipeentl es There was very little of the pigte lover about David Stevenson, and whenever he found that ' Dorothy was, in spite of good opportunities, sling _ further and further away from him, he always se impatient and angry. . « Well, I don’t know that you're far ‘wrong ee there,” he retorted, in a tone which he tried with the most indifferent success to make cool and glighting, “ However, her ladyship has left off fe asking me to her entertainments of late, and I don’t know that I feel any the worse man for that. So- you met that. fellow there, did you?” © You don’t suppose I picked him up on the oad do. yout” demanded Dorothy, who was getting angry too. - eourse not,” he said soothingly. “I had no right te ask anything about him, only everything you do — to know wh o he W. Sats that Was all.” David drew in ‘his horns a little. « ‘No, ‘no, of hes and. eve: yone you speak to interest me, I rented ie * eri” DAVID STEVENSON. eThen’ paid Dorothy, with a very donna air, : i _ “you had better go and ask Lady Jane herself. She — can tell you, and I am sure she will. I know very little about the gentleman—just his name and very Ve : little besides.” David Stevenson sat back in his chair with a - groan; Dorothy Strode stitched away furiously; and go they sat until Miss Dimsdale came back again. : _ “Hm,” her thoughts ran, “ quarrelling again.” Dorothy looked up at her aunt and spoke in her | e softest voice. ‘“ What was the matter with J anet, < Auntie?” she asked. | _ Qh, poor thing! Joe came home drunk and — knocked her about, and one of the neighbours, who - eouldn’t bear it any longer, went and fetched the | policeman, and Joe was marched off, to poor Janet's * unutterable dismay,” Miss Dimsdale replied. “Poor Janet!” murmured Dorothy softly. _ *By-the-bye, Joe Benham works for you, David, does he not?” Miss Dimsdale asked. et “Yes, he does. I wonder couldn t you do something? Poor Janet | - is in the most dreadful trouble about him.” Ms «Well, Pll go round and see if you like,” David | answered; “but Benham’s an awful brute, and will drink all he can get hold of to the end of the “ehapter. I don’t know whether you have ever ‘noticed it, Miss Dimsdale, but somehow it seems to me that almost invariably the women prefer to ‘marry the wrong men, and vice versé. Look at my — own mother, for instance: a sweeter creature did not 2 live, but she was never the right wife for my father, i : ond dened knew it better then himself. Yes, and Bie @ court, he made the greatest mistake of nis life.” oF < _ what he was about, and took the one megaase: he that len, ee Souk Een, Gave Hall to. Dover ey Past Graveleigh Hall, you mean, David,” put ia c oe Dorothy, sharply. ‘I dare say he knew very well poulld not get the other.” “My dears, my dears,” cried Mises Dimsdale, to whom all this was untold agony, “let bygones he __. bygones. I am sure, David, that your father was _ For my part, David,” she went on, severely eyeing — _ in love with your mother to the very end. Really, the young people of to-day take too much upoa themselves and settle the affairs of their eldersin an _ off-hand way which is positively indecent.” ore There was a sound of tears in Miss Dimsdalew voice which went near to betraying that this subject had more than a common interest for her. Dorothy _ recognised dimly that her aunt was pained bysoms- —__ thing that had been said, and never sorry to have an excuse for finding fault with David, she turned — sharply upon him. | enc “ Really, David,” she cried, “ a is very dishonone Pan able of you to come telling us what your mother — used to say to your father—it could never have been. meant for us to hear, probably not for you either, _ They are both dead, and their mistakes are at an -- end, We don’t want to know anything about them, the young man, who had turned a fine scarlet hue — at her rather pointed: remarks, “I must say that — I am surprised to find you are capable either of _ listening or of tattling about it afterwards.” He tried hard to ee it off as if she hed uttorea : = he hetooes ‘himself | away. : i ae OE dear, you were a little hard on him? m Gtecat friend. “Not at all,” said Dorsihy area se “Davia should keep his reminiscences to himself.” poe “JT wish you liked David better,” said Min Dimedale, rather wistfully. Yo - «§0 do I, Auntie, for your sake,” ne Dorothy. “You know I do. But I don’t like hie ‘at all: I never did—I never shall. I can’t bear hina, — : 8 David was a man,” with withering scorn, “be end if CHAPTER Ill. a happened that two days later than this owt friend Dick Aylmer received a letter, which ran thus :— | “Your cousin,”—there was no affectionate prefix —‘“Mary Annandale, writes to me this morning to tea her engagement and approaching marriage _to Prince Louis Lorinoff—so there is half a million of money lost to the family and thrown clean out of the country. I sent a wire of congratulation, being ‘too disgusted to write a letter. With you, you _ infernal young idiot, haven't got the patience of a - mouse—I hope you will live to bitterly repent it. _ Meantime, keep out of my way till I’ve got over ita — oS _ bit, and don’t expect a penny beyond your four ~ hundred a year, because you won't get it. And if I s hear of your marrying anybody under ‘a hundred thousand pounds, I'll cut off your allowance. After youre forty we can think about it, but you need never expect me to fall in very quickly with your views, a8 you have not troubled yourself to fall in with mine. And I think it only just to tell you that if I have a chance I hall marry again, in the Dope of yy | having an heir of my own. ie Lek * Yours, “ AYLMER,” ee pers ‘Dick read it and road i it again, then tossed it aside ee ae with a short laugh. fibers, _. Nice letter to have from one’s nearest relative,’ ie he said to himself. ‘“ He'll marry again in the hope of — re having an heir of his own. Aye, but her Ladyship is | . as tough as leather and as hard as nails, and she'll take good care he doesn’t have that chance, Well,” — with a long breath that was half a sigh and half | only an expression of relief, “so Mary Annandale is going to be the Princess Louis Lorinoff! By Jove, I don’t envy Monsieur le Prince! Not a bit of it—not even for half a million of money. And I’m to keep out of his way. Well, I’ll obey that command with all the pleasure in life. And I’m not to marry before Fm forty—that’s what it amounts to practically. ~ Well, I don’t know that I mind that very much— @doI? Ah! well, I don’t so much know about that— I——” and then he stopped short and fell intoa sort of dream, a dream of himself walking along a country = road and beside him—‘“and, oh! damnation,” said Dick Aylmer, aloud, “what did the old brute want — to write to me for?” | He struck a match and set fire to the letter; then ie sudden thought occurred to him, and he crushed the flame out and locked the letter carefully away in his despatch box. “I may find that remark about marrying again useful,” he said to himself. “ Anys _way, best to keep it.” But though he had locked the ieee away, he ‘could not put the thoughts of it away from him as easily. Indeed, it kept coming back to him again and again, particularly that one unpalatable sentence about him waiting till he was forty before he need — oe oa hie tesla is tees of hie manying "ander a a eartain amount of dower with the bride = —its Now, Dick Aylmer was utterly ignorant of te . peiiaeiaiees in which the little girl of his dream was placed. She might have a dower, it might be _ large or small, he did not know; and on the other hand, it was more than likely that she had not ao _ much as a penny in the world. Somehow, although _he had never been within the precincts of Graveleigh Hall, he had an idea that it was a place without much money behind it. True, the beds in front of the house were gay with flowers and the house was _ large and of a certain appearance. But the hedges — which skirted the sloping meadow were none too well — ‘kept; the entrance gates needed a coat of paint — : badly, and had apparently got well used to the “necessity; the drive was not very well kept,and __ altogether he fancied that Dorothy Strode’s dower _ : would be but a thing of small importance compared _ with his uncle’s idea of what Dick’s wife onent to be possessed of. Now, I may as well say here that Dick Ala had : 5 : made up his mind to marry the little girl of his — we dream. It might be sooner or it might be later, but he meant to do it all the same. Ifhe could gether _ sooner—why, he would; and if he could not get her 3 ax soon as he wanted her—why, he would have to wait; but as for waiting till his savage old uncle chose to say “yea or nay ”-why, the idea was fo _ gimply preposterous, and Dick put it aside at once as a contingency which could not be considered for @ moment. After all, his marriage was his busi- nvas, his and nobody elee’s on his side; he meant te 8 to Pio himself and his uncle ooald go to e deuce if he liked. After all, if he did marry hur _ Orany other girl that he chose to marry, and his uncle cut up rough over it, what could he do? He - gould, and probably would, stop his allowance im- mediately. But then he had absolutely no guarantve that the old savage might not from mere caprive do that at any moment, when he would have no other course open to him but to exchange into a» regiment serving in India, and live on his pay. So that, after all, what was the good of his _ depending too much on his uncle, who would, if his _ wife happened to die, assuredly marry again on the chance of having an heir who would cut him out of - his heritage? _ All the same, Dick Aylmer did not think hat i Miers: was the remotest chance of his uncle's wife leaving the way clear for a successor—her Ladyship was at least fifteen years younger than her lord, and _ kept in perfect order by living by line and rule; and _ he reminded himself that beyond stopping his allow- ance and possibly having another heir, Lord Aylmer _ 8 _ Was absolutely powerless to leave one stick or stone _ away from him, the property must go with the title to the heir who was to follow him. _A couple of days went by, and Dick Aylmer had Phnom forgotten his uncle’s letter in the pleasures of — anticipation, and by the time he turned out of the _ barrack gates, bound for Graveleigh Hall to make hi formal call upon Dorothy Strode’s aunt, he was mm es gay and lightsome a mood ashe had everbeen m in all his life. And, oh! by Jove, he reminded © ‘was a woman of aggressively good health, which she himeelf he had forkbeene or “more hoeiy| he ie ~ never known, what the old lady’s name was. Dorothy — had called her “ Auntie,” and he had naturally said s “your aunt,” and he had come away without | Libwie what her name and state were, whether — she was wife, widow, or maid. — | However, he did not let that trouble shim: Sas and he drove gaily along between the sweet wild hedgerows, feeling as if the soft September air, just tempered with a breeze off the sea, was air of ap Arcadian land, and such objectionable persons as — aristocratic relations did not exist in all the world. _ And then when he reached Graveleigh, the long _ straggling village street with its quaint old-world shops and its odd little post-office, he pulled up thy - good horse and stopped to make inquiries, “Cag — you tell me where Graveleigh Hall is?” he asked of a respectable woman. “Why, yes, sir—yo do go along that road and take . the first tarn to the right, and then yo do come to it she replied. “Ah, thanks. By-the-bye, what is the name of the _ Jady who lives there ?” he asked carelessly. “Miss Dimsdale, she do live at the Hall,” the a | woman replied. “And Miss Dorothy, she do live — - with her.” a “Thank you very much,” said Diok niseannties The good woman’ watched him as he drove along. — « Another of ’em after Miss Dorothy,” she said to herself. e And Dick drove gaily bile getting more ‘ead more light-hearted as he went; for was he not getting _ _ aearer and nearer with every stride of old Derbyw = ye BAe) Bot ba did not cet to the Hall without i end of the village before he met David Stevenson, wearing the light clothes and gaiters of a country gentleman who looks after his own farming, and _ David scowled at him murderously. Happily Dick - meither saw his rival nor his black looks, and _ drove on, flicking like a schoolboy at the hedges ax he passed. “Brute! interloper!” David growled out between hig strong teeth, as he stood leaning over the gate, ’ watching the fast-retreating dog-cart. “Going there, of course.” He was strongly tempted to rush off home and _ ress himself and go off to the Hall after Dick, but kp resisted the temptation with a hopeless feeling _. that he would gain nothing by it, that he would only vex himself by the sight of the other fellow philandering after the girl he had loved all his life. - ik She'll find him out after a bit,” he said to himself; ' “and then she'll know how to value a man ie means every word—ay, and more than every word in that ho says.” | ___[n the meantime Dick ae went on and turned - at the hospitably open gate of Graveleigh Hall, with the assured air of one who knew beforehand what his welcome would be. “Is Miss Dimsdale at home?” he asked of Barbara, who came to the door 2 i answer to his knock. ©] am not sure, sir,” Barbara answered. “But she may be in the garden—TI’ll find out, sir, in @ , minute,” : he disappeared again, leaving him there, and being further watched. Scarce was he past the o : ast & man ran_ shies ‘eae a side of ke: ae te oe ee take the horse’s head; and before Barbara appeared ao : _ again, Dick heard a light footstep on the gravel, and Dorothy herself, wearing a blue dress and a white sailor hat, came into sight. “Oh! Mr. Harris,” she -eried, in such a joyous tone that Dick’s heart fairly et thumped in response, “I had no idea that you were — here. I wonder how it was I did not hear the — wheels, Come and be introduced to my aunt; she ix here, round this shrubbery—we always sit here in _ the hot weather, the sight of the sea helps to keep ene cool, Auntie,” she continued, not giving him — #ome to say a word, “this is Mr, Harris, whom I met at Lady Jane's, who brought me home that day, you know ;” then turning to Dick, she Said, “ This is ay aes eant Misa Dimsdale.” “T am very pleased to see you, Mr. Harris,” said Miss Dimsdale, holding out her hand in a frank and gracious welcome. Miss Dimsdale had the somewhat _ etiff manners of the last generation, or I might say, — : of the first half of the century, but in herown house she was always more genial than in any other Place, | = : and Dick Aylmer shook hands with her and felt— well, that a very fate was following him in his a acquaintance with Dorothy Strode, for here he was a ‘again forced, as it were, to be known as per when all the time his real name was Ayimer, and how was he to tell the old lady that some one or : i other had made a nistake—that is, without giving bimeelf the look of an impostor. Like lightning — ee Wiare flashed throes his mind an idea that be Li equal rapidity there shot through his brain a remem- — | _ brance of his uncle's letter, his uncle’s threats, and _ bis uncle’s unyielding, unbendable—yes, I must be honest and finish up the sentence as Dick thought it—his uncle's unyielding, unbendable, devil of a temper. And so, not from any contrivance or wish | of his own, Dick, in that awkward moment, let the mistake pass, and allowed the two ladies at Grave- : _ Iwigh Hall to believe that his name was, as they sis a osipniie Harris. In behaviour he was very judicious: he talked - aeore to the aunt than to the niece, although his _ @ves followed her wherever she went in a way which vid Miss: Dimadale all too plainly what had ease bm there. ‘ : _ Mick was sixty instead of six-and-twenty, and _ _ X¥imsdale was charmed with him. _ Iwwn with Dorothy to see her Persian kittens, just at that time the very pride and joy of her heart. Ay, but men were deceivers ever, sometimes quite pe ‘anconscious though it be. At that moment Dick was saying to Dorothy, “And I thought the week would never get over—the very longest week I a e ever lived.” “Then why didn’t you come before?” she igi oe swith innocent audacity. . : - Come before! But you said I wasn’t to come till this week,” he answered. “Besides I didn’t know— 3 ‘wemn’s sure thet 1 mightn’t get bundled out neck ae But, judging by his serene and sober conversation | with Miss Dimsdale, you might have thought that “Such a thoughtful, sensible fellow,” she said ta : herself as she watched him presently go across the a8 DINNA FORGET. . oe Ss and: orop when I did come. Ob no, I didn't want ~ to run the risk of that.” “Do you often get bundled but ask andl crop. e when you go to call at houses?” Dorothy in- quired demurely, and with a saucy twinkle © in her eye. “No, I don’t,” he replied, with a laugh. “But I have known what it was to have decided cold shoulder, and I didn’t want to find it here,” — 2 “And you have not. I think Auntie has been particularly nice to you,” she said, as she opened the door leading into the stable. Dick put his hand out to open the door also, and ix doing so just touched hers, “I think,” said he,in _ # dangerously tender tone, which would greatly have - enlightened Miss Dimsdale, “ that she is a delightful — woman: she is fit to be your aunt;” and then Dorothy laughed a little, and pushed the door open. — “See, this is my Lorna Doone,” she said, going z into the nearest stall, and showing him a ball of — white fluff coiled up in a deep bed of hay, “Isn’tshe lovely ? z ae Dick Aylmer groaned within himself; he had fallen | from a paradise of tenderness to the commonplace ee personality of a cat—commonplace even though it os was a Persian cat which bore the name of Loma 7 Doone, and she loved it. Tiras 4 beantfol oat withont doobl-en@ittane _ ita head back at the sight of Dorothy, and es loudly, and with evident satisfaction. “TI want to know just what you think of her,” -— - said Dorothy to Dick—* truly and honestly. Don’t _. flatter me about her, Lorna and I don’t like flattery % _=—we want to know the truth about ourselves—the Q x _ brutal trath if you will, but truth at any price. Noe what do you think of her?” “I can’t see her properly,” answered Dick. “Lorna, dearie, get up and show yourself off,” said Dorothy to the cat; then finding that the great white Persian did not move, she turned her _ out of her bed, and took the four kits into her own lap. “I think she is lovely,” said Dick. “Tan’t she an enormous size ?” “Immense,” Dorothy answered, “ aaa a great beauty too.” By this time Dick had begun to tickle Lorna Doone’s ear, and that lady began to respond afterthe manner of cats when they are not shy—that is tosay, — she had put her two forepaws upon his knee as he _ sat on the bed of hay, and was vigorously rubbing _ her cheeks, first one side and then the other, ee his hand. “She has taken to you,” cried Dorothy gladly. : “Of course she has: Lorna Doone knows a good thing when she sees it,” he answered, laughing. “Besides, why shouldn’t she take to me?” «Some people don’t hke wel said Dorothy ; “especially men.” _ She had not forgotten how, the very last time he was in the house, David Stevenson had kicked her favourite out of his way, not brutally or to hurt her - —for David, whatever his faults, was not a brute— but because he was so jealous of Dorothy that he could not endure to see her care for anything. “How ean you waste your love on a beast of a cat?” he had Me DINNA FORGET, at oe | a : hit out, when Dorothy had caught up Lorne an we Pisce held her to her cheek — “Some men hate ree man who comes es : sometimes loathes her,” she said to Dick, and Dick knew by a sort of instinct who the “some one” was, “Qh, some men are cross-grained enough for any- : thing,” he said good-naturedly—he could afford to be good-natured, for he had realised what this girle real feelings for “some one were.” “For my part, I -moust say I’ve got a liking for cat, but I should : | hardly class a beauty like this with ordinary cathy She is not only a beauty to look at, but she & _ evidently affectionate, padsadeane. she’s youl ee you know.” “The tea is waiting, Miss Dorothy,” wei Barbera, ’ appearing at the door just at that OMG i oe said Dorothy gently. | = ~ RES ea ee CS PT it lee Fee a ue ran ee py WSO Sy , ae 5S ee | ie ee ty, - OHAPTER IY. SUDDEN DEATH. MAY come over and sce you again?” said Dick to Miss Dimsdale, when he took leave of her that afternoon. “Qh, yes,” she answered. She was quite con- _ quered by the delightful modesty of his manner. . “You will generally find us in about four o'clock, for we are very quiet people, and a few tennis-partics ov a dance or two are all that Dorothy sees of life. : _ Sometimes I wish that it was different ; but old trees, _ youknow,” with a smile, “are difficult to transplant,” _ “ And Miss Dorothy does ‘aot look as if she found life at Graveleigh insupportable,” said Dick, with - delicate flattery. “No; Dorothy isa good girl,” Miss Dimsdale replied in a tender undertone, and then she gave a little sigh which set Dick wondering what it could mean. Well, after this it very soon became an estab- lished custom that Dick should find his way over to Graveleigh at least twice in every week, and sometimes Mies Dimsdale asked hira to stay to share their dinner, for she was a woman of very hospitable nature, though she was quiet and somewhat stiff in manner, and a little old-fashioned in her ideas. And although David Stevenson had all her wish on his - ide, she really grew to like Dick the better of the two, e for Dick was Sate cal i kind i in a manner to. ek: and all alike, content to let his wooing do iteelf—if the truth between you and I be told, happy in the present, and a little inclined to leave the future to be — as long the future as might be because of the terrible — old uncle in the background. -Then, too, there was always present in his mind the knowledge that, sooner or later, he would have to make a clean breast of his identity, to Miss Dimsdale and to Dorothy, and to cast himself upon their mercy as regards the deception which had really been no fault of his, and to persuade them to consent to a secret marriage, | And whenever poor Dick reached this point in his reflections, he invariably gave a groan of utter despair, for he had a dreadful foreboding that never, — never, never would Dorothy’ aunt give even the : most reluctant consent to anything of the kind. So the sweet autumn days skipped over—Septem- ber died and October was born, lived its allotted . time, and in turn passed away, and wintry November — came in. The last tinted leaves fell from the trees ~ of the great oaks and horse-chestnuts, and th ° ‘ali © et poplars which shrouded the Hall were now but — gaunt and shivering skeletons, only a memory of — their old luxuriance and glory. But to Dorothy — Strode the bare and leafless trees were more beauti-— ful than they were either in their summer gowns of green, or in all the many-hued loveliness of their — : - gutumn frocks, for to Dorothy all the world was lighted and beautified by the warmth and fire a - radiant love—better to her the leafless branches. ve November with love than the fairest blooms. af ‘ springtime into which love had not yet. come, Titian Sek Marg} ; SUDDEN DEATH, al Duting this autumn she had seen but fittle of her es + admirer, David Stevenson. He had gone to the - Hall once or twice after he knew that “the man. _ from Colchester” had become a frequent visitor there _=-gone with a savage assertion of his rights as an old friend and a lifelong intimate of the house. But whon he found that Miss Dimsdale had, as he put it, _ “gone over to the enemy,” he gave up even that much intercourse, and gave all his energies to his farming, content, as he told himself, to bide his - d time, At last about the middle of November, when half a - the officers of the regiment were on leave, and soldier- ing and Colchester alike were as flat and dull as ditch- water, Dick Aylmer got into his dog-cart and turned the horse’s head towards the big gates, : Hullo, Dick!” called out a brother- officer to ae _ where are you going ?” | - “Qh, a drive,” returned Dick promptly. : - “Qh, a drive,” repeated the other, noting the evasion instantly—trust a soldier for that. “Got any | som for a fellow?” | “Take you as far as the town if you like,” said Dick good-naturedly. “No, never mind,” answered the other. “ I'll walk eS ae with Snooks presently.” - “Didn’t want a lift, you know,” he explained to Snooks, who in polite society was known as Lord William Very], “but I did want to find out where old Dick was going. But Dick was ready for me, and as close as wax.” | “Yes, I know—tried it on myself with him the __ other day,” said Snooks reflectively. “ Dick informed 2 Cea Le INNA FORGET. me he was making a careful study oe mare 'o-nests for the benefit of the British Association.” (an «The devil take those fellows,” Dick was saying to himself at that moment, as he drove along. “They have either got a clue, or they’ve turned suspicious. Snooks the other day, and Laurence now. I shall have to make up my mind, to screw things up to a climax.” But he had not now much fear that the climax would be a disagreeable one for him; and he drove along over the muddy roads as gaily ais ever he had _ done between the sweet September hedgerows. Yet when he drew up in front of the Hall, it struck him that there was something strange about the place. For one thing, the usually neat and well-kept gravel was cut up, and in one place the low box- — hedge which skirted the now empty flower-beds waa cut and crashed as if a careless driver ot cele: over it. ! He was not ke left in doubt. Old Adam came to take his horse and led him off to the stable, shake — ing his head with ominous sadness, and muttering something indistinctly about a bad job; and then Barbara opened the door with a scared white face, and quivering lips which could not command them~ : selves sufficiently to tell him anything. an “Good. God, what is it?” exclaimed Diok, his a thoughts flying straight way to Dorothy. But it was not Dorothy, for in two minutes she came running into the room, tried to speak, and then scared and trembling and sobbing, she found © herself somehow or other in his arms. - Diok was almost beside. himself with anxiety, -_ SUDDEN DEATH. he soothed her tenderly, and patted her shoulder with a gentle “There, there, darling, don’t ory like that. What is it, dear? Tell me.” But for a little time Dorothy simply could not tell him. “Tve been longing for you to come,” she said. at last. “Such an awful night we have had. Oh, poor Auntie! and she is all I have in the world—in the world.” “But is she ill?” asked he. “Remember that I know nothing.” | _ “But you got my telegram,” she said, ceasing her sobs to look at him. - | “Your telegram, no! What telegram ? , ie “T sent one early this morning to you at Colchester,” she answered—“‘To R. Harris, 40th — ‘Dragoons, Colchester. Was not that direction enough? ” : 4 Well, scarcely,” said Dick, half smiling at his own knowledge. “ But about your aunt—is she ill?” _Dorothy’s tears broke out afresh. “ She is dying — —dying,” she sobbed. “The doctor says that there is no hope—no hope whatever,” , “But tell me all about it,” he urged. “ What i ig the ‘matter with her? She was all right yesterday afternoon when I left. It must have been very _udden. Was it a iit?” “ Paralysis,” answered Dorothy mournfully. ‘ We were just going to bed, and Auntie got up, and all at once she said, ‘I feel so strange, Dorothy; fetch Barbara,’ and when'I came back a minute afterwards she had slipped down on to the floor by the sofa there, and could hardly speak. We put a pillow ‘ander her head, and got Adam up, and Adam drove 44 so pINNA FORGET. : ‘into Vovercourt and brought the ‘doctor out. as tot as he could, but Auntie did not know him at all. And as soon as he came in, Barbara and 1 knew it was all over with her, for he shook his head, and said, ‘We had better get her into bed. Oh no, it won't disturb her, she feels nothing’ But she did feel something,” Dorothy added, “for when we were undressing her she spoke several times, and always the same, ‘My poor little girl—Dorothy—all alone,’ ” _ and here, poor child, she broke down again, sobbing over her own desolation. “I begged and prayed her not to worry about me, but it was no good. Dr. Stanley said she couldn’t hear me, and so she kept on all night, ‘My poor little girl—all alone.’” : For some minutes Dick never said @ word de Dorothy, ” he said at last, “I should like to see her. Where is she?” “s “ In her own bed,” said Dorothy seep “Then take me up there. Perhaps she will under. stand me if I tell her something. & So Dorothy took him up to the large deka room where the mistress of the house lay dying. — Barbara, filled with grief and dismay, sat keeping — watch beside her, and she stared with surprise to see Dorothy come in, followed by the tall soldier, who entered with a soft tread and went up to the bed, where he stood for ‘a moment watching the dying __ woman, and listening to the incoherent mumbling _ words that fell from a lips. “ Dorothy—little girl— no one—alone—ah !—” and then along sigh, enough to break their hearts that heard it. “Just pull up that blind for a minute, Barbara,” : eaid Dick to the weeping woman, “TJ want to speak BE ANF AR ARIOE A vel BOS ab hich | 3 ! ne at an Meg pit pats oe SUDDEN DEATH, e a ru | : = to your mistress, and I can’t tell whether she will | ‘inderstand me tnlésa I can see her face.” Then as Barbara drew up the blind and let the _ feeble November daylight in upon the pallid face _ lying so stiffly among the pillows, he laid his hand : upon the nerveless one lying upon the bed-cover. _ “Miss Dimsdale,” he said, “do you know me?” be But there was no sign, and he tried again. “ Miss Dimsdale, don’t you know me, Dick Harris?” For a moment there was a death-like silence, then — _ the dying woman muttered, “ Dorothy—girl—alone.” “You are troubling about Dorothy,” said Dick, slowly and clearly, “and I have something to tell a you about Dorothy. Can you hear me? Cannot you. _ make me some sign that you hearme? Can you _ move your hand?” But no, the hand remained poset still, still and cold, as if it were dead already. “Can you make me no sign that you hear me?” Dick urged, “I must tell you this about Dorothy. It will make you quite easy in your mind about her.” _ Still she did not move or speak, but after a moment or so her eyes slowly opened and she looked at him. “1 see that you hear me and know me,” said Dick. « You are troubling to know what will happen te ey if you should die in this illness. Is that it?” . “Yes.” She had managed to speak intelligibly: st last, and Dick pressed the cold, nerveleas hand still covered by his own. “Twat to marry Dorothy at once,” he said very clearly wud gently. “I should have usked you for her covn in any case. But you will ke quite satisfied to koow that she is safe with me, won't you?” 46 DINNA FORGET. There was another silence; then the poor tied tongue tried to speak, tried again, and at last mumbled something which the three listeners knew was, “ Bless you.” : | “ Auntie, Auntie,” sobbed Dorothy, in an agony, “gay one word to me—to me and poor cating’ do. 99 _ The dying eyes turned towards the faithful servant, and a flickering smile a across the worn grey face. “Old friends, ” she said more clearly thats she had _ yet spoken. “Very happy,” and the eyes turned towards Dick. “Auntie!” cried Dorothy. : “My little girl,” said the dying wor.an, almost clearly now. “My dear, good child. I am quite happy.” There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the girl’s wild sobs, and when Dick looked up again, the _ grey shadows had fallen again over the worn face, and he knew that her mind was at rest now. 3 _ And in the quiet watches of that night Marion Dimedale passed quietly away, just as tha tide turned — backward to the hams geet ong Bee. * CHAPTER V. DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, ICK stayed at Graveleigh Hall until the end came, after which he bade Dorothy go to bed ; and he put his horse in and drove back to Colchester, which he reached in time for the day’ 8 duty, pace orderly-officer for the day. “I must stay in barracks all tomar w, darling, I am on duty,” he explained to her; “but I'll get leave the next day, and come out here ha the morning. Meantime, will you and Barbara say nothing of the engagement between us—L want to have a long talk to you before any one else knows a single word.” And Dorothy, of course, promised, and Barbara promised too, believing quite that Mr. Harris wished to Bay nothing about marrying and giving in marriage while the dear mistress of the house lay cold and still within it. It was a sad and wretched day. The news spread quickly through the neighbourhood, and every few minutes inquirers came to the door to hear the — details from Barbara and ask kindly for Dorothy. And about noon, by the time Dorothy had dragged herself out of bed and was sitting miserably beside the drawing-room fire, David Stevenson rode along the avenue and told Barbara that he wanted to see Mies Dorothy. Pod Tig ah SON hae er A Lk A Sie wet See Ee Bet ee TN RAY egy A) RATS, MaRS 5 Sea RY We LN DENG ERT aR SCAR UREN SSeS NN EL USE eT EERE MUP imeetavare EOIN ieee aes SRG ABO sae ee RS ieee Pee Beat er Ao a MSS Nina nats: Gta oe Disases Vase abashic we we ly Tee eke ay Ow aero, ath Mons N79 ; 48 oan DINNA FORGET. « Miss Dorothy i is yery paar, and ‘ox os . enid Barbara, who. had a sort of instinct that Dorothy would rather not see this particular visitor. “ Yes, but I must see her, all the eame,” said David, ourtly. “Where is she?” _ “Tn the drawing-room, sir,” said Barbara; “ But I don’t think I oan let you go in without asking Miss Dorothy—I “Do you know,” asked David, with exasperating calmness, “that I am Miss Dimsdale’s sole executor ? No, I thought not. Then you will understand. now, periios, that it is necessary that. I should see her— to find out her wishes with regard to the funeral for one thing, and to give her authority to have her black frocks made for another;” and then, poor Barbara having shrunk away scared and trembling from this new and strange David Stevenson, whom she did not seem to know at all, he went straight to the drawing-room, going in and ee the door behind him. ‘Dorothy jumped up with a cry almost of Tie : when she saw who had thus entered. “There,” - gaid he coldly, motioning her back to |her chair, «don’t be afraid, I shall not hurt, you,” and then he got himself a chair and set it a vile wee from hers. : “TT was obliged te come and see you at once, Dorothy,” he said, in a, cold and formal way, “because your poor aunt made we the sole executor under her will. But first let ma say how very, very sorry I am that I have to come like this. JI have known Miss Dimsdale all my life, and loved her always.” | Dorothy had softened a little at ne and before bes RCE Ee Rah LT NT A ne LAN OR egy at anne ee er ante GN ea a DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, | 49 s had onded his sentence, began to cry piteously. : David Stevenson went on— ~~ “1 don’t want to speak about the reason wit she left me in charge of everything,” he said—“ at least, not just now. Of course, she thought that everything would be very different with us. And then, too, she @vas a good deal mixed up with me in business — matters, and I believe she wished that the outside. world should know as little of her affairs as possible. Now, Dorothy, it shall be as you wish: I will either simply hear your wishes about the funeral and the mourning and all that, and tell yca how your affairs _ &tand by-and by, or I will tell you now, whichever “you like,” JT would rather kitow the worst now,” said Dorothy, in a very low voice. She knew from his manner that he had no comforting news to tell her. “Then I will tell you,” said he, in a strained tone; “and first I must ask you, did Miss Dimsdale ever tell you that she had had great losses during the past two years?” _ Losses!” cried Dorothy, le open eyes. es No; ‘qT don’t know what you mean.” «J feared not. Well, sho had Navara terrible losses of money. and—and, to cut a long story short, Dorothy, I advanced her seygral large sums on—on the security of this property.” “Then this—go on,” said Dorothy. “At that time Miss Dimsdale and I both thoupttt that everything would be different between you and me, and, in fact, that 1 was but advancing money to you. We thought that the world—our little world _ here, I mean—would never know anything about it, 80 ——~™:*sCO ENA FORGE, and she was obliged to sell the Hall to somebody. I gave her more for it, than anybody else in the world would have done, because—well, because I wished — to oblige her, and to help her over this difficulty. On no account would I have disturbed her here, or have taken a ats of rent from her, if she had we lived to be ninety.” © ~ “Then this is your house ?” Dorothy cried. “Tt is,” he answered quietly, “But Auntie had a very large annuity.” she exclaimed. : “I know it. But then you must remember that she had always been accustomed to live up to her _ full income—to keep her carriage and pair, her gardener and her maids. Indeed, Miss Dimsdale never had any money to spare, and it was in the : hope of making more of the loose money that she had, money that was’ apart from her estate and cher settled annuity, that she unfortunately bought, among other things, two shares in a bank which was not safe, which, indeed, failed and left her liable for nearly as much money as the Hall and the age were worth.” “Then was my aunt a pensioner on your bounty ” Dorothy cried, her face all aflame at the idea, “Certainly not,” with a bitter smile at the pride on the soft little face.. “Iwas not to take possession until her death, and she had always her annuity; but after that loss she never lived in the same comfort quite as she had done before.”. “T never noticed it,” Dorothy put in. “ Perhaps not. She was most anxious that you should not do 80," DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, eh “Then this is your house!” said Dorothy, tising, © . “Stay, let me speak. I will not keep you out of your rights. The day after she”—her voice trem- bling—“is taken away, I, too, will go,” and then she | turned away, to hide alike her anger and her tears. David Stevenson rose also, his face hard and set in _ response to the bitterness of the girl’s tones, his handa trembling, and his heart as heavy as lead. A sharp reply ros9 to his tongue, but it went no further, for all at once the sight of Dorothy’s a touched and softened him. “Dorothy ! Dorothy!” he said, * what’ can I ever have said or done to you that you should treat me like this? I have loved you all my life, just as I love you now, but there is no crime in that, surely? - By writing and asking you to be my wife, I certainly never meant to insult you, and yet you seem to think I have done you some deadly wrong to offer you what most men consider the highest compliment they can pay toany woman. The idea of you talking of my rights here, when your aunt is still lying in the house, is too cruel, too unkind. I am not an inter- — _loper, who cheated my friend out of her dues; on the contrary, I saved her from all the unpleasantness and the expense of exposure. She never looked © : upon me as you do now. I don’t think, Dorothy,” he ended pe ooeny, “that I have deserved this from you.” Dorothy had hidden her face upon the shiney: - Shelf «1 am very miserable,” she said, in choking voice. “I’m very sorry.” David Stevenson drew his own conclusions from the admission; then after a minute or two of silence, _ 52 met . a DINNA yorarn, he caid, Ms ‘There i is one thing: I should like to tet you before I go, “Yes,” very meekly. a “It is—don't think I am trying to force stivualies on you when you are in trouble, for it is because you are alone and in trouble that I must tell you. Itia — that I think now about you as I always have thought, _ and asI believe I always shall think. AndI want you to remember, Dorothy, that if ever you feel any differently towards me than you have done lately, - _ you have only to send a line and say, ‘ David, I want you. Or if you choose to go away into the world altogether, to marry, to do anything, you know that, whatever happens, one pair of arms will always be open for you, one lover always ready to call you mistress, one man always ready to lie down under your feet. That was what I came to say to-day.” _ There was a death-like silence. Dorothy struggled to speak, but could not. Then she put out her hand ‘in a blind sort of way towards eh, and David bent | down and kissed it, Neither of them said a word more, and fix a ‘moment or so he released her hand, and went out of the room, knowing as surely as if she had said it in _ plain words, that Dorothy Strode had given her heart _ away, and that she would never send for him in this — world ; that it was all over, and at an end between _ them for ever. # So he went home to his own handsome, lonely | house, and looked round as a condemned man may look around the cell which is to be his while life lasts. He was quietly and utterly miserable, for -watil a few months ago Dorothy had been the life — DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION. 53 provement in his house, it had been for Dorothy, he had planted a shrub or a young tree, it had been : . mainspring of his life, If he had made any - for Dorothy. He had bought a smart little village — cart, thinking that it was just what Dorothy would like to drive herself about the lanes in—but it had all been for nothing; and in that. bitter hour of realisation he knew that he would live out his life alone, and that Dorothy Strode would never come, except in dreams, vain, hopeless dreams, to be the mistress of Holroyd. : A couple of hours passed before he remembered _ that he had never mentioned the subject of Miss e Dimedale’s funeral to Dorothy, or actually told her in what precise oe teleg ae: she had been “J have lost my head over all this business,” he paid, with a grim laugh to himself; “and she, poor little girl, is probably worrying herself to know whether she can afford to buy — a black gown. I must send her a line down at once.” | - Dorothy therefore, in something less than an hour's be time, aren the ees note :— «My DEAR Donorzy,—I quite forgot this morning to mention several matters of: importance just now. First, to tell you that when everything is settled, there will be at least a thousand pounds for you. Your aunt has left you everything. Therefore I~ ~ Rave sent into Colchester for Mawson to come out and see you about the funeral, which will be, of | oourse, in every respect as you wish to have it. May - ; I ee to you that you shal! carry out Miss Dims- - . Pe et Oe een De ten tee a 54 : eee DINNA FORGET, dale’s often-expressed views on this eubieiv-tpliin and good and without ostentation? With regard te your mourning, it will be best for you to employ your _ regular dress people. I am obliged to mention this, as, not being of age, you cannot legally pay for necessary bills. After next month you will be the absolute mistress of whatever the property will - realise. | “ Always “tes true friend, | “ DAVID.” This Dorothy roe d soon after four in the after- ‘noon, just as Barbara had lighted the lamps in the | drawing-room and drawn the crimson curtains oie ~ over the windows. “There is a letter, Miss Dorothy dear? she said, glad of anything that would help to break the loneliness and monotony of that awful day, “and while you read it Pll go and see if your cup of tea ‘isn’t ready: you have had nothing this day, and a cup of tea anda bit of hot buttered toast ’ll be better : than nothing for you.” | “Thanks, Barbara,” said Dorothy, listlessly. Poor child! she cried a little over the note, because its subject brought back the remembrance of her ‘sorrow again, but her tears did not last long ; indeed, she had wept so violently during most of the day that her tears seemed to be almost exhausted now, And then she put it back on the little table at her elbow. “Poor Davidi” she said softly, “it istoo bad — for him. I wish I could have liked him: Auntie wished it too. Dear Auntie! But I can’t, I can’t, and Auntie liked Dick best afterwards. It made her so peaceful and happy to know that I wes geing acids ereypis Oa Muh nese a) rk ea Ate Mia Rs Liu aa ie 9 4 St ms , DAVID STEVENSON’S EXPLANATION, : 55 om .. to be Dick’s wife—-that Dick was going to take care _ of me always, And yet poor David. Oh! I wish he would marry some one else. Elsie Carrington _ likes him so much—Elsie always thought David was . perfect. I wonder when I am safely out of the way and married to Dick, whether David could be _ brought to think of Elsie a little. It would be such a good thing for her, and she is pretty and good and oh! so fond of him. I wonder if I were to give David just a little hint, just a suspicion of a hint that Elsie has always liked him. If he wouldn’t— why, Elsie would never know that I had said any- thing, and then if he knew he might soon get to like her better than me, I am sure if Dick had not cared for me as he does, and had married somebody else, I would marry David at once, and Auntie would be _ glad too, if she knew. David used to be her favourite, and she always liked Elsie, always.” _ “ Now, my dear,” said Barbara, coming in, “ here is a nice cup of tea and a plate of toast. Try to est jt, my dear; it will help you to bear it.” re “Yes, Barbara,” eaid Dorothy, her eyes Sling with CHAPTER VI. BARBARA’S SANOTION. ‘ HE following morning Dick Aylmer made nia appearance at the Hall quite oaly- “ How have you been getting on, my darling?” he said, when : Dorothy fairly ran into his arms. “Qh! it was such a miserable day yester diny,” she answered mournfully. “I sat here alone all day © crying and thinking about Auntie, except when “Yes. When?” _ “When David Stevenson came to see me.” - Dick could not help frowning a little. “ David Stevenson. Why didhecome?” | | - Well, because he is Auntie’s executor—he has to do everything; and oh! Dick, everything belongs to him now—the very house is his.” “His, this house! Why, what do you mean ?” “J will tell you,” she said. “You know; but no, of course you don’t know, but I will tell you. You see, Auntie had this house and all the farm and go on, and also an annuity of eight hundred a year, which was bought for her by a very queer old aunt of hers, Well, David told me yesterday that Auntie had also _ what he called some loose money, and with this she speculated a little. and did pretty well with it. I dare say she was thinking of me, poor darling, Well, two years ago.a bank in which she had a couple of . ae ee - BARBARA'S BANOTION, BF - shares failed, and she had to pay up a great deal more money than she had, so she sold the Hall to | David, for they both thought then that I should end by marrying him, and they thought nobody would ever know anything about it. David says he gave her much more than any one else would have done, -and that she was never to be disturbed while she lived. But it is all David’s now, and he says that there will be only about a thousand pounds for me when everything is settled. But I never knew a — word till yesterday.” _ “And the fellow came and told all this!” cried ‘Dick, in disgust. “Why, ’?pon my word, it isn’t decent. Can’t he even let the Taiser ees be carried out of the house before he claims it?’ “No, Dick, it wasn’t like that,” Dorothy protested meekly, anxious to do even David justice. “But, you see, he is executor and nobody can do anything without him. So he was obliged to tell me that, and . then I insisted on hearing everything else.” 3 “Qh, I see,” somewhat mollified. Beats you _ didn’t tell him anything about me?” , “We never mentioned you, Dick,” she wing abd quickly. . He did not speak for a minute, but sat holding o1 one _ of her hands in his, and tugging at his moustache with tho other. “Darling,” he burst out at last, “Pve got such a lot to tell you, and a good deal to confess to you, that I don’t know where to begin. — But you will hear all I’ve got to eay—you won't be _ frightened or angry, will you?” _ “Dick,” she said, beginning to coumnigg ‘you are pot going to throw me over?” BR _ & “pINNA FORGET. «'Throw you over!” he repeated, half A “My dear, I worship the very ground you tread on, Throw you over! no, more likely you will be the one to do that.” ie ue “You frighten me,” she cried, trembling still, “And I am so alone now. I used to have Auntie. I could have borne anything then, but now I feel’ like a poor pile rudderless boat going out to an unknown sea.’ “Not rudderless while I live,” he replied tenderly. “Well, Dorothy, my darling, I may as well make a clean breast of the worst at once and get it over. Don’t be frightened, dear, but my name is not Harria at all.” “ Dick!” she cried, then sat staring at big as if she could not believe her own ears, “Dick!” Yes, know. But wait till you hear all, dear, and then you will see that it was not my fault, to begin with, oat that I never meant really to deceive either of you.” And then he told her Se etal Lady Jane suet have mistaken him for his friend Haines; how unconscious he had been that the mistake had been made until she—Dorothy, that is—had called him Mr. Harris; how that fellow Stevenson had passed just as she spoke, and he had forgotten until he got back to Lady Jane's nearly that he had parted from her leaving her under a wrong impression about him; how oddly enough almost the same thing had happened at Lady Jane's. Then he told her all about his uncle’s — letter—gave it to her to read, in fact—and told her — how he had come to call on Miss Dimsdale, and had been prevented from giving his real name to Barbara by BARBARA'S SANOTION. : 69 Dorothy’ 8 coming to meet him and introducing him to her aunt as “Mr. Harris,” and finally, how he had ‘let the mistake pass, feeling that the whole situation. was & very awkward one for him, but having _slways the full intention of making a clean breast — of it to Miss Dimsdale sooner or later. “And the fact was,” he ended half apologetically, “I thought — if you both got to like me you wouldn’t care whether my name was ‘l’om, Dick, or Harry.” “But it is Dick ?” she cried quite piteously. It is Dick—Dick Aylmer, at my darling’s service,” he answered; “and, after all, Aylmer is a better name than Harris, any day.” 3 “And you will be Lord ‘Ayimen one day!” she said, her soft eyes filled with wonder to think of it. “ Yes, always supposing the old savage does not contrive to carry his threat about an heir of his ~ own into actual fact,” Dick replied. ‘But then you won't like me any the less for that, I hope.” “Oh no I was not thinking of that,” she said. “T was only thinking how wonderful it was that youshould want to marry me. But, Dick, what will "your uncle say when he finds out about it?” “He will out off my allowance promptly,” Dick ~ answered. “Qh, Dick!” she said. “Well, now, my darling, that is what I want to talk to you about. You see nobody about here, not even Lady Jane, knows me, except as Harris, gegiment vague. And if the old savage finds out that I am married he will make it a necessity for me — ~ to go to India, which I don’t want to do if I can help “it, But if you would consent to marry me privately ao safe so ie as you were not known by: any of the people in my regiment—that i ig, if Fen: ne, a mile or two away, or in the next town.” - _ “It would be quite legal?” said pis Pep & trembling voice, “It would be perfectly legal,” he ste eeee “Qh! my dear,” he burst out, “do you think I would be such a villain as to make a suggestion - which would not be legal, while your aunt who took care of you all your life, and who left you in -my charge, lay dead in the house? Listen, [ have thought it all out. We will be married, if you consent, as soon as we possibly can be. Barbara will witness the marriage, but will not know my real name I will at once make a deed declaring that I was married on such a day under the name of Harris, and leave it sealed in some place of safety, so that there can _ never be any trouble about the identification of the Richard Harris who was married to Dorothy Strode. We will tell Barbara that it is necessary the mar- riage should be kept secret for a time, and she ‘will live with you and take care of you when I am absent. There, that is my idea. I know that it isa _ great sacrifice to ask of you, and I hardly like to ask it, but you see I am in this old savage’s hands, so te speak. Then, on the cther hand, if you don’t feel that you ought to do this, or that your aunt would have objected very strongly to it, I will write at _once and tell Lord Aylmer what I have done, and he | must make himself as disagreeable as he leet Only, my dearest, that will mean India.” __ “Dick© dear,” said Dorothy, slipping her hand t BARBARA’S SANOTION, gh | within his, we will be married privately. I don’t think Auntie would have minded a bit. If she knew @ thing was right, she never cared what the world had to say about it.” - And so it was settled. When Dick had gone _ gain, Dorothy rang the bell for Barbara. “Come in | __ here, Barbara,” she said, “I have something to tell — you, Listen—sit down, Barbara, and promise me that what I tell you shall be a dead seoret for ever ~ urfil I release you from your promise.” Miss Dorothy,” said Barbara, sniffing, “I promise, . but surely you know it isn’t necessary.” _ No, Barbara, no,” soothingly, “ but it is best to say all at first, isn’t it? First, do you know that this house all belongs to Mr. David Stevenson ?” “To David Stevenson!” burst out Barbara, indig- : re nantly (she had known David from a little boy and detested him always). “But, Miss Dorothy, surely the dear mistress never let him get round her to that extent?” &No, no,” cried Dorothy, “but Auntie had to sell the Hall to somebody, and she sold it to David, and I ge never knew till he told me yesterday.” «Then I think, Miss Dorothy,” cried Barbara, in dignified disgust, “that he might have had the ecancy to wait a day or two before he told fest Barbara, you are ‘too hard on Davide He has been very kind and considerate to me—most kind and considerate indeed. But he just had to tell me, he couldn’t very well help himself. Of geurse, he does not want to turn us out—he—he _ woubdn’t mind if we stopped here for years; but then, a _ DINNA FORGET. = you see, Barbars, Tam engaged to Mr. Hara: and—_— and this is no place for me.’ “Does Mr. David know ?” Barbara eau: “Not yet; and that is what I wanted to tell you. - You see, Barbara, Mr. Harris is very awkward]: placed. - He has a relation who insists that he does not get married because he would not marry some rich girl or other that they wanted him to marry. And, of course, he wants to marry me, and he means to.” « Yes?” said Barbara, intensely interested in this sery romantic situation. “ Yes, Miss Dorothy, well?” “Well, Barbara dear, we are going to be married quietly,” said Dorothy, edging her chair a trifle nearer to the elderly woman’s chair, “‘ without letting any- body know, do you see?” “Without any of the folk round about knowing?” Barbara asked. “Just so, It won't be for always, you know, Barbara—only until Dick comes into his property; and he hasn’t asked me to do anything but exactly what he had made up his mind to explain to Auntie, and ask her to give her consent to. And I feel sure she would have done so, dear Auntie, for she did get so fond of Dick.” “Yes, she did,” Baers agreed. “But, Miss Dorothy, you are sure it will be done properly—that you'll be niarried in church and have your lines and all‘that? ” | “You are to see me married, Barbara,” Poroty. answered simply ; “Mr. Harris says so,” And after that Barbara gave her consent, so te : speak, and promised to be true to her trust and mig WTS MRE OT Pisce een 5 SRT URES EN YTS ee AC Ie SF Ap TOL Ot eos ie ake A RSENS RNR Kes eee Me Se A epee 7 ee Read te cha Fy Se ip ste Wade 4 Symes = mE ies Pa Nevis ety ie, pO, We eto lee mitts mea yea Cate meet. F TSS S 4 sae \ : : ¥ 45 , Sm Peeve 8 mas \ Ras r f SES Pes « 7) Pd el ~~ ‘BARBARA'S SANCTION, 68 as stand by her.dear Miss Dorothy as long as she lived. — _ “YT think the dear mistress would be glad if she knew, Miss Dorothy.” _ She did know, Barbara,” said Dorothy, with a tender smile shining through her tears, So the two sat together for a long time, talking long, and now and then weeping as some word brought back the memory of their loss. And Dorothy told the faithful servant all the plans that Dick and she had made for the strange and almost unknown future, which seemed so terrible to her who had lived all her life—all that she could remem- per, at least—under the same roof and guarded by the same tender care. sudden, so strange and new; everything is going. from me at one stroke, and after we go away from Graveleigh I shall have nothing but you to remind - _ It was so sad to have go little joy in her engage- ment and her coming marriage, and yet—yet, ‘‘ You mustn’t think that I don’t love Dick,” she cried to Barbara, when she had had another passionate burst of grief over the dead woman lying above. “I do love him with all my heart, and I know that I shall be quite, quite happy by-and-bye. But it is all so me of the past at all. Why, I don't know. I am not at all sure that everything here does not ‘belong to David. Perhaps he can even take my Lorna Doone away and—and even drown her.” “Nay, nay, Mr. David won't want to do that,” ‘returned Barbara, soothingly. “Besides, Lorna never did belong to the mistress. Her ladyship gave her POLE SERRE _to you—the dens HERO had naught to do in the — Fe Se ot cae Bia te fo ee On er ee CEO Re ah ae On ene ¥ * BS er ai a et Se eae Dera if aan eae ee “pnnwa yoRaEr. matter. Then, Miss Dorothy deat; arec't you going : to tell ker ladyehip about it?” “Lady Jane last of anybody,” cried Dorothy —4last ee of pay body. “JT see,” said Barbara, with an air of wisdom; bus, ie all the same, Barbara did not see anything. She thought the whole arrangement very strange and unusual, and she remindéd herself that she had never been mixed up with anything of the kind in all her life before, and now that she was being drawn into something distinctly clandestine, she did not at ell like it, Still, on the other hand, there was only the prospect of remaining at Graveleigh Hall under David Stevenson, and Barbara cordially detested David as she had always done. So, between her dislike of David Stevenson and Dorothy’s promise and Mr. Harris’s wich that she should see the marriage take place, Barbara graciously gave her sanction to the private union, and did not try to place any obstacles in the young folks’ way. ar «“ Ween bis Sate & Oi Se Mia re OF gS y cas aR CHAPTER VII. THE DAYS THAT ARE HO MORE. ISS DIMSDALE was laid away in Graveleigh : M Churchyard three days later. Everyone, high, low, rich, and poor, for several miles around the Hall came to pay the last token of affection and respect to her, and bitter were the tears that fell that day for the just and kind friend who was gone, Naturally a good deal of curiosity was felt about. Dorothy’s future, and many were the speculations ag to whether she would remain at the Hall alone with Miss Barbara. »r whether she would eventually decide to go to Holroyd, or to take the good-looking officer who had been so frequent a visitor at. the _- Hall for three months past. _ With regard to Dick, there was almost a quarrel, : iy Dorothy, as a matter of course, had invited him te the funeral, as indeed she had asked all her aunt's - friends who would be likely to attend it. Now, Dorothy had not a relation in the world, excepting one cousin, at that time wintering in _. Egypt, and therefore unable to attend the ceremony. She did not enter the large drawing-room until the _ Jast moment before starting, and then only spoke a _ few words to those nearest the door. And when the time came for them to go, David Stevenson came | forward, end with a very authoritative air, solely IY TR ae aah ree et Kony ne aes i) ba a Siete iy : 5 She Win BER EB ANT ? Bus Ne satescer a is ite me ANY set Me hp ete eee aes + > ” ¢ -86u “GS pena FORGET, due to the presence of his nea, offered Dorothy : his arm, © “Mr, Harris will walk with me,” faltered Dorothy, shrinking back, “By what right?” demanded Davids in & bittes under-tone, : “By the right of Miss Strode’s wish, sir,” put in Dick icily, “and in some measure by the right of having been the last person to-whom Miss Dimsdale spoke in this world, and in some measure by the right of having been one of the three persons who saw her die.” 3 Tt was all over in a minute or two, and only those standing very near to them, heard a word at all. Dick took hold of Dorothy’s hand and drew her out of the room, and the rest of the company followed as they would—David Stevenson among them, his head well up in air, but his eyes gleaming with anger, and his face as white as chalk. However, it was useless to show anger about such a matter, and the incident passed by. And when the last sad office was over, the large company separated, only the lawyer from Colchester returning to the Hall to make the usual Se aaceeee and to read the will to Dorothy. “And are you going to remain here for the present?” he asked the girl, kindly. ‘Oh, no, I am going away at once,” she answered. “But may I ask where?” he inquired. “Yes, we are going away, Barbara and I, for. 8 ehange—I must get away, it is bier: here, I hope I shall never come back again.” “You will feel differently after » time,” said the i NE Be. Shae inte et as Ce ee Nia A av eal THE DAYS: THAT ARE NO MORE, 67 ee eek kindly : ‘he knew how things were with - David Stevenson, though not what Dorothy's feelings towards him were. ‘The three were slone then, Dick Aylmer having’ purposely abstained from appearing at the house after their return from the churchyard: he was, indeed, at that very moment, sitting by the fire in Barbara’s little room at the back of the house. ‘‘ Yes, perhaps after a time,” she answered fever- ishly. “ But,Mr. Marks, I wanted to ask you a question—Mr. Stevenson told me that I should have about a thousand pounds?” “About that, I should think; but we cannot tell exactly until Miss Dimsdale’s affairs are settled.” “ But will you get them settled at once? I want to have everything settled,” she said anxiously. “ You see, I cannot arrange anything for myself until I know just how I stand, and I should like toknow _ just what I shall be able to do as soon as possible.” - © Very well, we will hurry everything on as much as possible,” said Mr. Marks to David, “ Miss voi» 8 affairs were in perfect order.” “Qh! yea, it will be easy enough,” said David; then. as the lawyer was gathering his papers ~. together, he said in an undertone to her, “ You are very anxious to shake the dust of Graveleigh off your foet, Dorothy.” | The great teara welled into her eyes, and fe ES moment she could not speak. “I don’t think you _ give me much encouragement to do anything else, - David,” she said reproachfully. “Iam very anxious to go away, because it is dreadful living im this house without Auntic—dreadfal; and I am very 68 a ‘INNA FORGET. : alkane David, and I don’t think it is very ‘kind of you to be so—so——” but there the sobs choked — her and she stopped. “T never thought you would be unkind to me,” she said under her breath, “Tm a brute,” he answered. “There, don’t cry, Dorothy. You shall have everything as you want it.” The result of all this was that, two days later, . Dorothy and Barbara went off to Bournemouth, accom- panied by Lorna Doone in a big basket, and there they remained, quietly and gradually recovering from the great shock of Miss Dimsdale’s death. If they were not very happy in their simple lodgings, they were very peaceful, and once Dick came and stayed at a hotel near, for a couple of days, and then Dorothy | was very happy indeed. During this time their banns were published i in one of the churches at Bournemouth and also ina London church in the parish of which Dick engaged a room and put therein some of his belongings, so as to make himself a standing in the place. But Dick was only at Bournemouth for those two days, and twice when David Stevenson was in Colchester on business, he happened to meet him in the street, not a little to his relief. | And Mr. Marks meantime worked away, and, for a lawyer, really hurried things up in a wonderful way, so that by the time Dorothy’s twenty-first birthday came everything was settled, and he was ready to hand over to her the money to which she was entitled under her aunt’s will. Mr. Marks therefore wrote to her, telling her that he was ready to hand over to Barbara the sum of one hundred pounds ; to her, Dorothy, a sum of thirteen hundred and sith -five : © He pounds, the 1 gum len over ead save after all ex- . ey - penses had been paid. He asked her also when she | and Barbara would be able to meet him and Mr, Stevenson, the executor of Miss Dimsdale’s will. Dorothy replied at once that she would be in London two days later, and if it suited them both ~ _ would meet them there—would he write to Morley’s _ Hotel, to say if that would be convenient? And eventually they did meet at Morley’s Hotel, and - Dorothy and Barbara signed the necessary papers, heard the necessary explanations, and from that moment were absolutely free of all connection with Graveleigh for ever, if they so wished. ~ “You will put that cheque into a proper bank,” gaid Mr. Marks to Dorothy. “Yes,” Dorothy answered, “it will go to the bank before three o'clock.” , oe «« And remember, if at any time there ie any little matter that I can do for you or any advice I can give you, you can write to me as a friend, and I will ney do my best for you,” the old lawyer said. _ «Thank you 80 much,” cried Dorothy. pressing his hand affectionately. The old man blinked his eyes a little, patted her shoulder and coughed, and then took himself rather noisily away with a kindly hand-shake to Barbara. Then it was David's turn to say good-bye, and he stood, poor David, holding her hand in his and looking hard at her, az if he was trying to impress her featares upon his memory. “I wanted to tell you, Dorothy,” he said huskily “that I bought the old cobs as you wished, and they will have an easy berth im my stable as long as thoy live. And I wanted to tell you, tuo, that I meant every word of what I said to you the day after Mise Dimsdale died ; if ever you want me 7 have only to say a single ‘word and I shall come.” “You are very good, David,” said abe. ah trembling lips. ‘I don’t know what you are going to do or what your plans are,” he went on, “but I hope you will be happy, and that God will bless you, wherever you are and whatever you do,” and then he bent down and kissed her Hhttle slender hands, and without looking at her again, rushed out of the room. | Poor Dorothy fell sobbing into Barbara’s arms. “Oh! Barbara, it is all so dreadful; it brings it all . baek again,” she wailed. “Nay, nay any dearie, think of what’s going to be to-morrow,” Barbara murmured tenaeey, “ Don’t grieve like this, my dearie; don’t, now.” “But I can’t help grieving a little, Bacher Dorothy cried impatiently. ‘ You forget that they have been all my life to me until just now. And Auntie wanted me to marry David almost until the last, and though I couldn’t do that, he has been very kind and generous to me, and I hate not to be friends with him, after all. And then I meant to tell him a little about Elsie Carrington, and then each time I’ve seen him I have felt so miserable and so guilty, Barbara, that I could have cried of shame. Yea, indeed I could.” : “ Well, but, my dearie, it’s over now, and David Stevenson would not have been satisfied to have you - friends with him. Men never do when they want Jove. And, after all, it wasn’t your fault that you ikea David : I never ao ala abide him mnelt : “But Auntie——” Berothy sobbed. “Tm sure the dear mistress was the last one in all the world to have knowingly made you miserable Q about David Stevenson or any other gentleman on Sse earth,” Barbara answered positively. “But what _ Aer did you want to tell him about Miss Carrington, dearie ?” © Elsie always liked hima,” Dorothy began, when _ the old servant interrupted her, “Nay, now, Miss Dorothy, take my advice and don’t yoube meddling between David Stevenson and __ Miss Carrington. They wouldn’t either of them thank : you for it if they knew it, and if you was to mention her name even it would set Mr. David against her _ for ever. Never you trouble your head about him, oe he’s no worse off than he’s always been—beiter, im _. fact, for he is richer now than before the Hall fell to ‘him. I dare say he'll feel bad about you for a bit, bat remember, Miss Dorothy, that it’s harder to lose’ what you have than what you haven't got and never — i “ee os had. ”? -“ Perhaps you are right, Barbara,” said ‘Dorsey little comforted. “ Ay, I am right there,” aia Barbars, wisely. | Well, the next day Dick Aylmer came up from Colchester with all the delight of long leave before him, and in the wildest and most joyous spirits, se that Dorothy was fairly infected by his gaiety. "Phat evening he {>0k her and Barbara to dine at nd I’m sure, Miss Dorothy dear, thet you detested _ him long enough hefore you ever set eyes ee Me. ie Harris.” | - Bim poor’ B, asd then to a theatre’ ‘to finish ‘ap ae ; evening. And the morning following that, Dorothy, ie dressed in a quiet grey gown with her silver belt around her waist, got into a cab with the old servant, and drove to the church where their banns had been “ cried,” and there they met Dick, and the two were made man and wife. | It was a very quiet and solemn wedding in the gloomy empty church, with its dark frowning gal- —leries and its long echoing aisles, down which their voices seemed to travel as into the ages of eternity. - There were only Barbara and the clerk besides — the bride and groom, and a couple of Mess girls who had been attracted by. the sight of Dorothy's pretty grey gown to go in and see the wedding. And then when the short ceremony was over—end eh! what a lifetime of mischief a clergyman can do in twenty minutes—Dick kissed his wife, and then Dorothy kissed eaahier and they all went in to sign the registers. 2 “You'll have your Hines, Miss Dorothy,” urged Barbara. .. “No, they are safe enough here,” Dorothy rephed. “But I would have them, my dear,” Barbara entreated in a whisper. “Yes, we will have our lines,” said Dick : oe would have agreed to carry the church along if it would have given them pleasure, he was so happy — jast then. | And then they went off to Dick’e hotel, where they | had a champagne lunch in a private-room, and Diek — i drank to his bride's health, snd Dorothy dreak to hig, — : THE DAYS” THAT ARE NO MORE, baa and an. drank to them both and then tule ae that the wine had got into her head. And after that they parted for & short. cs eo Dorothy and Barbara going off to Morley’s to fetch their luggage and pay their bill, and meeting Dick _ again with his belongings at Victoria Station, where ce parted in earnest from Barbara, who was going to spend the two months with various friends and relations in or around London. : “ And, Barbara, this will keep you going til we get back,” said Dick, slipping twenty pounds into _ her hand. | | ~ “But, Mr. Harris,” cried Barbara, feeling that ‘hee were four notes, “it’s too much; I shan’t need it.” Take it while you can get it, Barbara,” he _ laughed ; “I dare say we shall be despernt ay hard up by the time we get back again,” and then the ~ train began to move, and he pushed her hand back. “Good-bye, you have the address: Mrs. Harris will write every week,” and then the train had _ lipped away beyond gepeaking distance, and - Dorothy was obliged to draw her head within the window. “Poor old Barbara!” she ied. eae - Dick caught hold of her hand. “My darling, I have got you all to myself at last,” he murmured ~ passionately. They were soon away from London and off to Dover, for Dick had foreign leave, and they had agreed to spend the next two months by the sunny shores of the Mediterranean, where Dorothy would a learn to forget the sorrowful parting with her old home, and they would seek the lesser towns, where eo amma CHAPTER VIIL SIX MONTHS AFTER. ~ QIIX months had gone by—six glorious and bliss fully happy months, during which Mr. and Mrs. Harris kept their secret well, and Dick was all the world to his wife Dorothy. During two of these months they remained abroad, living in the smaller towns on the Riviera, seeking no interests beyond themselves, but leading a quiet, peaceful life of love, of which neither had become the least weary when Dicx’s leave was up and it was time for him to go back to his duty. _Now, as the 48rd were still quartered at Colchester, it became a question of some importance for them to decide where Dorothy should take up her abode after this. Colchester or its immediate neighbourhood was, of course, an impossibility, as her whereabouts “~might at any moment be discovered, and also Dick’s real name. Dick suggested that she might go to Chelmsford and take rooms there for the time; but Dorothy had stayed more than once in that sleepy little town, and it was therefore almost as impossible as Colchester itself. So finally they agreed that there was no place in the world like London in which to hide oneself and have a good time all the game, and therefore they came back to town during the last week of Dick’s leave, and they took a little > es 6 pa FORGET. oe flat in Kensington, just where Dorothy on ‘Barbara | could get on very comfortably without any other servant, and yet could be near to good ehops and a tolerably lively street. ray “I’m afraid you'll be awfully dull, darling,” he ; gaid to her when they had taken possession, and his last evening had come, “because, of course, you won't know any one, and you are not at all likely to get to know people.” “JT ghall have Barbara,” said Dorothy, ailing _ bravely. “ Yes, you'll have Barbara, but Barbara won’t be much company for you,” he answered. ‘I do hate all this concealment. I hate leaving you at all, and I - hate having to live as it were on the aly, and I’m afraid always that some one you know or one of the fellows will be seeing you, and that they may get hold of a wrong idea altogether, and—and—I sometimes feel as if I should like to kill that old savage at Aylmer’s Field.” “But, Dick dear, nobody will see me, and if they do they will think I am Dorothy Strode still — Remember, I don’t know many people in all the world, and none of your officers know me at all, and if they even happened to see me with you they wouldn’t think anything of it. Really, I wouldn’t - worry about that if I were you, dearest, and as for my being dull—why, I am never dull. I never have been used to having more than one person at a time —Auntie all my life, and now you, I shall get on splendidly with Barbara, and I shall always be able to look forward to the days when you will be scars A home.” ‘e F TRI oh te Berry cet OE al net ay Ras BR Fear ioe ee sie eyieaiee ls oR Re ea aA ND he pws at ai Bite ce cet, eh 7 a, Me x fs : 46% ¥ , at Fe! RIX MONTHS AFTER, a “at me _ “And I shall come like a bird whenever [ get the ghost of a chance,” he cried tenderly, : “ And I,” cried Dorothy, “am going to make a _ study of gowns, I have always been used to makinz ~ my ordinary gowns, and I shall have lots of time, — and I am going to begin as soon as you are gone. ft am going to make myself some beautiful tea- gowns; they will make me look married and dignified—they will make you respect me, sir.” “But you don’t want to look married and dignified,” he cried, half tee “Suppose you meet some one you know, and “T shall not be wearing a tea-gown, Dick,” cried Dorothy, with a gay laugh. “Ah! no, no, of course not,” he answered, relieved. _ round on you and stopped your allowance, where would you be then? If you are in the army you have always the chance of going to India, and I don’t know that I would not rather be in India as - _ Mrs. Aylmer than have these dreadful partings here.” “No, no,” he cried hastily, “I couldn’t take you out there. Tve always had a sort of horror of the - East, and I would do wore banat to avcid running any such risk.” So he went away, with a lump in his throat which made him glad that he was safe in a dab, leaving Dorothy to face the next week by herself—that is to say, except for Barbara, who was jubilant at having got her long holiday over and oe to be at work again. | To Dorothy, Barbara at this time was a wonder ful study, of which she was never tired. For Barbara had been born and bred in the country, and had lived more years at Graveleigh Hall than __ Dorothy could remember, and her comments on Town people and Town ways were something mare than am ae facie ox ‘MONTES aro : *. ot t they did things i ina queer sort of fashion at oy Holloway. My cousin Joe lives at Holloway—you Gh? know, Miss Dorothy—he’s a plumber i in quite a large way of business, and has money in the bank and. two children at boarding-school learning French and music and Heaven knows what beside. Mrs. Z oe used to go out every Saturday night to get her stores in for the week, as she always said—for ‘Sunday, I used to think. Never did I see such marketings! A quarter of a pound of butter and ra four fresh eggs. She regular prided herself on those oe fresh eggs. ‘My dear,’ said I one night to her, - Sthem eggs have been laid at least a week, and I i doubt if I should be far out if I went as far an as ten days’ _ **You see, Barbara,’ says she, ‘you've hemes used — to a country life, with new-laid eggs, and gallons of milk and butter by the stone, and I dare say you feel a bit pinched-lke here. But if I'd let ss myself go in butter and lived on new-laid eggs at twopence-ha’-penny each—well, all I can say is, I should have had to rest content without any boarding-schools or anything put by in the bank.’ “T don’t say, Miss Dorothy—Mrs. Harris, Ma’am, - [should say,” Barbara went on, inher wisest tones— that I should wish to go against my cousin Joe's wife in that respect—a thrifty wife is a crown of gold to a man that has to work for a living; but at eggs that have never seen a hen for nearly a fortnight, I do draw the line—to call ’em fresh, - that is.” : But althongh on most evenings Dorothy used te tell the old servant to bring her sewing and come PP ee a Ole eC PAC Ue Ore rh ee eee ee Pom TT aber er Ce ee he aces er ae iS NA Naar} RS % Se NAT and sit with her in the pretty little ‘avi edie, a it must be confessed that at this time she found her life dreadfully dull, and as each day went by — she seemed to miss Dick in her daily life more and. more. For though she had been used to a quiet country home and a quiet country existence there had always been plenty to interest her. Miss Dimsdale, if somewhat old-fashioned in her ideas and strict in her notions, had been both tender and indulgent to her little orphan niece, and had, moreover, always been a clever and capable woman with whom to associate. Then about a country house there are always so many different points of interest. Either the moles have worked at last from the meadow under the hedge and below the very best bit of the velvet lawn which is the very pride and delight of your eyes, or the rats have suddenly acqnired a pert measure of audacity and have scraped and bitten a new hole in the corn-bin or the newly filled potato- _ bags, or have gone further and found their way into the principal pantry and created a regular stampede among your servants. Or perhaps you catch one of the sinners in a new trap which cost five-and-sixpence, and when you go to see its wicked, hoary old occupant, you feel that if it never catches another, this one is well worth the money. Or if — traps and other means, consisting of horribly smell-_ ing poisons suggestive of the infernal regions, fail you, perhaps you have the professional rat-catcher up from the village with his box of sinuous red- eyed ferrets, and then you have yen tever ne on the rats. , ‘There is no end to the interest which houly | —™ MONTHS mm. = << — up ext of ‘the unexpected in @ Sacks: life. _ Perhaps the speckled hen starts laying, or she _ shows unmistakable signs of a stronger instinct of maternity than usual. Or one of the cobs casts a shoe, or a wind gets up in the night and tears a _ large branch off the great weeping-willow which _@helters the most easterly corner of your garden, where the wind sweeps up the keenest, straight from . the great North Sea. Or maybe the corner of the _ shrubbery, where the mushrooms have always grown, | nobody ever knew why, has suddenly bloomed out — -with broad pinkish fungi, and you feel as if you had _ found a fortune, although you know perfectly well that the market value of what you have discovered is not, at the outside, more than threepence. Still, — : _ that does not lessen your pleasure in the least, and — - you carry them indoors and present them to every _ member of your household, your visitors if you have any, your family, and finally to your cook, as if— well, as if you were a second Columbus and aad discovered a new America. _ Then in the country you are a neighbour of every- _ body’s! If you live as Dorothy Strode had been used to live all her life, you know why Janet Wenham was not at church on Sunday, and why Elizabeth ~ | Middleham’s girl left that nice place at Whittington, and how Elizabeth Middleham cried for days over it, and her girl’s intention to take service in London and see life. And you know all about it when Mrs. Jones has her mauve dinner-gown dyed chestnut- — brown, and how it is that the Rectory curtains keep clean year after year, although white silk with a delicately tinted stripe he be ruined in thse £ £ “DONNA FORGET, months in some ° houses. “You you ee ae or - about everybody in the country, almost without knowing why you know it. But in Town, in London-town, it is all so different. It is true that when you get known in London, the gossiping is nearly as bad as if you were the centre of a small village set; but to a girl situated as Dorothy was, London is a social blank. She knew nobody, and nobody knew her. She did not want to know any one, and apparently the inhabitants of — the Metropolis returned the compliment. Yet never- theless it was terribly dull. Her pretty little flat was on the ground floor of the block of buildings : which was dignified with the name of Palace Mansions, ao she had people above and people below her. But Dorothy knew them not. There was a sweet- faced lady on the first floor immediately above her, a lady who dressed well and had a sweet-faced little child with her sometimes, and Dorothy fairly yearned over her and longed to say “ Good morning” when they met in the common hall of the Mansion. But the sweet-faced lady did not know the exact stand- ing of Mrs. Harris who lived at No. 4, and in her dread of even rubbing elbows with “a person” she resolutely made her eyes stone and her lips steel whenever she saw the slight girlish figure approach- ing her. ; Then there was a lady at No. 9—that ‘was the basement, a sort of Welbeck Abbey in miniature, She, being a stout and ‘buxom widow whose grand- children came running in at all times from a house on the other side of the High Street, might have ventured a kindly word even to “a person ; 43 but ahe Eo pe pie est eran vert aS awe Seiya a) e 5 Ian m MONTH AFTER 3 : ; son é did. No, on 1 the contrary, “wheupver dis: came oe _ @eross poor Dorothy she invariably sniffed, which B was rude, to say the least of it. Then there was an old gentleman who walked: up and down in front of her windows every morning | ’ from half-past nine to ten o’clock, and again every afternoon from half-past two to three. He looked like an old General, and Dorothy felt quite friendiy — towards him—because he belonged to her darling Dick’s profession. But even an old General can get - monotonous in time, particularly when he does the : game things day after day—and this one always did. After his early morning constitutional, he invariably tee in to his house and was seen no more until he game out to do his half-hour of regular tramping again at half-past two. But after his second dose he always looked at his watch when an adjacent clock — struck the hour, and then shook himself together and toddled off as if he were going to Town—going to his club, Dorothy thought. But oh! dear, dear, it was all dreadfully slow, and before she had been a month in her new home Dorothy was pining, pining for some woman-friend to talk to, to confide in, to be friends with. - Of course, to set off against this, there were the gay and glorious times when Dick came home, ‘sometimes only between afternoon parade and morn- ing stables, which meant a little dinner somewhere, a theatre after it, and a wild scramble and rush to - eatch a train leaving Liverpool Street at some -wnearthly hour in the morning. At other times, however, Dick managed to squeeze a two-days’ leave ont of his Colonel, and then Dorothy felt—ay, and Pee eh swesg a eR Tipe PC ee EN tr rah SRL LARPS ote hat ant Cae Rice fae Sonics Te ee por bp hee “DINNA, ronorr. x ae e said, poor child—that life was worth living: and ‘that she would not change her lot for that of any other : -. woman in all the wide world. 80, poor child, her life slipped by in a continual - change from grave to gay, with bright spots of _ deepest and tenderest love set in a large surface of unutterable dullness and wearying depression. “ ] wonder,” she said one day to Dick, “ whether, when we are able to be always together, you will get tired of me and if I shall bore you?” “No,” said Dick, promptly. « You really think not?” eagerly, ~ “T don’t think at all,” he said tenderly, “because I am sure of it. What makes you ask me that, dearest? Have I ever looked bored or asif Iwas — tired of you?” — «Qh! no, Dick, no!” she burst out; “ < only you are so good and kind to me, and it eee 80 wonderful that you, who have been in the world all your life, should take so much trouble for a little nobody like me—TI mean that I know nothing, how should I, after ce living all my life at Graveleigh ¢” Dick laughed aloud at the earnestness of her face - and tone. “My darling,” he said, holding her close to his heart, “I have been no more kind and tender to - you than you have been to me. You don’t set half enough value on your dear self, the most precious self to me in all the world. Believe me, a man does not care so much what his wife knows as what she fs—and you forget what I always remember, that you might have liked the other fellow best, and yeu didn't.” oT Ay ag “ “x vowrms Arr, «The other fellow,” Dorothy faltered mean David Stevenson.” “Yes, I mean David Stevenson,” Dick ansy “Many a girl would have taken him before a. pauper devil, who had to ask his wife to live ¢ inooy in a poor little hole like this. Do you know, I went — round to have a look at Stevenson’s place, Holroyd, the other day, and when I saw it—shall I tell you what I did, my sweetheart ?” “Yes,” answered Dorothy, in a whisper. “T went round to the churchyard where she lies, vur best friend, and I thanked God and her, if she could hear me, that my dear little love had given me her pure love in exchange for mine, and that Miss Dimsdale’s wishes had never been to part us. Don’t - hurt me again by asking me doubting questions, a darling. Don’t, Dorothy, don’t, my dear.” “Dick, Dick,” Dorothy cried, “I never will I love you, love you, love you!” ae « And you will always love me?” teasingly. «Qh, Dick!” reproachfully. | «“ Hven when 5s : - Dorothy blushed, but she put her arm round his ~meck, and drew his mouth down to hers. “TI shail always love you best of all, D*sk,” she said; “and — however much I may love th child, § shall leve # most because of you.” | AEE RCP inn DN ee TENT! OOM on RTE COTTE ee CHAPTER IX. | AN UNEXPECTED APPOINTMENT. BOUT two months after this a sort of avaluteniio fell upon the little household in Palace _ Mansions: It took the form of a letter from Lord Aylmer, the old savage at Aylmer’s Field, and as Dick in his first surprise exclaimed, “Now, who the devil ‘was to expect the old savage would be up to this sort of game?” ‘It began by assuring his nephew thet he was enjoying the very best of health, that he had not had a touch of gout for something over three months, but that her ladyship was in exceedingly queer health—that she was, indeed, thoroughly out of sorts, and at present giving both himself and hee medical adviser cause for the gravest anxiety. Then he went on to say that he had just had a visit of nearly a week from his old friend Barry Boynton— “That's Lord Skevversleigh,” said Dick, as he read the letter aloud—and that Barry Boynton had just been appointed Governor-General of Madras, and that as he—‘the old savage ”—felt his nephew could not lose by advancement in his profession, whether he— ever happened to come in for the Aylmer title o¢ not, he had put in a good word for him with hig old friend, with the result that Barry Boynton hed promised to appoint him as his military secretary, AN ‘UNEXPECTED ‘APponMOnNT, oe a We ‘But, Dic a ” Dorothy cried, “that means ie a r 3 © «Nota bit of it, my darling,” Dick cried; “Tl see — only go to India on one condition—that I go as a — tke old savage at perdition before I accept it. a free man; that is, with you as my acknowledged o wife.” me Then they read the letter over again, and ‘made their comments upon it—she with her sweet face — bout her waist. _ “The amount of delicate sifoitnation he conveys “is really remarkable,” Dick laughed. Dick, by-the- bye, was on a ten-days’ leave, and was jovial and a ie pressed. against his cheek, he with his arm close _ inclined to view the whole world through rose- — coloured glasses in consequence: “ that is to let — ‘me know that I needn't expect to step into _ his shoes for many a day yet. Bless me, if he _kmew how little I care about it, one way or "the ; ~ other.” “Nor I,” Dorothy chimed in ; “ except—except that - we should always be together then, Dick,” with a soft touch of yearning in her voice. | - “But we are always together in heart, my dearest,” cried Dick, fondly. ‘And my lady’s health is causing him the gravest anxiety—h’m! We may take that with a grain of salt. Gravest anxiety! Why, if my lady was lying at death’s door that old gavage wouldn't be anxious, unless for fear that she should get better. However, as they arein Town I must go and inquire after her ladyship. She's a hard nail enough, but she has always been good to me in her way, and she’s worth a thousand of him — gny day. And then I can tell the old savage that he Oa NAL hat nee rian Sea MNP CATR Sr SPe Se Ry PLS Vn Tes em LU URS GANCRS CAREER anlar ’ rt pins ieee ULE Fae TES a EES . : he ee | DINNA FORGET, ae a. | ey use his duinanes wih hig jee old friend Barry - Boynton for somebody else.” <2 © But you won't do anything rash, Dick 7 ‘d Dorothy / .eried, ., » “Certainly not-—why should I? But I shall tell _ bim I have no fancy for India, and that I'd rather oo stop at home.” . “But supposing that he says no,” said Dorothy: who in her heart regarded Dick’s “old savage” as an all-powerful being who had it in his power to make or mar her very existence. __ “Oh, I think he will hardly insist, one way ‘or the other,” he answered easily. “Anyway, I must go atid be civil to my lady, who isn’t half a bad sort, and gently intimate my decision to-my lord.” ~« When will you go, Dick? ” Dorothy asked. To-day, I think, dearest,” he replied; “just after lunch will be a good time. The savage is never q auste so savage after a meal as at any other time.” A strange and sickly faintness began to creep over _ Dorothy, a dull and indefinable sense of forebod- ing rose in her heart, and threatened to suffocate her. ‘Shall you be long there?” she faltered. e “Well, if I am,” returned Dick, with a laugh, “i¢ will be a new experience for my deligh+ful uncle, for I never stopped a single minute longer in his house — than I could help, since I can remember.” ‘Then he happened—attracted by her silence, and the absence of the sweet laugh which generally echoed his—to turn and look at her. The next moment he had caught her in his arms, and was kissing her as a man only kisses the one woman that he loves ig all the w orld, > wo they are; brt you—you are my life—my very - —goul—the light of my eyes; why, you are myself. Why, to put my love and care for you in comparison MMe A ae ERI AON LPN ter Fa SARC aM EP CSI ACR A gM RUA Se a MTT CRT ye Sy Re ea 4 >| 4 é 4 n 2 _ : A (AC ONKPoTD arponemomre 89 «My love, my love,” he cried, “my dear, sweet little love, don’t look like that. What is it you fear? - different in any way, so far as you are concerned ? m “‘ They are your people,” she faltered, “ and——” ’ Not that I shall ever change toward you, or te © C | kas “My people!” he echoed contemptuously. “Yes, for one instant with what I feel for all my people together, would be too funny for words, if you were not distressed about it. But when I see you look like that, darling, it hurts me so awfully—it cuts me up, so that I can hardly talk or think sensibly. My dear little love, there is nobody in all the wide world __ that I could ever put beside you, or ever shall.” « You are sure?” she cried. Tam quite sure,” he answered, looking her | atraight and true in the eyes. “And now, my dearest, it is half-past eleven ; let me take you out for a turn before lunch-time.” He always found it an aaay matter to comfort ang re-assure the little wife who loved him so dearly, _ and although, by living so much alone and without proper companionship, she was apt to brood over the ciroumstances of her life, and to conjure up all sorte of gloomy fancies and dread shadows which might eome to pass at some future time, these mists always. yielded before the irresistible sunshine of his love, ~. and they were happier, if possible, than they had gts: qforetime. | In his innermost heart, however, Dick was not se: gaay about his approaching interview with Lord “4 a Ty ‘FORGED, “ie Aylmer as he made Dorothy believes Atel aed : 3 } a She, 7% -. gt the door of the old savage’s town house with — rather a quaking heart, and something of the vague ‘dread which he had coaxed and soothed away fom his wife’s tender heart. : 4 Yes, Lord Aylmer was at home, and her fadyatin also; and the servant, having no special orders about ‘Mr. Aylmer, at. once showed him into a pretty little room off the smallest of the two drawing-rooms, and told him that he would inform her ladyship of his presence. And in less than three minutes, Lady Aylmer came. | : “My dear Dick,” she said, “I am most pleased to gee you. I did not know that you were in town. _ Is it true that Lord Skevversleigh has made you his military secretary? I quite though you had set oe face against India at any price.” Dick Aylmer was so surprised that he sat staring — at his uncle’s wife in speechless surprise. She noticed his look, and asked with a laugh, “What is the matter, Dick? You look as if you had seen a ghost.” “Not a ghost, Lady Aylmer,” he said, recovering himself; ‘but I certainly expected to see more of a ghost than you are at this moment.” “ Why, how do you mean?” “JT had a letter from Lord Aylmert his morning, and he said that you were ill.” “Til! I?” she echoed. “ Nonsense, you rite have mistaken him. I was never better in my life.” — “T couldn’t possibly mistake him,” said Dick, firmly. ‘However, I'll show you the letter. there is nothing at all private in it.” So Lady Aylmer took the letter and read it, Ee TE pee TRS ge Ste aT Met NO Ra LR ar Oe SMO OTe ea ty eka ee 7 Pies SERS ; Beeb ee ie “AM UNEXPEOTED APPonrTMEN® oe a : a “Pm,” abe! muttered. “I am afraid the niall is o “a Wa father to the thought, my dear boy,” she said drily. “It’s trae [had a touch of toothache or neuralgia _ about a week ago, entirely because he was consumed — _ with gout—though, mind, he declares stoutly that he gh _hasn’t had gout for more than three months—and _ persisted in having the window open all the way from — Leicester. But as for my health or any one’s health — a, he | lite ae tah but his own giving him a moment’s anxiety—why, “4 - . the idea is ludicrous, simply ludicrous. The gravest anxiety, indeed. H’m! If I was lying at the point of death his lordship might be anxious till the breath was out of my body.” “That was just what I said to—to count ” said Dick, who had been on the very point of uttering his wife’s name. ‘“ However, Lady Aylmer, I am very glad to find that you are all right and in good health.” «“ Thank you, Dick,” she replied, holding out her ‘hand to him; then, after a moment's silence, she suddenly buret out, “ Dick, what is he after? ” Lord Aylmer? I don’t know,” Dick answered. - © He is after something, I’ve known it for weeks, ‘but I cannot make out what,” Lady Aylmer went on. “First, by his persistence that he has not got the ' gout. I have been married to him a great many years, but I never knew him deliberately deny him- self the pleasure of gloating over his gout Darore: He must mean something by it. I thought, of course,” phe went on, with a nonchalant air, “that there was somebody else, But his anxiety about my health, and his desire to pack you off to India, where he Jmows you don’t want to go, make one think SEES 4 ee os BD, FORGES, ie differently In any case, go to the ribenéy and see him, and whatever you do, my dearest boy, don’t “frritate him. Don’t contradict him; tell him at once that you don’t want to go to India—that is, if you « really don’t want to do so; but if he insists, take my | . most serious advice and temporise—put the time on i Ce Gein him you must have a week in which - to consider the idea.” - Yea, Pll do that,” said Dick, rising. «Stay, we had better send to him first,” said Lady #Aylmer, touching the button of the bell. “Yea Jenkins, tell Lord Aylmer that Mr. Aylmer is here _gand wishes to see him.” _ Best to treat him in the imperial way that satisfies him,” said her ladyship to Dick, as the man closed the door behind him. “I always do it when |] — ant to make him a little more human than usnal. I don’t do it at other times, because he is eminently a eee with whom familiarity breeds - contempt.” Dick laughed outright. “Very well, I will be most careful,” he replied; then added, “It’s awfully | good of you to give me a good tip out of your experience. I have never been able to hit it off with his lordship yet. Perhape I shall be more fortunate this time.” “You may be. You know, of course, Dick, that it — was your steady refusal to marry Mary maneE dele tha* set him so thoroughly against you.” s‘ Mary Annandale’s money,” corrected Diek. — “Ah! yes, it ia the same thing,” carelessly, “But I don’t believe Mary Annandale would ie hed me,” Dick declared. . | AM UNEXPEOTED APPOINTMENT, = -93_— 4 Perhaps not, Still, you never gave her a Sree | did you? Now, of course, it is too late.” = a Very much too late,” returned Dick, proatlet ; and grinning good-humouredly at the remembrance - of how very much too late it was for him to build _ up the fortunes of the house of Aylmer by means of a rich wife. re _ _He turned as the door opened again, § “ ae lord- - , ship will be pleased to see you in the library, Sir,” said Jenkins, : “ T will come,” said Dick. “And good luck go with you,” said Lady Aylmer kindly, as he went. “Come back and tell me how you get on.” ae Poor Dick! he did not get on very well. He — found Lord Aylmer sitting in a big chair in the _ library, looking ominously bland. nee “Good morning, Sir,” said Dick. : “Oh, good morning, Dick; sit down, my boy,” rejoined Lord Aylmer, quite tenderly. 8 _ Dick gave himself up for lost at ORO: but ne oat ~ down and waited for “the old savage” togo on with | the conversation, Fora minute or so Lord Aylmer did not speak; he moved his left foot uneasily, in a way distinctly suggestive of gouty twinges, and — fidgeted a little with his rings and his finger-nails, « You got my fetter,” he remarked at last. “Yes, I did, Sir; that brought me _ here,” Dick answered. “Ah, that’s all right,” said the old lord, in a self- gatisfied tone. “ Gréat piece of luck for you, my ae = el great piece of luck. I couldn’t have got it for = anyone else; in fact, I rather fancy Barry Boynton 4 = ~ had Somebody else in his eye, ies of course, he | -. eouldn’t very well refuse me. Still, of course, I had ‘~ to tell him you were devilish anxious for the - @ppointment.” .— “But Pm not devilish anxious a for the xppalntn ener | ‘Dick broke in at last. “I’m not anxious for it at all.” > For a minute or two the old man looked at him in ~ profound amazement. “Damme, Sir, do you mean to say you're going to turn round on me after all the trouble I've taken for you? Damme, Sir, do you mean to tell me that?” “Not exactly that,” answered Dick, still keeping betty Aylmer’s advice in his mind, “ but——” : “Then what do you mean, Sir?” roared the old eo losing his temper altogether. _ I mean this,” said Dick, firmly: “up to now I have, as you know, always set my face against going to India. I hate and loath the very idea of it, Eng- land is good enough for me, and I went into the 48rd on purpose that I might not have to go to India, or lose a lot of seniority. What I want to ~ know is this—What has.made you take a lot of trouble, and put. yourself under an obligation to Lord Skevversleigh, in order to bring about what you know would be utterly distasteful to me?” Lord Aylmer looked at Dick as if words had failed him, but presently he found his tongue and used it freely. “Damme, Sir,’ he roared, “do you mean te accuse me of any sneaking, second-hand motives? — "Pon my soul, Sir, I’ve a good mind to write to Lord Skevversicigh and ask him to consider the appoint- ment refused. But stay,” as he saw by Dick’s face that this would be the most desirable course he sould ee take, «] will a no such ey Delis Sir, I'v ve. had about enough of your airs and graces. Hark you,” and mark what I say! To India you go, without’ another word ; or I cut off your allowance from this 2 _ day week, every penny of it. As you yourself said — just now, I go to a lot of trouble for you, put my- — self under a great obligation to a friend in order to — ‘serve you, and all the return I get for it is, that you — get on your high horse and accuse me of second- hand motives. Damme, Sir, it’s intolerable—simply intolerable. And I suppose you think I don’t know why you want to shirk a year or two in India, eh?” “T don’t understand you, Sir,” said Dick, with icy — civility. “No, no, ot course not, And you think I didn’t see you the other night at the Criterion, and mop-. _ ping your eyes over ‘David Garrick’ afterwards. Bah! you must think I’m a fool.” -_ For a moment Dick was startled, but he did not show it by his manner in the least. “ Well, Sir,” he said . quietly, “JT have never been in the habit of asking your permission to take a lady to a theatre.” “No,” the old savage snarled in return; “nor when you wanted to start pone g in Palace” - Mansions either.” * No, Sir,” said Dick, fimaly “nor when I wanted , 4o start housekeeping either.” _ And that was why you refused to marry Mary 7 ae le?” Lord Aylmer snapped. Not at all. I refused to ask Miss Annandale re _ marry me because I did not care about Miss AAAS : dale.” “Bah!” grunted the ah man, in a fury, ¥ " — 96 | INNA, vonae?, suppose you believe in all that rot shout m marrying . for love.” -. >. Most certainly I do.” ~ “ And you mean to do it?” “T don’t mean to marry anybody at ky: anid ‘ “Dick coolly. He felt more of a sneak than he had - ever felt in all his life to leave the old man in his belief that his dear little Dorothy was less to him — than she was, yet he knew that for her sake, for the _ gake of her actual bodily welfare, he could not afford to have an open declaration of war just then. Sneak or no sneak, he must manage to put the time ona little until the child had come, and all was well with Dorothy. Lord Apter rose from his chair i in a rage of totters — ing fury. ‘“ Listen to me, Sir,” he thundered. “It may be all very pretty and idyllic and all that, but you wouldn’t marry the woman I chose for you, and now you shall go to India to pay for it, It’s no use you thinking you have any choice in the matter—you haven’t. Ive had enough of your excuses, and your shilly-shallying, and all your puling sentimentality, love, and all the rest of it. tila vats Aetapihoske i. ; love ?” guggested Dick, in his mildest tones, © “And repented it before three months had gone hig atl head, and have gone on repenting ever since,” the old man snarled. “Damme, Siz, that woman is never tired of throwing it at me. If I'd married her for her money, she couldn’t very well have thrown that at me—been a fool if she had.” There was a moment's silence, then the old Lord “I believe you caied for love yourself, Sir,” went on again, “Look here, Dick, you've get te make up your mind to one thing—I mean youto go to India, so you ek as well go with a good grace.” __ “Til think it over,” said Dick. Mis: “T want an answer now,” irritably. «That's impossible, Sir, unless you like to take cc no for an answer, right away,” Dick replied firmly. — _ “T suppose you want to talk the matter over with the young lady in Palace Mansions,” said the ald Lord, in his most savage tones, _ “T don’t think that would interest you, whether F did or not,” said Dick, coldly; “ but one thing is very certain, which is that I am not going to India with- — out thinking the whys and wherefores thoroughly over. I will come again on Friday, and tell: you my intentions.” | «And you'll bear in mind that a refusal: of the appointment cuts off your allowance at once.” «JT will bear everything in mind,” said Dick, - steadily ; ; and then he shut the door, sage: the old man alone. «Well? ” tied Lady Aylmer, whan he looked in to the little boudoir again. “How did you geton?” — _“ We didn’t get on at all,” Dick answered. “He means me to go to India by hook or by croo «And I wonder,” said my lady mae “what it is that be has in bis mind. No good, I’m - afraid.” CFR iets as nna ay aR a RAN a etched 4 CHAPTER XK, DINNA FORGET, ¥TER this interview it was Dick’s pleasant task A to go home and tell the news to his wife, It had to be done; it was useless his trying to shirk it, - because Dorothy knew why and where he had gone, and was too eager to hear the result of his visit. to his uncle to let him even light a cigarette in peace, until ehe had heard all that there was to hear ; in fact, as soon as he put his key into the door she flew out to meet him. “Dick, is it good news & ahe cried eagerly, Now Dick could not honestly say that it was good news, but then he did not wish to tell her how bad it was all at once; so he gently prevaricated, kissed her with even more than his usual tenderness, and asked her if ehe had been very dull without him, and — | whether he had been too long away. His well-meaning prevarication had exactly the opposite effect to that which he had intended. Dorothy’s sensitive heart went down to zero at once, and the corners of her sweet lips drooped ominously “Oh! Dick, it is bad news,” she said mournfully, “and you are trying to hide it from me,” “No, no. I am not,” he said hurriedly, “ But there’s no need to tell all our private affairs out here | for everybody to hear.” fe “But. thes isn’t any Gayhndee said Dorothy ; ue « “theres only Barbara.” In spite of his anxiety, Dick burst out leugtine. “Come in here, my darling,” he said, drawing her towards the drawing-room; “and you shall give me a cup of tea while I tell you all about it.” “And you've not prarcncd to go?” she asked, as _ she began to make the tea. “No, don’t trouble, Dick dear, it is lighted, and the water will boil in two minutes.” | _. $he had a pretty little brass stand, a tray, spirit- lamp, and kettle, and with this apparatus she always made the tea herself, with much pride, and some ~~help from Dick. It generally fell to Dick’s lot to light — the lamp, but to-day she was all ready for him, and had but to turn up the light a little to have the water boiling. “There,” she said, after about five minutes, and handing him a cup of tea. “ Now tell me all—every- thing.” ae Well,” aid Dick, finding himself ‘thus fairly up in a corner, and unable to put off the evil moment any longer, “1 went.” “Yes?” eagerly. “ And I eaw her ladyship.” “Qh! and is she up?” “Up! My dear child, Lady Aylmer is as well as I am,” he answered. Dorothy looked at him in wonder. “Oh! Dick,” ghe cried, “ but what a wicked old man!” “ Ah! I fancy it runs in the blood,” said Dick, easily. “One man couldn’t have so much original cia OS aay Paap Re tag) SE IP STS ST CALAN TEI nnd est athe eee: aes teas Sua 100 Soe ls See INNA, ‘FORGERY, en ain of his own as ther old savage has; tt mast be heredity.” “ Then do you think you al tell henibhe Efskad stories when you are Lord Aylmer, Dick?” she asked roguishly. — “Perhaps—who knows? All ine same, there is one story I shall never tell you,” drawing her ‘tenderly towards him. “I shali always be true as the gospels when I tell you that I love you better than any other woman in all the world.” Something in his voice touched the tendercet chords of her heart, and set it throbbing and beating with a sickening sensation of fear. “Dick,” she said in a whisper, “is it very bad news that you are trying to break to me—does it mean India, after all?” Dick looked straight into her clear eyes. “My dear little love,” he said, “I am afraid it does mean India, after all; but if it does, it shall mean India for us both,” - He told her everything then—how Lady Aylmer had received him, how she had openly declared that her husband had some scheme of his own to get rid - of them both, how the old savage had received him, and what end their interview had cometo. ‘* But ef course,’ he wound up, “although I took time to consider it, my mind was made up in a moment. J. shall refuse the appointment.” 3 There was a moment's silence, “ Dick dearest,” gaid Dorothy in a quavering voice, “is it a very good thing to be a military secretary to a governor- general ? ” a Ob! well—yes—it 1s, dear, he admitted, “be i a a es te wn a, ED ete | Pee ee at set te EV Ty ar hn CRE RRL. pla? © Ct it pee ie” Se ees Chiral hh haan ae Cap aegs (ae rel ee Aare . 3 ’ p pt % ai i ; ee Pi ee St eie ah iN my + : ; * ean site San Ye an ? "ie 5 : , « In mean, would you have refused it if you had not Ween married, if you had never seen me?” : “No, I don’t suppose I should. I dare say I shoal never have bothered to get such an appointment, , because, as you know, I hate the very idea of going — to India, but at the same time, to be quite honest, I don’t suppose Ishould have refused. I don’t sdb any man in his senses would.” _ Dorothy drew her breath sharply, a8 for a minute or two did not speak. “Dick, darling,” she said at lenthg, “it is true that you are married, but I don’t ‘see that that is es ane why you should not bei in your senses too.” “What do you mean, Dorothy ?” he Asked quickly. 2 “Well, just this. Supposing that Lord Aylmer ~ had let you refuse this appointment, and had not — - iale himself disagreeable about your allowance, we _ should have to go on just as we are doing now, And, of course, Dick dear, I should like to be Mrs. Aylmer instead of Mrs. Harris, and to live with the regiment rather than in Palace Mansions ; but—but, at the game time, since there is so much to be gained by it, I would just as soon be Mrs, Harris in one place as in another, if I must be Mrs. Harris vat all.” Dick caught her close to him, “Dorothy, you - mean ” he began. _ «J mean,” she ended firmly, “that I would sooner - go to India as Mrs. Harris than drag you down in your profession, and put you at loggerheads with -_- your uncle; because he is your uncle, and the head of your family, even eoyek he is such an old savage ae apse tual 108 ee "INNA voucrt, en ee “But, my Mas my dear, do you ie thet in htt case I should have to go at once?” he oried, “ Yes, I know that, Dick,” she answered. «But I can’t leave you alone, just now—I on é Dorothy,” he exclaimed. “ It’s impossible ; it would be Inbuman. Why, I should be out of my taind with anxiety and distress.” “No, no—you would know that I was proud and happy to be able to do something to help you,” she replied, “I would rather that you were here; but, then, I would always rather that you were here, That is not a new feeling forme. And I shall not be alone. I shall have Barbara, you know. Barbara will take care of me, and let you know exactly how I get on.” “No; I cannot let you do it,” he said, when she paused. “Yea, yes, you can, dear. Besides, it is not ook ourselves that we have to think of. There is the child; and although if we go to India together, we might be able to get along pretty well by ourselves, we should not be able to afford to send the child home, if the climate was bad for it. Why, Dick dear, we should not be able to afford to come home ourselves, if we could not stand the heat.” -“« That is true,” he admitted. «And don’t you think,” she went on eagerly, “that I would rather live as I am doing now fora year eres or two longer than I would run the risk of seeing . e you die, perhaps, because we had not money to bring ushome? Just think what I should feel like if we were in such a case as that.” “But, darling, you don’t know—you don’t pealios _ how very different life would be out there,” he urged, | BDO YoRorr, = 103 é os “ Hore, very fow people take tho trouble to notice us, one way or another, and if they do, it does not much matter. But out there, as military secretary I should have a lot to do. I should scarcely have a moment to myself. I should not be able to go any- _ where with you, and probably very seldom be able to _ @ome and see you.” _ “But you would be able to come sometimes,” she — _ answered, with a brave smile, “Every one knows that half a loaf is better than no bread, and if one - cannot get even half a loaf, it is foolish to quarrel _ with the slice which keeps one from starving.” Dick’s heart felt like to break. “Dorothy Dorothy, he said, “my dear little brave unselfish wife, every word you say makes me love you a thodéand times more than I did before. My dearest, I give in te anything that you wish; youshall decide everything, © and I—I will give all the rest of my life to trying to make you feel that you did not throw away your love and confidence when you gave them to me.” : So they arranged that Dick should accept the | appointment of military secretary to Lord Skevvera- leigh, and that two days later he should go and see his uncle again, and tell him the decision to which he had come. Dorothy had begged him to go and see — him the following day, but Dick held out firmly there. No, he would have one more day of liberty before he went over to the enemy and gave himself oe We will have areal happy day, darling,” he said, - when Dorothy had given way about imparting the news to the savage. ‘“By-and-bye we shall have _ more money than opportunity of spending it together, Dl pn a yonaae, cs _ let us make hay while we can. “Fit, wer 1 ge _ and have a look at the shops together, and I will buy you something you can always wear till we meet again; then we will go to some good place and get @ little lunch ; and, afterwards, have a drive, come _ back here, dress, dine somewhere, and do a theatre after it. There, what do you say to that for a real happy day?” _ Dorothy said that it would be detzhtfal, and thought—well, with something like dismay, that she — should never get through it all. Yet the fear of once giving way and breaking down altogether kept her - up, and she went bravely through with that happy day, which afterwards lived in her mind as being — ame long spell of agony. And after that she wore upon her wrist Dick's trust gift to her—a golden bangle, with two words ‘inscribed upon it in little diamonds, which caught the light and flashed their message at her a hundred mes e day—two simple words, “ Dinna Forget.” CHAPTER KL A NEW IDEA. ORD AYLMER was sitting alone in his library; smoking a cigarette, and wondering what answer Dick would bring him, when he thought proper to come again to give in his decision. - He was a handsome old man, not so very old in years, but aged in wickedness. A handsome man still, with aquiline features, a flushed face, and a goodly crop of white curly hair. Your first thought — an looking at him was, “ What a charming old gentle- man!” your second, “ What a pair of steely eyes!” Your third, “ What a Mephistopheles!” Yes, without — the shadow of a doubt, Lord Aylmer was a wicked - man, with a ‘bad heart filled to the brim, and running~ over with all manner of evil. _ They say, you know, that women novelists ou make their heroes all good, till they are as insipid as — the dummies in a tailor’s window; or else that they go to the other extreme, and make their villains such unmitigated villains that it is impossible to find — one single ray of virtue wherewith to redeem their character from its inky pall of utter blackness, . But let me tell you that if all the women-novelists who write stories’ in the English language were to con- _centrate their efforts upon the task of trying to depict _ _ the villainy of Lord Aylmer’s natural depravity, eb gy : a aot rye nN I am afraid that i in the Gad they ‘would ‘hayé} 06 cal “ in the aid of their masculine confréres to adequately complete the portrait. For the noble lord was all bad, thoroughly bad—what up in the North coun- trie they call “bad, core through.” Yet he had a delightful manner when he chose, and in early middle age had made a genuine love-match with a beautiful young woman at least sixteen years - younger than himself—a penniless as well asa beau- tiful young woman, upon whom he had lavished so much love and attention that within three months of his marriage his love had burnt itself out and was ‘as dead as any dead voleano. A few weeks later, — Lord Aylmer practically separated himself from his _ wife, although they continued to share the same house and he appeared before the world as much as possible as if no breach had ever been opened between them. ; Not by Lord Aylmer’s desire, this—oh! no, but because her ladyship had never been so genuinely in love with him as he had been with her, and was, moreover, perfectly alive to the solid worldly advan- tages of being Lord Aylmer’s wife, the mistress of Aylmer’s Field and of the handsome town-house _ in Belgrave Square. . “ Of course, I know that there are others,” she said in reply to a dear friend, who thought it her duty to open this young wife’s eyes, “and, of course, I know that Aylmer wants to get rid of me; but I don’t mean to be got rid of, and I put up with the others because I think doing so the least of two evils. There is only one Lady Aylmer, and she isa strong — oe and healthy young woman, who means to be Lady en Be oe 4 NEW IDEA 107 : | GAyimect tor at least Atty years longer. Yes, I now my dear, all that you feel about it. I quite appre- — _ ciate your feeling towards me, Oh, yes,it was your — _duty to tell me, but Iam not going to cut myself out of all that makes life worth living, just to oblige a _ _ husband who has got tired of me in three months.” — To this decision Lady Aylmer had from that time — _ forward kept most rigidly. As far as her husband was concerned, nothing seemed to annoy her, and whenever she wished to do so and condescended to try to get her own way by means of a little flattery, _ghe generally succeeded ; and now that Lord Aylmer had got into the “sixties,” she was simply a stately, - even-tempered, iron-willed, and exceedingly healthy ‘woman who looked as if she meant to live to be ninety. It was partly on the subject of his wie 8 extreme Dihincss that Lord Aylmer was thinking that morning as he smoked his cigarette and tried to assure himself that the twinges in his left foot were merely a sign of a coming shower and nothing in the world to do with gout at all. And just as a - worse twinge than usual made him wince and shiver, © the door opened gently and a man-servant made his appearance. “Mr, Aylmer is here, my lord,” he aaid. “« Will your lordship see him ?” “Certainly, of course,” exclaimed his lordship. “ Show him here at once.” The man retired, and in a minute or two returned with Dick, who said “Good morning” to his uncle, with an air of cheerful civility. _ “Wgh,” granted the old Lord, “ morning. Well?” — «Well, Sir,” said Dick, « < T have thought the matter over, and: although I have not and never have had any wish to go to India, I have decided that it will be best for me to accept the appointment you were good enough to get for me.” - «Qh!—er. I’m glad you've come to your senses at last,” said the old Lord, a shade more graciously. “Well, you had better go and see Barry Boynton about it—that will be the best. And then you'll have to get your affairs put in order, make le? will - and all that.” “JT have made my will,” said Dick, promptly, “al- — though it’s true I hadn’t very much to make it for,” “Ah! that’s good—those things ought always to be done before they are wanted. By-the-bye, Dick, are you hard up or anything of that kind? Doyou ~ want any money?” “No, Sir, thanks. I could do with a hundred or two, of course—who couldn’t? But I am not in debt > or anything of that sort.” The old Lord caressed his white pum ete and looked at his heir with a sort of comical wonder. — “Pon my soul,” he remarked, “I can’t tell how you do it.” “Eh?” said Dick, not understanding, and in fact not interested in his uncle’s thoughts. “Well, how you doit. Expensive regiment —flat FS in Palace Mansions—Riviera, and all the rest.” Dick shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Sir, I don’t owe a penny in the world, I give you my word.” “Ah! Mrs. Harris must be a young lady of very : moderate desires,” said Lord Aylmer, lighting another cigarette. ‘“ Have ome?” - ¢ ¥ ; Jogrinny pid Poe EN Lay aoe ONE? Le Lt Te ttag | the vie, ee oe that) Ss Pet Pay ae eee Maa! og ¢ yoy at na, iat a nt A ETN Cs Sahl ivin ss ; at LP he Ghat bk ee PY Ob yee SS ¥ ‘ fF : - : | | 7 2 oS “No, thank you, Sir,” returned Dick. “And what will become of Mrs. Harris when you | a are gone to India, eh?” the old man asked, with a - great air of interest. “Well, Sir,” said Dick, “I always make it a rule never to talk about my friends’ private affaira, even when I happen to know them.” “You won ’t tell me.” Lord Aylmer chuckled. “Oh! very well, very well—never mind. I can take a hint as well as anybody.” When it suits your purpose,” Dick’s thoughts yan, as he watched the handsome wicked old face. _ Then he got up from his chair. “ If you don’t want me any longer, Sir, I will go and pay my respects to my lady. By-the-bye, I hope you are lees anxious about her than you were a short time ago.” _ Lord Aylmer jumped up in a fury and stamped his gouty foot hard upon the floor. “Damme,” he cried, “that woman is like an india-rubber ball, and as hard as nails into the bargain.” | «Then she is better,” said Dick, with an air of profound and anxious interest. “Better! Damme,” the old savage cried, “ she’s 3 outrageously well, Sir. Damme, her healthiness i is positively aggressive.” “But that must be a great relief to your mind, Bir,” said Dick, with perfect gravity. “Relief!” the other echoed, then seemed to recollect himself a little. “Ah! yes, yes, of course— _ to be sure. Well, go and see her. I dare say you _ will find her in the boudoir.” Dick felt himself dismissed with a wave of the old Lord’s hand, and being never very anxious to remain SS ET aE Oe Poi Pe Be eel (Fite PAT I Roa ts ates 7. mh SD atiel oh, Abt OPC Se Re Se ot thee Seed ne Rae Ra aera eee aR Et Levine * MAI EE NT Moe Bap SaE St Circle ay Nat aie eat ak bial eS, Pleat urine ares S, 3 h ee eh ¥: ; > Yom pea See ASSN ‘ uae SR ted es ps cane NN ree ee ‘ 14 Wich sap ee i ; 210 ae in his presence, he betook himself away, ae went te find her ladyship. But Lady Aylmer was not in the house—had, in fact, been gone out some time before he reached it; so Dick jumped into a cab and went back to Palace Mansions to Dorothy, who met him with a new idea. “Dick darling,” dhe said, “I know that you are worrying about me, and what I shall do when you are gone, and I have thought of something.” “Yes. Have you thought that, after all, it would be safe for you to go right out and risk everything?” — _ “No, because you do not go till September, and | by then I shall have got very near to the time. No, — it is not that at all; but you will have leave until you sail, won't you : os 66 Yea.” “Then might we not go to the sea fora month? — I am pining for a breath of sea air, and it will hg ie good for you too.” | “That is easy enough. Where shall we pl Tenby—or would ze rather be nearer to Grave- leigh ?” i “We could not go to any of the places near Graveleigh, Dick—I should be meeting People there.” i: “Yes; but we cae go to Overstrand or Cromer, | or go down to one of the little quiet places near Ramsgate. Why, if you like, we might even go to Ramagate or Margate itself.” : “T don’t in the least care where,” Dorothy replied, eee “ But what I wanted to say is this—you remember my cousin, Esther Brand ? ” | “I’ve heard you speak ofher” = = | Ree or Net. st ia 4 Well, when you are gone, would you let me “write to her and ask her to come and stay with me till I am ready to come after you? She is young and kind, and I am very fond of her, and altogether i would be very different for me than if I had nobody : - except Barbara.” “My dearest, you shall do exactly as you think best about that,” Dick said, without hesitation. “It 1g a good idea, and if she is nice and won't worry you about being married in this way “She won't know, dear,” Dorothy cried. “TI shall show her my marriage-lines, and say that you are gone and that I am going to join you as soon as I can.” “She will be sure to ask my regiment. He “Not at all. Besides, you are going out to an appointment, are you not ?” “Yes, true, Well, then, do as you think best about it,” he said. “Of course, I shall be a great Geal easier in my mind, and then she will be able to see you off and all that. Oh! yes, it will be @ very good thing in every way.” Dorothy clapped her hands together and laughed quite joyously. “Oh! Dick dear,” she cried, “I’m co glad you don’t mind—I feel quite brave about sonW DE, en m ne being left now. I do wish, though, that you could | see Esther. She is so tall and strong, very handsome, smooth dark hair and great dark eyes—quite a girl who ought to be called Esther or Olive. And then he has always been rich, and for five years she has been absolutely her own mistress, and has travelled y about everywhere.” “Won't she think it odd that you have neveg written to her all this time ? ” wey «TJ don't think so. "Esther isnot a gin who thanks pe you for letters unless you have something special te Dick put his arm round his little wife’s waist. “And you have something very, very special to tell her, haven’t you?” he said tenderly, then cried with an uncontrollable burst of anguish, “Oh! my love, my _ love, you don’t know—you will never know what it will cost me to go away and leave you ace now, _ when you will want me most of all.” “ Never mind, Dick,” she said bravely—* Ps em not ; afraid.” Looking at her, he saw that she spoke the ‘rath 7 and only the truth—her eyes met his, clear and true, and the smile which played about her sweet mouth was not marred by any expression of the agony which | ehe had suffered during the few previous days. A week ago she had been more Dick’s sweetheart than his wife; now she was not only his wife, but had also — in her eyes the proud light of motherhoed—“ Filled — was her soul with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven” . _ CHAPTER XI VHERE is no1 eed for me to tell of the month which Dick and his wife passed together at a secluded little watering place on the Norfolk coast, nor of the geramble which Dick had at the lust to get ready for _ the appointed day of sailing for the shining East. It is enough to say that after an agonised parting, he tore himself away, and Dorothy found herself left alone in the pretty flat, face to face with the sorest a trial of her life. A week before she had written to her cousin, Esther Brand, but she had had no reply. That had not surprised her much, for Esther was a restless soul, never so happy as when moving about from place to place. Apart from that, London is scarcely the place to look for rich and idle people in September, and Dorothy had addressed her letter to her cousin’s bankers, knowing that it would be the _ gurest and probably the quickest way of finding ber. But when Dick was gone, Dorothy began to get, ~ very anxious for a letter from Esther, to watch for the post, and to wonder impatiently what Esther . could possibly have done with herself and whether - ghe had got her letter or not. But for several days there waz still silence, and at last, just when Dorothy a — beginning to despair, it came. ‘114 ; 2 “pOA yoRGEt, “ Here is your letter, Mae Dorothy,” cried Bashar hurrying into the room with it. ‘Qh, Barbara!” Dorothy cried excitedly. Pie In a moment she had torn it open and was reading it aloud to Barbara. “Oh, it is from Russia. Fancy Miss Brand being in Russia, Barbara, and she says :— ‘“‘My VERY DEAR LITTLE DoROTHY,—So you are married! I can hardly believe it—indeed, since having your letter this morning, I have been saying to myself over and over again, ‘Dorothy Strode is married—little Dorothy has got married,’ and still J do not in the least realise it. So you are very happy, of course, and you are going to have a baby—that in _ almost an ‘of course’ also. And your husband has got a good appointment in India which he does not dare to refuse. That looks like bread-and-cheese and kisses, my dear little cousin. However, not that money makes any real difference to one’s hap- _piness, and so long as you love him and he loves you nothing else matters, money least of all. But why, my dear, have you waited so long before you told me of your new ties? I have wondered so often where you were and what had become of you, and about four months ago I wrote to the old house and had your letter returned by a horrid young man, ~ David Stevenson, whom I disliked always beyond. measure. He informed me that you had left imme- _ diately after dear Auntie’s death, and that he did not — know your present address. I felt a little anxious about you, but eminently relieved to find that you were evidently not going to marry that detestable young man, who is, | bave no doubt, all that is good _ Se ian ae have never liked. “Well, my dear child, you ‘must let me be god- . mother to the baby when it comes, that I may spend eRe Fan SIN ON ITC OR SR Ne ae Aloud, | yc Ue is a “ate and estimable aad affluent, but whom, « os 7 said, 1 as much money over its coral and bells asI should _ _ have done over a wedding-gift to you. As for coming to you—my darling child, of course I shall come straight back, and help Barbara to make up to you for the temporary loss of your spouse. I gather from your letter that he is all that is good and kind and brave, to say nothing of being handsome and loving and true—you lucky little girl! “Expect me when you see me, dear, which will be as soon as I can possibly get myself to London. If I were on the other side of the frontier, I could pretty nearly fix both day and time. As it is, 1 can only say that I will lose no time in being with you, and I will stick to you till I see you safe on board the — P. and O. steamer. | ' “My love to Barbara—how she and I will yarn together over the old place and the old aye l—and much love to you, dear little woman. “From your always affectionate | “ ESTHER.” This letter in itselt was enough to put Dorothy — - into the wildest and gayest of spirits, and Barbara was almost as much delighted; for, truth to tell, the old servant had looked forward with no little dismay to the prospect of supporting her loved young mis- tress through her hour of loneliness and trial, and was therefore greatly relieved to find that the respon- sibilities of the situation would fell upon the strong : te BINNA FORGET, did epehl aodlien be tie Esther Brand instoud | of lying upon her own weaker ones. “Tt is so good and sweet and dear of Esther,” 7 Dorothy repeated, over and over again. “Just like her to throw everything else aside on the chance of being able to do a good turn to some one in need. Now I don’t feel half so nervous as I did.” “Nor I,” echoed Barbara, speaking out of her very heart; then she added with a significant smile, “Miss Esther never could abide David Stevenson— neither could I.” Se oe ee Dorothy could not help laughing. “Ah! I think - you were all just a little hard on David. I didn’t want to be Mrs. David, it is true. But apart from that, I don’t see that there was so much amiss ke him.” “perhaps not. But for all that, Miss Dorothy—Ma’am, I should say—David Stevenson was a mean boy, and - I never could abide meanness in man, women, nor child.” “He was most generous to me,” said Dorothy, with a sigh. Yes, to serve his own ends,” anid Barbara sharply. “You may take such generosity as that for me. Not that I was speaking of that, Ma’am, for — I wasn't, but of the time when David was a boy—a — horrid boy, who thought nothing of stealing the it.” “ Oh, Barbara! Barbara! “ cried Dorothy, “ you've — : got hold of a wrong story. Why,1know-that once — - when David stole some of Auntie’s apples, and young “H’m!” remarked Barbara, with another sniff, best apples and letting another take the blame of He saeupes “Pom Merriman got the blenie, Dovid came » and told nn . : Auntie himself.” : “ Yes; and for why?” Jecianien Bicbass. with un- : on wining sternness, “Because I happened to | have caught the young limb at it and collared him PF RTT ORNS Teas oe ONE Ca tg Ae _ before he could get away. ‘You are stealing Mise — __ Dimedale’s apples, David Stevenson,’ I said, laying hold of him sudden-like; ‘and you stole them other _ apples that Tom Merriman has been sacked for. ‘ And what’s that to you, you old sneak?’ he asked. Sn eak or no sneak,’ said I, ‘you'll turn out your oe pockets to me, my fine gentleman; and you'll go straight up to the house and you'll tell Miss Dims- dale that it was you stole the apples last week, and _ then you'll go and ask Tom Merriman’s pardon for — having let him lie under your fault.’ ‘That I shan’t,’ says he. ‘Then,’ says I, ‘I just walks you nght off to _ Miss Dimsdale, and she'll see you with your pocketa — full, red-handed as you are. No,’ says I, ‘it’s no — use to struggle. I’ve got you safe by the arms, and so I mean to keep you, whether you like it or not. And if once Miss Dimsdale knows the truth, do you "know what she'll do, David Stevenson?’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, sulkily. ‘What?’ ‘She'll never stop to think that you're David Stevenson of Holroyd,’ ~~ | I says, ‘but she'll just hand you over to the - eonstable at once, and I don’t think, my young | - gentleman,’ I adds, ‘that Tom Merriman having: _ got the sack to fill your inside with ill-gotten goods ‘1 help you with the Bench in the very least.’ ” “ Well, so I suppose he gave in,” said Dorothy, _ who was deeply interested. : “Well, of course, he had to.” Shield Barbary: LEDS sets © Sea) es caf enr om aT A Whee Pa are ee Tees SOU ARC i : Fe ‘ HR SUNN Haas ea a GET De NTR URI Rar VT ta eS CE ee ORIEN Be x Bag VE ET SERN EN CR SE a Pee SOO ter vee? Cee cheney Re eae Fe sa PENT its ate ND HD GH NG Sr agro MR Rc ama Ey Rl AEE PPB Lee AOR gol thee OES ee apse SP Se SSI SONY Sa YEE ON MS CO ne id in NR Ee Ger RNA CON Oty Oe ee ies pA ines ak. es Re etn se sh Mes hab ne he | " DINNA FORGET, _ with practical plainness, “but all fhe same, “hoes never _ forgave me for having been the one to get the better of him, and never forgot it, not to the very last day we were at the Hall. Ah! Miss Dorothy, darling, if you had thought proper to marry David Stevenson, you would have had to do without me, He never would have had me about him, and I wouldn’t have taken service under his roof—no, not to save myself from ending my days in the workhouse.” “Barbara, Barbara,” cried aes ‘chiding “not for me?” | “ Well, if you had put itin that way, Mies Dorothy, you might have got over. er ae old woman answered. ? - But stay! I think Iou ght to say here that althouse I have called her old in many parts of this story, _ Barbara was not, and could not reasonably be called an old woman in the common acceptation of the word. She was a year or so over fifty, and a very _atrong, hale woman at that, and at this time to Dorothy she was as a very rook and tower of strength. — Well, by virtue of the letter ‘yon Esther Brand an in the joy of expectation at her coming, Dorothy passed that day with quite a light heart, and even sat down to the little piano and sang one or two of the songs that Dick liked best. And then she went to bed and slept, leaving the door open between her _ room and Barbara’s for company, and she dreamed, _ as she always did, about Dick. : - Nor was it a pleasant dream. She eaw Dick on beard of a large steamer, wearing white clothes and _ esailor hat, looking very bronzed and happy. He — leaning over the side of the ship, with a cigarette im his mouth, just as she had seen him many a time, _ and by his side there stood a beautiful lady—not a girl like Dorothy herself, but a beautiful woman of about thirty years old, such a woman as Dorothy fancied her old friend at home, Lady Jane Sturt, might have been at that age. They seemed to be talking earnestly together, and after a time—such a — Jong time it seemed in her dream—Dick took one of the lady’s hands and raised it to his lips; then she _ laughed and said something, and Dick caught her to _ him and kissed her on the lips) Immediately after- wards, while: Dorothy with frozen lips was gazing at them, Dick turned his head and looked her — fall in the eyes with the glance of an miter stranger. : With a ehriek, Dorothy awoke—the sun was streaming in at the sides of the window-blinds, and» _ Barbara was just coming through the doorway with a little tray bearing Dorothy's early cup of tea. “Did I scream, Barbara?” Dorothy gasped. | «A bit of a cry. What ailed you, Ma'am?” Barbara asked, : “Oh! I was so ighieied--I had such a horrid dream about the master. I thought——” But Dorothy did not complete the sentence, for Barbara put out her hand with a horrified look. « Nay, now, Miss Dorothy, don’t tell it, Whatever you do, don’t tell me.” “But why?” cried Dorothy, open-eyed. “You should never tell a dream before noon, Miss Dorothy,” returned Barbara portentously. - ©Qb{” exclaimed Dorothy, “isn’t it lucky?” She ALONE, — as s v ‘ ~ be Tak Ox pee a Piet ¥ Path 120 3 Bona voRamt, : 5 on knew that Barbara was Z a great believer in peer and “ gigns and omens. | “It’s fatal,” answered Barbara planet, whokiat Dorothy burst out laughing and the worst feelings of dread with which she had awakened passed away. «J think,” she said after breakfast, when Barbara was clearing the table—“ that I shall put on my hat and go up to the High Street—I cannot finish thia till I get some more lace; ” then she held itup and showed it off to Barbara. “Ian’t it sweet?” she — exclaimed with intense satisfaction. “It’s lovely,” returned Barbara, who was over- joyed at the prospect of a baby. “Then do you — wish me to go with you, Ma‘am, or will you go alone?” “Do you want to go?” Dorothy asked. . | “Well, Ma’am, to be honest, I don’t. I want to — turn out the room for Miss Esther. You see, she may come nearly as fast as her letter, and I shouldn’t like to put her into a dirty room,” “It can’t be dirty, Barbara,” cried Dorothy, laugh- ing, “ because nobody has ever slept in it.” | “ Well, Ma’am,” Barbara retorted, “I can’t gay that 1 know a dirtier person than Mr, Nobody—on the whole.” Dorothy laughed. . “ Well, then you evidently have a lot to do and I would just as soon go alone. So I will go soon, before I get tired or the day gets hot ;” for although September was half over, the weather | just then was most sultry and trying to those not i in the best of health. _ She was soon ready, and went into the cosy little kitchen to ask Barbara if there was anything that “Do I look all right?” Dorothy asked, taming a < | herself about, | “Yes, you look very sweet this morning, Miss — Dorothy,” said Barbara. “I wish the master could _ : see you this minute.” “So do I,” echoed Dorothy seco iAty, e Well, he will see me soon enough, soon enough. Good-- bye, Barbara.” Barbara followed her to the door and Gratehed ne , out into the street, and truly, as she had said, her young mistress was looking very bonny that day. On her fair hair, loosely arranged yet not untidy-looking she had a small straw bonnet trimmed with ribbon and a cluster of gloire de Dijon roses. Over her pretty blue cotton gown she wore a long dust-cloak one person thought so as she passed up the street, : of some thin and light-toned material. She also wore tan-coloured shoes and Suéde gloves of about the same tone, and she carried a large white cotton parasol to shield her from the sun. It was a very simple and cheap toilette, but it waa fresh and dainty-looking, and Dorothy looked bright and lovable and a little lady from the crown of her bonnet to the tips of her shoes; indeed, more than and the old General, who was out for his usual morn- ing trot, stopped in his walk, and wheeling round stoua to look after her till she had turned the corner - and was out of sight, when he went on with his self- imposed sentry-go, wishing with all his heart he was forty years younger. : Meantime Dorothy went serenely on her way, q 3 it u Riders es eRe te 5 ; : : EG, Art fee 2 ite ; 7 Tae : ; Ne Baan Gaur ONT Ts ony : i 4 a A a K ie y ALONE, bi 1 L ei ee as wanted, but the did not NORE want anything 3 Be atall, : e ty pa roraer, =~ reached the shop tor which she was bound iia thera made her purchases, all small enough for her to bring them away in a neat little parcel in her unoccupied — hand. And then, just as she stepped off the door- step of the shop on to the pavement, she suddenly found herself face to face with David Stevenson. If it had been possible, she would have retreated back into the shop; but it was too late for that. David Stevenson had already uttered an exclamation — of surprise,and was standing close in front of her, holding out both his hands to her. Now, if there was one person in all the wide world whom Dorothy would rather not have seen just then, that person was David Stevenson. I think she looked all the dismay which she felt, and that she felt all and perhaps more than the dismay which she looked. “Oh! is that you?” she gasped. a David let his hands, with their glad welcome, al instantly. _. “You're not very glad to see me, Dorothy,” he gaid, in quiet but bitter reproach. “J—that is, you startled me,” she returned, in a wild endeavour to put off any questions he might _ think proper to ask of her. _ “Evidently,” he said dryly, “and you want to get gid of me, eh?” | “Oh, not at all,” biting her lip and wishing that she could sink into the ground or dissolve into thin air, anywhere out of the way of his hard and steely- blue eyes, which seemed to look her through and _ through, and to know in a moment all the secrets iy her life, re 2 AY es : ee “Wor Ab, that is better. ‘Then, since you don't. want to get rid of me all in a hurry, perhaps you — : will let me walk a little way with you. May I?” “Oh yes, certainly,” said sls giving herself ; up for lost at once. es “Do you live near here?” he wked as ane hened towards Palace Mansions. At that moment there was a slight block on the pavement of-the always busy street, and just as David spoke, Dorothy perceived that the sweet-faced lady who lived on tke floor above her, was also blocked, and stood for a moment or so face to face with her. Undoubtedly she had heard David’s ques- tion just as Dorothy had done, and undoubtedly | Dorothy had never seen her eyes so cold or her lips go austerely shut before. In her distress and annoy- ance at being thus apparently caught, Dorothy blushed a vivid guilty crimson—a fact upon which the sweet-faced lady put the usual construction to which all highly moral persons seem to jump at once in a moment of doubt—that is, the ry worst con- struction possible, “Can you give me no news from home, then?” Dorothy asked, in a desperate voice raised far above her usual tones. David looked down at her in surprise—an iecinee tary action which was not lost upon the lady who was atill unable to pass on. “News?” herepeated. “ Why, off courselIcan. I have so much news to tell you that IT hardly know where to begin. Let me see—Lady Jane is back, of course.” Dorothy turned ker head in time to see that the ¥: a “Sr Sd TE TEM ee nhs by f AKC mt afi : ‘ : SO ROSE TS ee ge Te Pn rg ee NEE ORE TNS ACRE BEL al AL a Ur Se i ey a ORT Een OR OPS ed GEE EN ORSRN a lady had passed on and was out of pi se betore a - David had begun his news. There, just like David’s stupidity to be too leek Why, she wondered irritably, could he not have hap- pened to say something which would have let that woman upstairs know that they had known each other all their lives? But no, David had always blundered whenever and wherever she was concerned, and she supposed that he always would. Her interest in the home news was gone, lost in the — ; depths of her annoyance, but* she listened patiently till he had exhausted that topic, till she had heard who was married and who was dead, of a fire in such a one’s rick-yard, and of a barn belonging to another which had been struck by lightning. Then he told her how he had improved the Hall— . her perfect old home, which in her mind needed ime provement of no kind—how he had put a smart capable gardener in to bring the place into real good condition—— “ And old Isaac?” said Dorothy, fiercely. | “Qh, he is still about—I shouldn’t turn any old servant of yours off, you know. There are plenty of odd jobs for him about the place.” “ What sort of odd jobs?” demanded Dorothy, re “Oh, weeding and toddling about picking up stones and—and doing odd jobs generally,” answered David, who was beginning to get rather uncome - fortable under the fire in her truthful eyes and the . terrible directness of her questions, “Tn fact, you have made Isaac underling, labourer. _ glavey to your grand new gardener, ia that it?” she | Bayt - 3 . : “7 © : : «0b, come now,” Me eaat bat Dorothy sod ‘ i. - ~atill in the road and confronted bim angrily. “Ts it so or not? ” she asked. “Well, something like that,” he admitted, un- | willingly. “Ts it absolutely so or not?” Dorothy asked | again. of a hand at gardening “He was good enough for us,” sighed Dorothy, in heart-broken voice. “Yes; but indeed he really was past his work, or a should never have thought of displacing him7 And if it hadn’t been for you tat he was a good many. years your Sophie iaea “Nearly forty years,” put in Dorothy. © “Well, of course, if it hadn’t been for that q should just have replaced him without troubling any further about him. As it was, I made a place for him, and I give him ten shillings a week for what I could get better done by a boy for six.” « And the cottage? ” asked she. “Qh, well, of course, the cottage goes with the situa- tion,” answered David, who was getting rather sulky. There was a moment's silence; then Dorothy sud- — _ denly stopped and turned to face him. “David,” she flashed out, “you may be a good farmer, but you are a hard man, a hard man, One of these days you'll come to be—but, there, what is the good of — talking to you? If long and faithful service wil} — ‘not touch your heart, what else will?” os ieee x FEIT Naira gO EE OF ARS eto oa “Well, ’'m afraid it ia,” said David, with a great air of making a clean breast of the whole matter, “You see, Dorothy, the oe: Fotlow never was much — a 16 wae INNA, FORGET. | | “There is one thing which will sivaes: have ase aA aS Anne gan A UNEASE TUOMAS wasnt tes Gated Aen Cas Sh ny NAN Acca SSAC Aa AUN Sh ay RM Oy: . ay ng le Tyee ate Octo, oe : eee oS power to touch my heart,” he said eagerly. - Shall I tell you what ?” | 3 “No,” said Dorothy, wearily. “ «] probably should not believe you. If forty years would not do it, nothing else could.” As she spoke she turned down the street which led to Palace Mansions, for she saw that it was hopeless _ now to try to prevent his finding out where she lived; and, indeed, now that Dick was safely out of _ the country she did not think that it mattered much. David, for his part, took advantage of the quiet side street, and spoke out what was in his mind. _ “Dorothy,” he said, “ come back to the Hall, andI will show you whether I am a hard man or not; only come back and let us forget the past, nobody need know anything. I will never remind you of it. Only come back, my dear, and everything shall be as you wish—as you direct. I'll send the new gar- -dener to Holroyd, and Isaac shall be head-gardener at the Hall, with a couple of men under him to do the work. Does that sound like being hard, Dorothy?” . “Yes,” said Dorothy, coldly—“ hardest of all, be- — cause you would not hesitate to buy me, body and soul, through my compassion and pity for those poor unfortunate ones, who cannot help themselves, and cannot fight against the hard power which your money and your strength gives ) you,” | ! “Qh! Dorothy, it is not so,” he cried. “I only ask you to come back because I love you and I want you. The old place wants you, and I hunger — for you. Besides, I cannot bear to see you as you look now—tired and worn, and ten years older than — wa? a aa SS Gren you. tamed your ack’ on x all’ your old ate : for the wake of a fellow who has brought you: to ed this,” | “To what?” Dorothy cried, her eyes opening wide _ and her tones expressing such astonishment that David fairly quailed before her look. “To a ghost of your old self,” he answered curtly, But it was all of no use. Dorothy could be curt too, on occasions, and she was so then. | “Tt seems to me that you are making mistake: es all | round, David,” she said coldly. “I am not very well, and the heat has tried me—but I am not what you © take me for. I have been, thank God for it, a blessedly happy wife for many months. I will wish you good-morning, David.” | She turned away without giving him time to uy _@ word, and went as quickly as was possible towards her home, and went in without turning her head to see what had become of him. As for David Steven- — son, he simply stood rooted to the spot where she had left him, until she disappeared from his sight ; then he took a step or two as if to follow her, but changed his mind and retraced his steps, with a face \ like a thunder-cloud. ‘He was so occupied with his own thoughts and his own disappointment that he never noticed a amart victoria and pair which was drawn up just within the corner of the quiet street, but its occu- pant, an old white-haired gentleman, had noticed him, and took keen stock of him as he passed. David __ Btevenson would have been considerably surprised _ if he could have heard the order which the same old — _ gentleman gave to his coachman just after he had eee ae “pone FORGET, . swung fas. Follow that gentleman clonly 5 Don’t lose sight of him.” — Yes, m’ lord,” said the servant, and hopped ug gato the box, giving the order to the coachman. « All right,” murmured that dignitary in reply; then added in a lower voice still, “ What's the old codger up to now, I wonder?” “ Uncommon pretty girl,” answered Charles, in an equally low tone. “ We've been after her some time.” “Who is she?” ieee | Mrs. ’Arris. Lives in Palaee Mansions,” with a wink. 3 ‘“H’m! I wishes her joy of 4 ‘im,” said the coachman, ‘ screwing his face up into a thousand Sis eagese tee wrinkles. “Me too,” said the footman, sniggering, “ Hi, he’s going into the Park;” whereat the coachman turied his horses in at Prince’s Gate also, and they drove in abreast of David Stevenson, who was looking no more at peace with the world or with himself than he had been when he tumed into the High Street, out of the quiet road in which Palace Mansions may be found. “Still faithful to Master Dick, or else the new- eomer not attractive enough,” thought Lord Aylmer with a sneer, as he gave a sharp, keav look at the tall — young man’s lowering face aah XIIL - HOPE DF AD. THINK that David Stevenson had never been in such a towering rage in his life as when he turned in at the Park Gates and went swinging along in the - - direction of the Achilles. For during those few moments when he watched her after she left him and before she disappeared into Palace Mansions, he had realised that she had gone from him for ever, He re@ised that whether she was actually married or not, she was not for him, and he had suddenly become aware, almost without knowing why, that there was a cause for her altered looks, a cause which would be for ever a bar to the fond hopes which he had cherished during nearly all his life, certainly ever since Dorothy_as Le wee, toddling, soft-eyed child had come, fatherless and motherless, to be the light and life of the old Hall and the very joy of Miss Dims- | dale’s lonely hearth. $o that fellow had got round her after all_hie _ bitter thoughts ran, as he strode along—and all the worship and devotion of his life had been flung aside ag nought for the sake of a specious tongue and a swag: .ng army sort of manner. As a matter of fact, Dick had not the very smallest oe shade of a swagger about him, but David Stevenson _-was the kind of man who invariably judges everyman __ eee eed a Paty Se ee REN COE Na Fry UNS PET NE BEE CASTOR MOT ANE Seok EUR cer SI AA CA aL eo ET CO ek See ne es ee 10” DINNA FORGET. by a type, and to him an army man was a man whe turned his toes out a good deal more than was neces- — sary and said “haw” between every three words he spoke. That the man who had stolen Dorothy’s love from him did neither of these things made no differ- ence to David’s conception of him. He had stolen Dorothy from him, and that was enough to make David endow him in his own mind with all the most. hateful attributes of his detestable class. Nor did he even stop to consider that he was dis- tinctly unjust in crediting Harris with stealing Dorothy’s love from him. For it is impossible to steal from any man what that man had never had to lose, and most em@phatically he had never possessed — even one little tiny corner of Dorothy Strode’s heart; to be plain, Dorothy had always detested him. For an hour or more David strode about the Park till the storm of fury which possessed him had some- what calmed down, and always the smart victoria with its pair of high-stepping, fiery horses and its pair of wooden-faced, imperturbable servants in their white and crimson liveries dogged his steps and kept him fairly in sight; and at last David noticed them. ~ “Damn that supercilious old brute,” he muttered, as they passed him for the twentieth time; then. he stood at the railings a minute or so and thought how slow it was—wondered how men and women could bear to crawl up and down in line, fretting their fine horses into a fever and never getting beyond a foot’s pace. He tur-3d away trom the Row into a side path, but the next moment he saw that the smart viewers had turned into font road algo, - : « Confound him, he must be watching me,” he : thought irritably, “and yet what should he want to “ 2 watch me for? Oh, hang it, Pll go home!” Without a moment's hesitation, he turned his steps _ : towards Apsley House and made his way out at the | 2 big gates, where he hailed a cab and gave the man the address of his hotel, and forgot about the white-. - _ haired old gentleman in the smart victoria. A But the victoria was there, nevertheless, Showing immediately behind the modest cab; and when : - David got out and went into the Grand Hotel, Lord Aylmer called to the footman— “Charles, 1 want you to take a message, Barker, atop.” Barker. pulled up the Koreéa beside the bral pavement, and Charles got down to hear his — lord’s orders. “Go into the Grand and find out that ete: 8 name—don’t mention mine,” | “Yes, m’ lord,” said Charles. . Now, Charles happened to be an ingenious youth who was not troubled with any nice scruples about his honour, and believed that the easiest way was in- variably the best way. He therefore, secure in the halo which his smart white and crimson livery was enough to cast around him, went into the hotel and addressed himself to the stately house-porter of the establishment. “JT gay, porter,” said he, “my master, the Dook of ‘Middlesex, wawnts to know the name of a gentleman just come in—came in a ’ansom—tall, fairish chap, looku like a country gentleman.” “D’yer mean that one?” asked the house-porter, | 3 ee ba BP air 188 : DINNA FORGET, soe mee < taking Charles to a glass dene leading to the ending Le room and nointing out David. “Yes, that’s the one,” Charles saewaee : «Oh, yes; that’s Mr. David Stevenson, of Holroyd “ said the house-porter. And where’s Holroyd?” : « A mile ortwo from Harwich,” answered the other «At least, [heard him say so last night. His post- town is Harwich.” “Ah! yes—thanks. The Dook fancied he- knoo him, but J fancy he was mistook, Good day to you, ze porter.” “Good day to you, my fine sockiphesannt® re~ turned the big house-porter, contemptuously; but Charles had already reached the door and was going back, serene in the power of his own impudence, to impart the information which he had gathered, to his ~ ~ master, RSE “The gentleman’s name is Stevenson, my lord,” — he said. “Mr. David Stevenson, of Holroyd, Harwich.” « Ah, yes, ” and then the old savage pulled ont his note-book and jotted the name down without m comment. ‘“ How did you find out?” : “T said my master, the Dook of Middlesex, wished to know, as he fancied he knoo the gentleman, C Charles answered promptly. Lord Aylmer burst a ale “Ah! sagt clever : —very clever. Home.” “ Yes, m’ lord,” said Charles. Lord Aylmer fanghed more than once onthe? way | home, he was so stensely amused at the inventive genius displayed by Charles, whom he had not ‘worn pmd. 18 : : before credited: with much. sherane of that kind, He was a man who never took the trouble to make subterfuges to his servants: if he wanted a bit of information, he simply told one of them to get it, without caring what means were taken or giving any reason for wanting it. For instance, he would never say, “Go and find out who that gentleman is,” and add, as ninety-nine people out of a hundred would do, “I think I know him”—no, he never troubled | to do that: it was simply after the manner of the Centurion, “Go and find out who that is.” | But he was greatly tickled by Charles’ remarks, © and more than once on the way home repeated to himself with a chuckle, “Dook of Middlesex! I must encourage Charles a little. ‘Pon my soul, uncommonly neat—Dook of Middlesex |” _ Meantime I must confess that Dorothy had gone home in what Barbara was accustomed to call “a boiling passion.” Barbara happened to be coming across the little hall when she let herself in at the front door. “Miss Dorothy—my dear, what is it?” the old servant cried, her heart jumping fairly into her mouth as a dreadful idea flashed into her mind _ that her young mistress’s hour was come. “Barbara,” said Dorothy, in a voice shaking with _ passion, “I take back everything that I have ever said in defence of David Stevenson—every word.” ‘‘ What ! have youseen him?” cried Barbara. “TI used to feel,” Dorothy went on, in the same trembling tones, and without taking the smallest notice of Barbara’s question, “very sorry that I ~_ eould never fall in with Auntie’s wishes concerning him, And then after Auntie got so fond of my 184 . DINNA FORGET. ee ee Dick, I wasn’t sorry on Auntie’s account any longer, but I was sorry for David, because I thought circumstances had been a little hard for him, so I have stood up for him with all of you. But you were all right, and I take back now every red that ever I have said in his favour.” Barbara drew her into the pretty drawing-room. “Sit down, my dear young mistress,” she said os tenderly, “and tell me all about it.” So Dorothy sat down on the sofa and told Barhars everything about her meeting with David—what he had said and what she had said; what he had looked — and what she had felé; how he bad turned old Isaac __ out of his place and had put a grand new-fangled — gardener to be Isaac’s master at the Hall; and finally, — how he had asked her to go back and the past would be forgotten, and he had insinuated—nay, had told her plainly—but no, Dorothy’s composure did Me not hold out long enough for her to tell that part of her story, for when she reached that point she gave way and broke down into violent sobbing. Barbara sat down beside her and took her into her arms, #0 that she might lay her head upon the — old servant's ample breast and cry her heart-ache away. | | “Miss Dorothy dear,” she said presently, curiosity getting the best of her at last, “ did David Stevenson dare to tell you that you wasn’t married?” _ | “Not in so many words, Barbara,” answered, sitting up now and drying her flushed face, “but he asked me to go back and marry him,” with unutterable contempt, “and he would show me what love meant—he that turned my old friend out | ot hie ome directly Auntie died—and he said - something about my tuming my back on all my “WoPE DEAD, "18S ee _ friends for the sake of a fellow who had brought me_ ae : to this.” - “David Stevenson all over,” remurked Barbara, drily. “But, my dear young mistress, you didn’t let — him go away thinking what he had said was true?” “JT told him I had been married for months,” : Dorothy replied, “and then I just said ‘Good morn- ing’ in a tone of ice, and I walked straight in without even looking at him again.” _ * And he saw you come in here?” Barbara cried, “Yes,” Dorothy answered. “How could I help i?” : eA : | “No, I suppose not ; but, dey and on it, he will go gabbling back to Geaveloigh and set her. adyship and all the rest of them on to you.” “ Never mind if he does,” Dorothy cried. _ “But you wanted to keep it dark, my dear,” ee reminded her. ~ Yes; but it doesn’t matter so much now that Dick is gone,” Dorothy replied. ‘ And, anyway, Esther — will be here, and Esther will be able to ward off everybody and keep them from asking me too closely about anything. I only hope that David Stevenson won't ty to force his way in here before Esther “What would be the good?” ‘Barbara asked. “You told him you were married.” __ “Yes, but he didn’t look a bit as if he believed me,” Dorothy returned. a ee Thea jast let him come here and try it on,” cried Barbara valiantly and really as she stood there, a 386 ae DINNA roucet, : = stout anal pomfortable: figure wile her stra ie she looked more than a match for any ordi | man, and nobody would have believed, except auch as_ knew her well, how utterly her courage always — deserted her at a critical moment. “Let him try it on, that’s all. J can give him a bit of information he won't find very much to his liking—/J can tell his high . and mightiness that I see you married with my own eyes.” But David Stevenson stood in need of no such _ information: he had not believed that Dorothy was married—she was right enough there, Still, he had realised at last that she was not for him,andthat _ ; afternoon, whilst he was idly turning over the papers in the reading-room of the hotel and wishing hime self with all his heart down at Holroyd, it suddenly occurred to him that if Dorothy really was married, — he would be able to get evidence of the fact by — walking down the street and spending an hour od half-a-crown at Somerset House. And there, sure enough, he found the record that was the death-blow of his last little feeble — hope—the record of the marriage between Richard Harris, bachelor, and Dorothy Strode, spinster, bearing a date now & little - more than ‘nine months old. : : : ‘‘Barbara Potter. witness,” read David to himself 7 between his teeth, then clenched his hand hard as it rested upon his knee, go that the glove which covered it was burst in several places. “Damn that ald woman ! she must have @ hand in it of course.” Ther he put the e great Siok back’: upon the ais Brn “ A ie 3 noise and throng of the street, he made oe his. mind, _ “Hang it all, hat’ a he good of stopping bare rier my heart out? Tl go back one 73 goal feal ik ee — ere ~ ROPE DEAD. | us oe 187 3 sy : : CHAPTER XIV. THE ‘MISTRESS HOLROYE, HREE days had gone and still Esther Brand had not arrived in London. Each day Dorothy got more and more impatient for her presence, because, although she had never once seen David Stevenson since that morning when she had almost walked into his arms in the Kensington High Street, she was 80 afraid that he might be lurking about the neighbour- hood that she had never set foot outside her own door. If she had only known that he was safely down at Holroyd, dividing his life between riding _ hard from one point of the property to another, and sitting moodily staring into the empty fire-grate, his. thoughts all busily occupied in cursing at fate! However, that phase of feeling did not last long with him; for one fine September morning he went over to the Hall and wandered round the quiet old - garden—a good deal of ita especial charm of quaint beauty “improved” away now—where she had wee ee her happy childhood. “Tl have that bed done away with,” he eaid to old Isaac, pointing out a small neat bed out in the — velvet turf, just in front of the dining-room window ; “it spoils the look of the lawn; dig it » and weil have it turfed over.” ola Iaaac looked at him heitaingly ola me - when its almost certain alternative is the: workhouse. ~ had felt bitterly his degendntion from nies to odth, man, yet ten shillings a week is not to be-sneezed at — _ He hardly dared to say what was in his mind; still, the old feudal instinct, the habit of wen was strong in him, and he ventured a timid protest. “That were Miss Dorothy’s own bed, Sir,” he began: “she dug in it her little self, and then she’d _ take a tarn round and have another spell o’ digging after. And then, in the spring-time, when the wioleta came ont, sho was wer re proud o’ the fust — _ bunch she took to the mistress.” “H’m,” muttered David, and moved away: _©Took it better nor I thought he would,” mused old Isaac, rather elated at his own boldness. _ - But Isaac had counted his chickens too early, for later in the day the head-gardener came round to him, ‘“ By-the-bye, Isaac,” he said, after mentioning one or two little matters, “the gov’nor wants that little bed under the dining-room window levelling and turfing over—wants it done at once.” “I hear,” said Isaac, The old man was trembling as he tuned away, - and when the other was gone, he stood by the little flower-bed as if it were a grave, looking down upon it with tear-filled eyes. -“Brute!” he ground out between his teeth, “brute!” “ What be I todo wi’ the wiolets, Bell?” he asked, the next time he came _ gcroas his superior, = ** “@ov’nor said you was to chuck ’ em out on the rubbish heap,” Bell answered. _ “Nay, ll take ’em down to mine,” eaid Isano in | Sarerering voice. NM iy 7s ne oe 7 ae 5-2 2 postr ” Pay ; “4 < Se te a oe oo, oe ee 140 DINNA voRamT. oe . “ Aa you like about that,” said Bell, all unknowir 8 of the tumult in the old man’s breast. And the day following _ that, David Bievunsa ordered his horse and rode away from Holroyd, through Graveleigh and past the old Hall to a large and Groenonoue lookin farm, about a mile beyond the house where Dorothy’s old friend, Lady Jane Sturt, lived. He turned in at the gates, and gave his horse — into the care of a man who came running out. “Is — A Mine Pleo at homo? he anced. “I believe she is, Sir,” the man replied; “but i you'll knock at the door, they'll tell you for certain.” A nice-looking country ect in @ neat apron and cap came to the door. Yes, Miss Elsie was at home, the mistress. had eu gone into Dovercourt. Wonld Mr. Sie come this way? He followed her into a pretty enough sitting-room, though it had but few of the little touches which had made Miss Dimedale’s drawing-room so pretty and so restful. There were shades over wax flowers and a plaster of Paris vase containing some — artificial orange-blossoms which had once adorned the wedding cake of the married daughter of the house, and ther were white crochet-work rags over _ some of the chairs, and others with fearful and — wonderful designs in crewels tied up with bits of gay- coloured ribbons. Yes, it was pretty enough, but not bearable to him after the quaint and dignified air which had pervaded everything at the Hall where ‘ she had lived. In two minutes Elsie Carrington came in, a . tall, . wWholesome-looking girl, with fair hair that was too 3 HE MISTRESS OF HOLROYD; 141 3 yellow and cheeks that were ton red, and as David’s eyes fell upon her I am bound to say that his very soul seemed to turn sick within him. Not that he — flinched, oh no, David Stevenson was not of the __ kind that flinches, “Tye come ona § queer enough errand, Elsie,” he _ began. _ “Yes?” she said in a questioning tone. “Yes! But it’s no use beating about the bush, it's best to be honest and true, isn’t it?” “Of course it is.” She was very much fished and puzzled too, but as yet she had no idea of his meaning. — «You must eee as well as I do,” he went on, not attempting to go a step nearer to her or even to take her hand, “ that Pve cared for Ros Strode all my life.” « Yes,” said the girl faintly, “Well,” standing up very straight and stiff, and with a face like marble, “that’s all over now, and I want to get my life settled into shape. Holroyd wants a mistress, and I’ve kept the place open so long,” with a pitecus attempt at making fun, “that I hardly like to offer it to any one else, Well,” ’ finding she did not epeak, “what do you say, . Elsie? 4 ‘She was staring at him in utter consternation, her | light-blue eyes filled with wonder, her white brow wrinkled, some of the colour blanched from her cheeks, and her lips parted. “I don’t quite under- i stand, David,” she said at last. He drew a long breath of impatience. “ Look here, Elsie,” he said, “I am young, rich, deocent- hen Many i as by eg XS Shee 1) PRR PL pa ei FAT Fay Sorbe Damh icc ott | ate Fea Sateen ai th ENS AREA ret TR OR PAN atid ee item i aoa Cae SA AE oh a ahi hoes ite ¥ Ta A cet Visa eg StS 149 " DINNA FORGET, looking, and not a bad sort as fellows go. But it’s no use my coming and offering you the devotion of a lifetime; you wouldn't believe me if I did—you’d know it was a lie, and I don’t want to begin by lying to you. But I can offer you all the rest of my life, and I swear I'll do my level best to be a good on husband to you—I swear that.” Elsie fairly Basped. “You are asking me to marry you, David? ” she cried. “Of course I am,” he answered. _ There was dead silence for a few PRES: David, gore and hurt, desperately anxious to get his future settled so that looking back would be a folly and repining nothing short of a sin, stood waiting for her decision, while Elsie turned away to the window and looked out over the fields, a thousand bitter thoughts chasing each other through her brain. It was all over with Dorothy, and Dorothy had evidently chosen another, Elsie was sure of that, thorgh David had not said so. And David had turned to her | in his trouble—there was comfort in that. But Dorothy had his love still, she was certain of that. You could see it in his haggard face, his nervous manner; hear it in his defiant voice. Many and many a time she had pictured him coming wooing to. her. She had let her hands fall idle in her lap, and x her sewing lie neglected, while in fancy she had seen — him turning in at the gate or coming in at the door, his mouth half smiling (as she had seen it for Dorothy's es sake), his cold eyes lighted up with a tenderness aa dear as it was rare; but in all her dreams Elsie had never pictured him coming like this, haggard and drawn for the loss of Dorothy, nervous, brusque, — THE MISTRESS OF HOLROYD. 148 impatient, brutally truthfw and just, to ask her to make a bargain; in which love should be left out of the reckoning! To offer her his body, while sha knew his heart was all Dorothy’s! Oh! it was + dreary wooing, a bere hard bargain for her to maké or mar. z , “Well,” said he, after a minute or two, “ es d¢ you say?” _ “Is Dorothy going to be married 7” she shod suddenly. ) He winced at the question, but he answered it readily enough. “Dorothy is married,” he said steadily. | “Qh!” and then she gave a great sigh and looked at him with piteous, yearning eyes. “Well?” he said, “I am waiting.” “T don’t know what to say,” she burst ont suis “No! And yet I fancied you liked me better than the other fellows round about.” | His tone was half-bitter, half-reproachful, as if hia last hope was leaving him. The girl was touched — by it instantly, and turned quickly to him with both her hands outstretched. “Oh! David,” she cried, in @ voice of pain, “you know that I have always— alwaye—liked you—but—but——” “But what?” he asked coldly and without taking — the outstretched hands. Elsie let them fall to her side dear | “You have not said one word about caring for me,” abe said in a trembling, timid voice. David began to feel that this wooing, which he had fancied would be so easy, was going to prove more - diffoult than he had hed any idea of, He had believed | always that he: had iSihy to hold up the ioreapeed of. being mistress of Holroyd for Elsie to simply jump: at the chance, and here, to his intense surprise, was Elsie demurring to take him because he had said. nothing of love. “If I were a liar,” he said vouhly, “T should hive comeand madeloveto you. I should have pretended that I had been mistaken in thinking I had cared for — Dorothy, I should have sworn I had never loved any’ one but you. And by-and-bye you would have found. me out, and then we should both be wretched. As _ it is, I came and told you honestly all that was in my heart, I—I—asked you to help me over this bad time, because I thought you loved me and would bear with me because of your love. As it is, never mind, there are plenty of woraen who will marry me willingly enough, to be the mistress of Holroyd.” — - “David!” she cried, as he turned towards the door. He looked back—his hand still upon the handle. “ Well?” he asked. “Is it not so?” In that one moment a dozen thoughts deeuialt to a go crowding through the girl’s distracted brain—a vision of Holroyd, with its rich red gables, itsstately avenue of horse-chestuuts, its pretty lodge, its velvet lawns, and wide-sweeping view across the great sheet of water running up from the sea, then a vision of Holroyd with a strange woman as mistress, a— vision of that strange woman’s children breaking the ~ serene stillness of the place—ah! no, she could not lose him for the sake of the one thing wanting which © would make her cup of happiness full—in time that — might come—and even if it did not, she would at least be spared the agony of seeing another womax — | Dota pute 77, rae MISTRESS OF HOLROYD, an i ae reigning at Holroyd. No, whatever happened inthe us future, whatever might come to pase, she could not, would not, dared not run the risk of losing the man she loved. In that brief space of time, the true His instinct of feminine dignity which always lives ina _ woman’s heart, called for notice, but in vain—it was stifled in the pangs of love which consumed her. “David, don’t go,” she cried, in an appealing voice, as he turned the handle of the door, “I only hesitated because—because I have always loved you so, and—and I thought that I should break my — heart——” She stopped short there, ashamed to end her sentence, _ David Stevenson shut the door and came across the room to her side. “You thought what would break your heart?” hoe asked. But Elsie shook her head. ‘Never mind,” shesaid _ bravely. “We won't talk about that. I will come © to Holroyd, and—and help you to forget the past if I oan.” “Then that’s @ bargain,” said he, swe ict: a long breath. | _ He did not say a word beside, did not attempt to touch her, to kiss her, or ect in any way different to his usual mannzer to her, excepting, perhaps, that he was leas polite than ordinary custom considers neces- _ gary between persons who are not bound fogeties by ties of blood. i. « By-the-bye,” he maid middents: “z pave orks something to seal our contract. No, you need not — look like that. I only bought it yesterday. I went over to Ipswich on purpose.” He had taken a little case out t of his pocket, and Lee eee Beet ey 23 Brae Se - 146 DINNA FORGET. now held his hand out to her with a ring lying“upon the palm. It was a beautiful ring—diamond and sapphires—a ring fit for a princess. A ‘Won't you have it?” he asked i in ciel oo as she made no effort to take it. “Yes, if you will give it to me,’ ’ she Hibwered: He took the ring in his other hand and Lald it towards her. Elsie took it with an inward groan, @ wild cry rising up in her heart. “Oh! my God, will it be like this for always?” and then she put it on her left hand, whence it seemed to strike sold + to her yay heart. ‘‘T must go now,” David said; after looking at her : hand fora moment. “T'l eome back this evening. J must go now. Will you tell your people, and then Pll speak to your father when I come? And I shall ask for an early wedding, Elsie; the sooner it is over and we get settled down the better.” —. “Yes,” she said faintly. There was none too much colour in her cheeka now, poor child, and her blue eyes were dark with ‘pain. David looked at her Healy, “T must get away | for an hour or two and think it all over,” he said half nervously. “I must have a clear story ready for your father.” . < . “ Yes.” | _“Then—good-bye.” = + “David,” she said in an almost inaudible vOICe, “vou have not told me that you are glad or any- thing. Have you not one kind word for me? Has Dorothy got everything still?” He started as if he had been shot, but ie bitte” ee aes ee Pee be Oe Oe FM SEA Ne ee ae age eT es Sees ee ey iy SO Ro TN NTR mee ReRAS IR TC BaAe 2 AO aLe TRONS OP Me oot Scan SEE PROP OLMIS ae A ARG ; : y 4 5 - HE MISTRESS OF HOLROYD. 14 back at once and took*her in his arms and kissed _ her passionately half a dozen times. “Oh! my poor girl, it is rough on you,” he said regretfully. . “I'm ee a brute to let you do it.” : “No, no,” cried she, winding her arms ah sat hig neck; “no,no. I would rather be your slave than any other man’s queen. Kiss me again, David.” 3 And David shuddered, Why? With the perversity of love! The heart that beat against him was beat- ing for him alone. The blue eyes looking so yearn- _ ingly into his were pretty and true. The clinging _ arms were fond and loving, but they were not Dorothy’s arms; they were not Dorothy’s eyes; it was not Dorothy's heart; aud he shuddered. And the next moment he was on his horse again and tearing homewards, while Elsie lay in a frenzy of grief on the floor, just where he had’ left her standing looking mournfully after him, Poor child! poor child! dimly and vaguely she realised what she had done. She realised thatif she © had held out firmly against him and had said, “Ihave loved you all my life, and as soon as you will come | and tell me you really want me for myself { will gladly come to Holroyd; but I will not marry any man whose heart is filled full of another woman—lI would rather live and die alone than that”—that then she would have had a fair chance of winning his heart as entirely as even she could wish. She realised this without actually putting her thoughts into language, : and she dimly grasped, too, that by fearing to let him go she had made herself David Stevenson's / _ glave-for ever. . ees : -OHAPTER XV. _ SMR THIN END OF THE WEDGE, ELL, it happened the. very day after this, thet Lord Aylmer made up his mind that he would wait no longer in effecting an entrance into the little flat in Palace Mansions. To do him justice, he never for one moment suspected that his nephew end Mrs. Harris were — married. He imagined that the little establishment was kept up in @ way which is not an uncommon one in London, and that now Dick was safely packed © off to India, he could go and make friends with the — | loveliest girl he had seen for many a day, without any more difficulty than that of starting an maa - ance. To tell the truth plainly, Lord Aylmer bad seen Dorothy with Dick several months before he carri Feo out the plan which had got his nephew safely out of the road, and had left him, as he believed, poor conceited, — fieluded old man, a fair field; and to tell thetruth further and more plainly still, Lord Aylmer had fallen desperately in love with her! So desperately — that he had put himself under great obligations to his ‘old friend Barry Boynton, had set my lady's suspicions _ working, and had made Dick detest him more than. ever, in order that he might. possibly be able by hook or by orcok to find favour in Dorothy's eyes, : LED A ‘Tor THIN, END OF THE. WEDGE, = «149 a : “Poor deluded old man, if he had only known all! If he ae could only have listened to the young husband and : wife discussing “the old savage,” and have known all that had Ae home in Dorothy’s faithful and tender heart! .~ _* But then, you see, he did not, and so I havea longer story to tell you than I should have had if all had gone_smoothly and well with our young couple, and. they had started their married life at the tail of a : - marching — regiment, on an increased allowance kindly given them by a liberal and indulgent uncle. - The old lord had not found it an easy matter to effect an acquaintance with the young lady in Palace Mansions; and really, when you think of it, it is not always an easy thing to accomplish, especially -- when there is no help on the other side! However, this morning, after having spent many hours | reconnoitering the block of buildings called Palace ‘Mansions, after having driven slowly up and down the High Street, after making many more or less _ ‘useless purchases in the High Street shops, and afte: fretting his impatient old soul into a fever, he made up his mind that he would go boldly to the house, — ask for “Mrs, Harris,” claim a friendship with the — - departed Dek, and gradually work into a position of. friendliness with the object of his present admiration. This admirable plan was, however, destined never __ to be carried out—not because Lord Aylmer changed hie mnid, not a bit of it! He carried out his part of it so far as to order his carriage for a certain hour, and when that hour came to get into it and to give an order to Charles. wes Ls «Where to, m’ lord 9% Oe Bnd AE NS Nee RC ALA PLA SOR RUTE eeT e e fe rR eel ee ERS be SY EO RMN Se ik cet ren Cig > eupe Se! POS teeth At 7 TAA ERP eee) oe. Ee ee Piste N ges tae x i Me sn = 3 > : * 150 a _DINNA FOuGEE, ne ¢ Palace Mansions.” «Yes, m’ lord.” } * An’ I believe,” murmured Charles fo ‘Barker, as tucy drove off, ‘that the old codger’s done it at last. Palace Mansions is the order—that’s where oni! *Arrig lives, you know.” é “ Ay,” muttered the coachman, in reply. “And Mrs. ’Arris ’ll catch a Tartar in ’im, no mistake about ) that.” pace “They generally rie care of themselves,” said — - Charles, with a cynicism worthy of his estimable master. . Coming events, they say, cast their shadows before, and Barker, who had been giving a small share of attention to Charles and gossip, suddenly pulled in his horses with a jerk. “’Osses is inclined — to be playful to-day,” he remarked. : “T dessay they know it is the wrong time of year to be in town,” returned Charles, superciliously. “Likely enough. ’Osses is as sensible as Christians, — and sensibler than some,” Barker rejoined. As they got over the ground the “ playfulness” of the horses did not subside; indeed, on the contrary, — it increased, and to such an extent that by the time they turned into the Kensington High Street they ~ _ were racing along at express speed, with the evident intention of bolting as soon as they had a chance. _ Barker, however, knew his work and did not give give them the chance at all, and by the time they reached the corner of the road for which they were bound, they were going steadily again. Unfortu-— nately at that point, however, that terrible maker of mischief, the unforeseen, happened—a little child with — ‘THE THIN END OF THR WEDGE, 151 ‘Balloon as large as a man’s head suddenly let go the string with which she had held it captive; the balloon soared away and dashed into the near horse's face; the child screamed at the loss of her toy; the horse reared and plunged. Barker administered a cut of his whip, and the next moment they were dashing down the road, and an elderly woman was lying helplessly in a dead faint just where the — carriage had passed, “My God! we are over some one,” shouted Lord _ Aylmer. He was the kind of man who, on emer- gency, always appeals to the Deity, whom in all his ways of life he utterly and systematically i ignores. “Let me get out,” he cried. Barker, who was pulling in the horses with might and main, had already checked their mad speed, and a moment or so later turned the horses, with a fare like chalk and a dreadful fear knocking at his heart that the motionless figure lying in the road would never move again. He pulled up just where the crowd was gathering, and Lord Aylmer was out of the carriage before Charles could collect his scattered senseg sufficiently to get off the box. _ The crowd was gathering in numbers every moment, and was not only dense and strong, but purious, Lord Aylmer, however, without standing on ceremony, vigorously elbowed his way to the © inner circle. “Let me pass; stand aside. Policeman, I am Lord Beer imeem horses were frightened by an infernal balloon that a child was carrying. Is she much ‘worse 7” * Dead faint at Preegoh my lord,” sspliel the pone ean who baa ee ‘woman's hed up on ne knees, “I wish we estas: hi some » brandy and some water.” Lord Aylmer looked round for. Chaned = Charles, get some brandy and some water from somewhere or other. Be quick.” . Just then a well-dressed young woman n pushed her way through the crowd, “Let me pass,” she urged. «Can't you see I've brought brandy? Stand back, you men. Have you never seen an accident before? Do-you want to kill her? Stand back!” She was a handsome woman, scarcely more than a girl; her hands and face and speech betokened — that she was gently born; her fearless words, putting into words what was in hey mind, had the effect of causing the crowd to shrink back a little. “Is she much hurt, poor thing? ” she asked. | _ “Pretty bad. case, miss,” answered the polfcsaiee: who was trying to get a little brandy down the — unconscious woman’s throat. } “Hadn't you better get her into my house? She san't lie here,” she went on. “Has any one gone for @ doctor?” ‘ “T should get her orf to the ee at once, miss,” Pe _ the policeman replied. “Would you? Poor thing! I was standing at my window and saw it all. You oughtn’t tolet your — coachman drive like that,” she added severely to ‘a Lord Aylmer, ae “TT don’t; but my oe were frightened by a child’s balloon,” he explained. 3 “You oughtn’t to have horses-that are frightened oe at trifles,” ehe responded logically. — yi Tete 5 HR THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 158 i at think we'd better get her orf at once,” said the 3 } policeman, “she gives no signs of coming round.” © - “How can we take her? Shall I? -I have the o -earriage here ready, and the horses are sober enough now.” — _“ Yes, my-lord, I really think that’s the best thing _ we can do,” the other answered. “If your man ’ll give me a hand we'll lift her in, in a minute,” Eventually the woman was lifted into the victoria, and the energetic young woman having rushed back. to her house for her: hat, got in also, and ~~ supported her in as comfortable a position as was compatible with her insensible condition. Just ny they were starting, a doctor arrived on the scene, took a hasty glance at the victim of the accident. and quietly got in, taking possession of the little bacle seat. “I'd better go—it’s a bad business,” he said te Lord Aylmer, realising that he was owner of the — carriage. « Yes—yes—we had better follow in a cab x Lord | Aylmer said, turning to the policeman. “I sapeane you'll see this through.” * “Qh, yes, my lord; I’m bound to do that,” he pra wered: Lord Aylmer was getting more and more nervous: he got into the cab looking white and scared, with his sinful old heart thumping against his ribs in & way that was very unusual with him. Not because his carriage had run over an elderly woman and it was likely to prove a fatal accident, not for that - reason at all, but wholly and solely because, when Charles and the policeman had lifted the unconscious - Woman into the carriage, Lord Aylmer had picked _ 154 DINNA PORGET, ; ap a letter which was lying is apwande im the roadway just where she had laid. Short-sightedneses was not one of Lord Aylmer’s signs of approaching years, and in an instant he had grasped that the . letter was addressed to his nephew Dick, and before Charles and the policeman had got their burden — safely into the victoria, he had thrust the letter into his pocket, with a sort of impious thanksgiving to Heaven that at last the girl he had been hunting down for many weeks was delivered into his hand. For evidently this respectable elderly woman, dressed in decent black, was Mrs. Harrie’s servant; and if it happened that she did not keep more than one—why, this accident ‘would put her altogether at his mercy. _ He was positively trembling when they reached the St. George’s Hospital, and Barbara was carried ‘in, not unconscious now, for the alight jolting of the — carriage had brought her to again. Then there was a short time of impatient waiting before the doctor ~ came to them—that is, Lord Aylmer and the young lady who had come with.the patient. _ “Broken leg,” he said—*a bad thing at her time _ of day. And she is worrying about her mistress— wants to send and break it gently—isn’t in good health just now. _ Will you got” turning to the young lady, “1? Oh, I’m very sorry, but Pm due at rehearsal now—I must go off atonce. Couldn't you go ?” ashe asked, turning to Lord Aylmer, “Certainly—with pleasure. Shall I bring hee back to see the old lady?” Lord Aylmer inquired, ia a tone which was a deliz Wenders ea hi SEs ek IN ke oa ire Tian on Bale HE THIN END oF CHE WEDGR 155 : oe and fatherliness—a tone which had, by-the-bye, stood him in good stead many a time and oft. “Yes, it would quiet her down a little, I devo aay, < the house-surgeon answered. “Very well. Make me liable for any expenses, you know,” Lord Aylmer said, as he moved towards the door. “Can I see you into a cab, my dear i he added to the actress. « Thanks,” she answered, “ And may I have the honour of settling with the eabman ? ” “Qh, no—very kind of you, but I always pay for myself. The Cornhill—good-bye.” The cab rolled off, Lord Aylmer uncovered his handsome old head, smiled his most fascinating smile, and bowed with a profound air of respect, which was quite lost on the back of the retreating cab and its occupant. Then he got into his victoria and said, “Palace Mansions.” “Yes, m’ lord,” answered Charles woodenly ; then ‘remarked to Barker, as goon as he hopped up on to _ the box—“ Palace Mansions; even broken legs don’t put ‘im orf.” | _ %Seems go,” said Barker. Barker's nerves were all shaken with the accident, and he would have given anything he possessed for a nip of brandy; he was not, therefore, very much inclined for conversation. Meantime, as soon as they had reached Albert Gate, Lord Aylmer drew out the letter and looked at it with @ grin of satisfaction on his wicked old face. “H’m. Richard Harris, Esq., c/o Messrs. Brewster & Co., 10, Grove Street, Madras, India,” he muttered. “Qh, go you have not out the chaina, Master Dick, you've wick ed old voice. 186 DINNA FORGET, = not burt your boats behind isos What a ‘fool “you are, to be sure!” ne He opened the letter without the dual scruple, tore the envelope into a thousand fragments and scattered them to the winds, then settled down to enjoy the tender words beginning—“ My own dear. Dick, and ending, “ Your loving and faithful little — wife, Dorothy.” «So her name is Dorothy,” he mused. oy Strange _ that they should always lay such stress on their love and their faithfulness! They're all alike. I wonder -who the Esther is that she talks about. Barbara is evidently the old girl who came to grief just now. Well, Barbara is safely laid by the leg for the next a few weeks. Really, it could not have fallen out better if one had planned it all. But I wonder who Esther is. ‘Esther hasn’t come yet,’ she says, ‘but ‘may come at any moment, I must find out about Esther.” When they got to Palace Mansions, he saw - Dorothy looking anxiously out of the window. — “On the watch,” he said to himself, «and pretty es uneasy too.” : The lovely face disappeared when. the carriage drew up at the door, and the smart footman, in his glory of crimson and white, jumped down and opened the door for the handsome old gentleman, — who got out and went into the building. He knocked at the door of No. °3, and Dorothy, being perfectly alone, hed no choice but 0 go a . open it. «AmT speaking to Mrs. Hie said ‘the mare, hd 8 Yeg” answered Dorihy:. wondering what he - could possibly want with her. “May I come in? I am Lord Aylmer. I have “THE THIN END oF THE WEDGE. Ast oe something to tell you. No, don’t be alarmed; it is nothing very bad. Pray don’t alarm yourself.” At the mention of hisname—and as the policeman and the doctor, the young lady who had gone to Barbara’s aid, and the people at St. George’s knew ell about him, it would, he knew, be useless to deceive Dorothy es to his identity, so he boldly gave his own name and trusted to the chance of her not knowing that he was anything to Dick— Dorothy started as if she had been shot, and at the hint of “something to tell,” which instinct always tells us means bad news, she staggered back, and~ would probably have fallen if he had not seuecs her. “I beg you will not frighten yourself like this,” he — ‘ eried. ‘Indeed, it is not so serious ag that.” «Tt is——” Her lips could not utter Dick's name, her agony was so great; but her eyes spoke : . volumes in place of her tongue. It never occurred to Lord Aylmer that she was | ‘thinking of Dick. He only thought how lovely she was in her distress, and wondered how he could best : tell her the truth. _ “The fact is,” he gaid, blurting the truth out at 7 last, “there has been as accident, and you old servant ——” 2 “ Barbara—is she hurt?” Dorothy cried in dismay. “T am sorry to say that she is hurt. More sorry to ~ be obliged to own that it was my carriage which did the mischief But won't you let me come in and tell eee ; ane he OE NS ea ER LA earl fy taeda op eae a Petri PRS Nex cca aeek ye cone er ak : pat Repeat pals eal 94 Rhyne ch ain WANE Pe NC Bae a mara SA PSR cs POLE Ra rt i ea BE fae Ty 158 "INNA FORGER, you all abont it? It is such a shame te keep yor standing there.” “Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, but [—that ie 3 you have startled me, and I forgot that we were mill here. Come in.” She turned and led the way to the little drawing- room, and as she pushed open the door, suddenly there flashed across her mind a remembrance ef the fact that a large portrait of Dick was standing on a little table near the fireplace, Quick as thought she walked straight to the table and turned the portrait _ face downwards, carelessly throwing over it the pretty lace trifle which adorned the top of a little chair which stood close by. She flattered herself that the old lord had not seen or at any rate noticed the action, and turned to him eager to hear what had happened to Barbara, “Tell me, is she much hurt?” she asked. “My poor old Barbara! How wasit?” He told her then exactly how the accident bed = happened, and how they had taken the old lady ta : he called Barbara, with an air of being himself ary _ a boy) off to St. George’s, she being insensible and not able to tell them where she lived, | “To St. George's! Is that a hospital?” Dorothy cried. “Qh, my poor Eerbara) She will think that the end of the world has come.” “Qh, no. She is much better off than she ini be in any private house,” said Lord Aylmer, sooth- ingly. “But I am most grieved and sorry to tell you that her leg is broken, and she is naturally very anxious that you should be: of her, andi if pomitle _ that she should ese you.” Oh, Til go. TH go at once,” Dorothy cried. “Would you be kind enough to get me acab? I won't lose another ‘minute. Oh, my poor, dear old Barbara!” “May I drive you there? I have my carriage at the door,” he asked. . In an uncontrollable burst of gratitude Dorothy put out her two little trembling hands and took his, Qh, Lord Aylmer,” she cried, “how good you are! I won't keep you waiting a minute. I will be ready before you know that I have gone.” oe She ran out of the room and came back with her bonnet on and a dust-cloak over her smart tea-gown, but not before Lord Aylmer had quietly gone to the table and looked at the portrait which she had so adroitly hidden. Yes, as he had suspected from her movements, it was a portrait of Master Dick! He put it down again and walked to the window, where | he stood looking at his handsome carriage, with its _patin-coated horses and the two tall servants in their resplendent liveries. Lord Aylmer wondered how long the fascinations of a photograph would hold out against the fascinations of such a turn-out as that. And Dorothy, all the time, was thinking how lucky | it was that it was Lord Aylmer who had picked up _ Barbara, and how, now that she had got touch with him, she would be able to work things into a straight and comfortable state and send for her darling home again, instead of going out to India to join him. _ “7 haven't been long, have I?” she said, as she - eame in. | “Very quick indeed,” he answered approvingly, - gnd added to himself, “’Pon my word, but Master $B THIN END OF THE WEDGE, | iS (1600 | po FonaE, Dick has very fair taste—knows the right sort 4 when a he sees it.” “J will put my i on as we. zo; do net ‘tet us lose any time,” she said, going towards the door. : He handed her into the carriage with an air of : deference he might have shewn to a panhem: eco he got in himself and sat beside her. 7 “Back to St. George Hompiteye he anid to Charles. “Yes, m’ lord,” said Charles And, as ill-luck would have it, at that very instant the lady with the serene eyes who lived on the floor above Dorothy’s flat, came down the street in time to see them come out and the old gentleman hand her into the carriage—nay, in time also to hear - Charles’s reply of “ Yes, m’ lord.” ge _ As if by instinct, the two women ideked at one another—there was no expression in the serene face of the lady who was on foot, nothing noticeable about her excepting a cold severity in her eyes; it was but the glance of a moment, yet Dorothy, who | guessed what was in the mind of the other, grow — acarlet from chin to brow, and turned her head away _ that Lord Aylmer nae not see that her yon were filled with tears. a «Will you be able to get on thon your old servant?” Lord Aylmer asked, as they drove along. ; “J must, for the present,” answered perokny: «But I meant—have you—that is—— « You meant have I another servant?” she finished. ai “No, [have not. I must see about someone totake her place for the time. I wonder where I bear (le to. — look for one?” aa “EME THIN END OF THE | WEDGE, 6 We « You don’t . know, ‘this part of London’ well E then?” he asked, “T don’t know London well at all,” Dorothy | answered, “for I lived in the country all my life until I wae—married.” There was a scarcely noticeable ouitation before she uttered the word married, and Lord ae interpreted it in his own way. . _ “If you could trust me to find out about it, [ think I know just the very person,” he said. “My valet’s wife she is—an excellent cook and a very clever, capable servant in every way.” “But would she come? ” “Tthink go.” “But to a little flat like 1 mine, with nobody to do anything but herself. I am afraid she isa person accustomed to a very large establishment——” - “] think that will be all right, I will make it — - worth her while to come. No, don’t look so, my dear Mrs. Harris ; it will only be just and right that I should pay for your temporary domestic—it must be a frightful mconvenience, and of course it was my fault. If I hadn’t been there, the old me wouldn’é have come to grief.” ~ You are too good,” a etcae cs Deeotey, ciate She doald not ae monderia 2 as they drove along through the mellow: autumn air, how it was that Dick had so mistaken his uncle. It seemed to her that he was all that was charming and con- siderate—the sort of old gentleman who does not seem old, although his hair is white and he must have lived enough years for the world to call old. It was Gs ats ak ng AS ak ES Sa aan Die hl AN Are Oa cd COR LL age Bouts SOMME at ube ite asl at i Siac Si ah a repens as) i LS ra & a af ; ne) ) . 3 ? \ f “A ‘ 163 DINNA FORGET. evident to her sweet and simple soul that Dick had never really got at his uncle’s inmost nature—which was true, and all the better for Dick that he hadn’t. He could not, she argued, be such a savage as Dick had always made out, for why should he take so much trouble for an insignificant stranger like herself, or for an old woman like Barbara, even if his carriage did happen to have knocked her down and broken her leg? That had nothing, or next to nothing, to do with it—oh, it was plain to her that Dick had never managed his uncle properly, and very likely Lady Aylmer had never managed him pro- perly either. ; ae So by the time they had reached the hospital, ) Dorothy had thought herselt into quite a blissful — frame of mind. She had built up a wonderful castle in- the air, when Lord Aylmer should express a wish, _ _ Qh, my dear, I do wish that you were my daughter!” when she would throw off her disguise and say, “I. am the next thing to your daughter.” “ How t” us “ Why, I’m Dick’s wife.” a _ She was so engrossed in her dream that she did not notice that they had reached their destination, until a smooth voice at her elbow said, “Now, dear lady.” | Somehow the tone jarred on her dream, but her — eyes were still radiant as she turned them towards him. “I did not notice where we were,” she said in a voice still tinged with the Ms of her dream. e “ Happy thoughts,” anid he, as he pee her to the ground. | * Very happy ones,” she answered, ig is de oe A bien ew tig ‘imate len de isi hia ear sag Hits They did not permit her to stay very long. Ron bara was lying still, very faint and weak from the shock of the accident and the pain of her leg. She ‘was worrying and anxious about her young aan and Dorothy hastened to re-assure her, “Dear Barbara,” she said, “don’t worry the least little bit about me, not a little bit. I shall be just as well looked after as if you were there. Lord Aylmer is going to send at once to his valet’s wife, a very respectable, middle-aged woman, very clever and a. - good cook. And Miss Esther may be here any day now, you know; so that I shall get on beautifully. All you have to do, dear old Barbara, is to possess your Poa in patience and get wou as Sastey as ever you can.” “JT can’t think hat Hk master will say,” fretted Barbara. _. The master ! Why, he will be as sorry. as if I had broken my leg, or very nearly,” Dorothy ‘cried. “Now, dear, here is the nurse looking at me with a threatening eye. I must go. Good-bye, my dearest - old Barbara, and don’t worry, because I shall have my new help in to-night.” _ She stayed to ask a few questions of the nurse, chiefly about what things Barbara would need, then they drove quietly back to Kensington. For a little way Dorothy was silent. “Poor old. Barbara!” she burst out at length. “I don’t believe | she was ever ill in all her ae before; at least, I newer knew her to be ill, never.” “ And you have known her long?” : | « Ever since I could remember a ee Dorothy replied. i hit ly ii at, THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE, 163 : Se ea acts Vv sek as a Bs at aay Mehra oer ee eat oS . 5 3 164 DINNA FORGET, = eee Lord Aylmer assumed an expression of surprise, e mingled with assent—he had a wonderful variety of facial impersonations, he could even assume goodness on occasion. “Comfort that old lady is safe in St. George's,” he said to himself, as he watched Poe lovely mobile face. — | She turned again to him. “How soon do you : think the woman you pee of will be ane to come?” she asked. “To-night, I hope,” he eapliel: a aay wey, I will : go and see her and let you know.” | _ “But what a trouble for you!” | “Not at all—a Bon pleasure, I can assure you,” gallantly. “ How good you are! » she cried, for the twentioth time. “Tt is very easy to be good, if I am good,” he said, emiling; “but I am afraid you judge me too kindly altogether. Then I will drop you at your house and go and see this good woman at once, come 1e back, and let you know the result.” ms “Yes, if you will,” said Dorothy. eae He helped her to alight and saw her safe in the house, then got into the carriage od sae “To 30) Grosmont Road,” he said. Yes, m’ lord,” Charles replied. hy ee Sie: “ Where to now?” asked. Barker, who was getting | tired and generally desperate. “ Grosmont Road.” “Oh, my!” muttered Barker. “I wam’t iro : when broken legs didn’t put ‘im orf Mrs, ’Arris; — but when Mrs. ’Arris don’t an him oe Gromeont S Bones 09 Rretly eae Ya Ao ae ee “i Sy eRe CTP fore SRP) PrP aye TM tek WEN SPD LL da VEER Dh fo is 1 Che Disa i) eee aoa og Se neh 2S gam rain exp 37 tun woran 168 - Meantime, Dorothy had gone in to the «ntranee tall of Palace Mansions, where the porter of the establishment met her. “A lady for you, Ma’am,” he said. Then there was a pause, a rash, ara ©) glad ery of “ Ob, Esther! Esther$” CHAPTER XVL | DICK’S IMAGE, et T would be impossible for me to tell you what & relief it was for Dorothy to find her cousin Esther awaiting her on her return home. She oried a little, of course, and then managed to tell her all pont poor Barbara’s accident. “ Just as well for you that I tarned up when I did, my dear,” said Esther, drily; “it might have beer very awkward for you to be left alone long.” “Qh, but Lord Aylmer was so kind,” Dorothy cried. “He not only took me to the hospital to ses Barbara and brought me back again, but he has actually gone off now to see his valet’s wife, who is the very person to may wen me till Barbara is able to come home again.” “Yes, that is really very good of him,” Eather admitted. “But now, my poor little excited pale- face, I am going to make you a oup of tea, Show me _ the way.” So Dorothy took her sis Barbara's neat little kitchen, and Miss Brand established her cousin in @ chair, while she put the tea-things together and | made all ready. Then she carried the tray into the | drawing-room and made Dorothy sit in a big ame chair while she waited upon her and gave her aha! € thing that she needed for. her comforts ey gemi ae ns be, ee ae | a baie oo ,.° On fi Sra star\ (melee ade ee RO b Wt fad OE Ee o> Re ute tare OO es See Te 4 ae ~ “ ae) ¢ } / ‘porsmuce - _—_ié? “I sappose this Lord Aylmer is a smart man-about= town sort of person,” she remarked presently, as she slowly stirred her own tea round and round. “Qh, awfully old,” answered Dorothy—* at least, he doesn’t seem old, you know, but at the same time he is old. His hair is as white as snow, and he hasa delicious old-fashioned, half-faiherly sort of manner, And so kind, so thoughtful. z _ Ah, well, it is a very good thing. Really, the world isn’t half so bad as it sometimes seems,” Esther said dreamily, “Well,” with a quick change of. tone, “and this Dick of yours—he is Ley of eourse?” -. “Dear Dick,” murmured Dorothy. “Vos, he ts perfection, He did hate so to go and leave me, but he had to go—he had such a good appointment offered him, he did not dare refuse it. Still, he _ hated to go and leave me, just now especially. What the would say if he knew about Barbara, I can’t ‘think. I don’t think I would tell him, would ut” «Mot till all is over,” pudwared Esther. “It would only worry him for nothing. By-the-bye, what i is he 3 jike?” “Oh,” and Dovothy looked pond for her Dick's 2 portrait. “Ob, here he is,” holding it out to her eousin, — Esther ee took it ae looked at it attentively — | for. & long time, sipped her tea, and looked aoa and yet again. — | “Well,” said Dorothy, iupationtiy eal like him,” said Esther, “he looks good and rue, and he is a handsome man too—a fine, honest. bc on? 163 | DINNA FORGET. = locking, manly man. Yea, I like bim— yore a lucky little girl, Dorothy.” “So I think,” answered Dorothy proudly, “and Dick is just what he looks—honest as the day, and ae good as gold.” 2 Esther laughed. “Well, you are a floss. little woman to have won such a husband. - J never met a man like that, or I should have been tempted to give — up my liberty long ago. Do you know, dearie, I always had a horrible conviction that you would end by marrying David Stevenson, and I always fe dislike David Stevenson with all my heart and 80 “So did L” answered Dorothy promptly. For a moment she was tempted to tell Esther all about her meeting with David, then a feeling that it would be scarcely fair to him held her back, and she kept her own counsel about that matter, | “Of course there is no knowing what I might or might not have done if dear Auntie had lived,” she said, wishing to explain everything as far as possible and yet avoid saying much about David's feelings for her, “and if I had never seen Dick; but then, you _ see, I did meet Dick, and Dick liked mes and— and——” «And David Stevenson went to the wall,” Eather said, finishing the sentence for her, “and a very — proper and suitable place for him too, my dear child,” with a laugh. ae _ Dorothy laughed too. “Ah! you are all very hard ans on poor David,” she said softly. a : So they sat talking over the old times and Oe new for more than an hour. Then Esther suddenly | ee a her of dinner, . | , ~ peor’s néion, - ae as “Now, how shall we do about dinner? Hadn't we better wait a little and see if this woman comes, and then go into town and dine somewhere?” she said. “J can’t offer to cook a dinner for you. If I did, it would probably kill you to eat it.” “Just as you like. Then, couldn’t we call at St. George’s and leave a note to tell Barbara you have come?” Dorothy asked. “ It will be such @ load off her mind.”. “To be sure,” Esther answered ; and then Hey settled down to their chat again, and Esther heard a great deal more about Dick, and learned a great many of Dorothy’s hopes and wishes about the baby that was to come before very long. And presently there came some one te the door who rang gently and knocked softly, “TI will.go; sit still,” cried Esther. She went to the door, where she found a hand- gome, neatly dressed woman of about forty years old. “Mrs, Harris?” ahe said inquiringly. % “No,” said Esther; “I am not Mrs. Harris, but this is her house. Wiil you come in? I suppose Lord Aylmer sent you ie “Yes, madam,” said the stranger, Pepbetfilty. It struck Esther as a little odd that she should use the term “madam,” but she put the thought away from her almost as soon as it had taken shape in her mind. “Of course, she is a married woman, and perhaps has never been a servant at all,” she said to herself; then said aloud, “Well, come in and see Mrs. Harris. I am sure she will be very glad that you have come. By-the-bye, what is your name?” : ane name is ‘Harris, too, madam,” the stranger M 170 DINNA FORGET, | answered, eh @ deprecating look, as. r she had me rather taken a Uiberty i in bene: married @ men es the name of Harris, | | “Dear me, how odd! Well, I suppose my cousin will like to call you by your Christian name. And that is o., a “ Amelia, madam,” she answered aie «Qh, yes” Then Esther opened the dawns room door, and bade. Amelia Harris follow her. “Dorothy, here is Lord Aylmers—— Why, my dear child, what is the matter?” for Dorothy was lying back in her chair with a face as white ae chalk and pinched with pain. _ ees «T am go ill,” she gasped. “Oh, Esther! Esther!” | Esther took firm ground at once. “Now, don't give way, my dear; all will be well,” she asserted. — “ Here is our kelp, and we will have the doctor a here in next to no time, if you will only tell me where to send for him.” : “Dr, Franklin, in Victoria Road,” Dorothy : answered. ‘But don’t leave me, Esther; don’t.” : “Certainly not, dearest. Amelia will go and fetch him,” Esther returned. __ “JT had better go at sagt mete nid Amelia, | quietly, om “You, say Mra Harris is vey. M—that '& eG urgent.” 2 ots “Yes, madam,” answered Amelia, 9 st” ao She walked off to the Victoria Road ata crotig quick pace, thinking hard as she went, “ H’m; from what he told me, he never spoke to her before to-day. 7 Queer. I wonder if ,he knows about this baby, Shall I wire him, or ahall I keep the news as a little oe SP at en fetta hae 5 r Et : : aes MAGE | mo | a surprise for to-morrow? Till keep it. The sight of as bis lordship’s face will be worth something.” She knocked at Dr. Franklin’s door and asked to — gee him in exactly the same quiet, self-possessed way ‘that she had spoken to Miss Brand, and all the time her thoughts were running on this new fancy of his Jordship’s. | “A little sickly-looking girl, little better than a child,” she was thinking, as she followed the neat maid into a waiting-room. ‘Not, I dare say, that he’s looking her best just now; but still, what he can fancy in her after a woman like me — but there—— Yes, Sir,” sho said aloud, “Mrs. Harris has been taken suddenly ill, and Miss Brand wished me te oome and fetch you at once.” : “Miss Brand?” said the doctor, ey: ¥ Whe is ahe ?” : _ Mirw, Harris's cousin, Sir.” | _ “Qh! yes, yen I soe. Fit be round im three _ minutes—in three minutes.” _ “Very well, Sir.” ‘Amelia Harris went quickly away, her thoughts still with the old lord. “Some women wouldn’t do the things he asked of them—the things he asks of me,” she said to herself; “and if they promised to, they'd play him false in the end, and be jealous, and all that. Not me, though! Lord Aylmer can do what he likes, and think what he likes, and go where he likes; it's all one to me so long as I'm paid for _ my troable. My! he must be in earnest over this business, Five hundred for a month's work—five hundred pounds!” : ‘By that time she had reached the Mansions and 17% SINNA FORGET. ghe weuat m, took off her bonnet ed elcan, an@ > bustled about as only a thoroughly good worker — can do, getting ready for the great event which seemed imminent, which indeed was imminent, for ~— by tho time morning light shone over London town there were two more inmates of the little flat in Palace Mansions—a stout motherly nurse, who hushed upon her ample bosom a wee fragment of humanity, @ very small and soft pinkish ‘person, who had grunted and squalled already in quite an alarming fashion, and who was, #8 Dorothy fondly told Esther Tread, the very image of his father, dear Diok,. CHAPTER. XVIL “MIsoHTEy, MELIA HARRIS proved herself to be all that Lord Aylmer had said she was—a strong, active, and capable woman, quiet’ and quick, a good cook, neat in appearance and respectful in manner. She took the orders for the day from Miss Brand, and _ went off about eleven o'clock to get various things ‘that were wanted, and among other errands she had e telegraph form to hand in at the post-office. — It was from Esther Brand to Richard Herris, and announced briefly but to the point, “Sen—both . well,” . “Tt will cost a good bit, Amelia,” Miss Brand said. “JT don’t know exactly what, but they will tell you at the post-office, And, by-the-bye, you’ might bring back a dozen stamps for India. We shall be writing to Mr. Harris by each mail.” sae «Yes, madam,” Amelia Harris answered. ‘She was a clever woman, that same Amelia, for she went to the office and handed in the telegram, saying, _ * Will you tell me, please, what that will cost?” The clerk added it up and told her the amount. « Thank you,” she said. “I will tell my mistress.” So did she, but only that the telegram had cost so much, and the money which Miss Brand had given her was short of exactly that sum. ve Pa f 2. ak Jaw iat ¥ wes 1% = = =————s ENN FORGET. » “Qh, not so very much, after all,” salar Mie Brand. “We will send him another wire in - week or so to let him know how they are going on.” ~ 3 “It will be a great relief to the gentleman to know all is satisfactorily over, madam,” answered Amelia : Harris. in her smoothest voice. “Qh! yes, indeed,” returned Miss Brand, She went then to sit beside her cousin’s bed, to bid her follow the doctor's directions and keep per- fectly quiet, as if poor little delicate Dorothy would be likely to do anything else. Then she just told her that she had sent off a wire to Dick, and that as — soon as she had put things in trim for lunch, Amelia 3 was going to run down to St. George’s cone to carry the great news to Barbara. | Qh, that is good! Barbara will be 60 anxious,” murmured Dorothy in her sweet voice. “And Dick, too, how proud he will be! You'll write at once, — Esther, to tell him everything, to tell him how exactly like him the boy is. He will be so pleased.” 3 _ “Texpeot he would rather it were like you, dearie,” . said Esther, smiling. Qh! no. But you minata't call my boy ‘ sit, Esther,” Dorothy declared, “ and—and you'll be sure _ to tell him that-Lord Aylmer has- been kindness if itself to me, won't you? ” | ae “But, my dear, I Pionght we were not ‘is tell him about Barbara’s acvident?” Esther exclaimed. | “No—true,” and Dorothy for a few minutes lay thinking deeply. Then she turned her eyes back again to her cousin’s face. “Oh, I think you may as well tell him; you see, you are here, and the baby. ig here too. Dick will know that I am in good ‘MISOHIEF, «1 hands, I think I would rather that you told si after all.” “My dear child, take my advice—don’t cpaliee the accident or Lord Aylmer at all,” Esther urged. “He will ROY and a worying man is an awful | _muisance.” aa ee “J don’t like deceiving Dick,” Dorothy protested. _ _ 7? “No, dear, no, but one could hardly call that deceit,” Esther answered. ‘Anyway, will you leave : it to me? I will write on Wednesday mornin gy. and bring you the letter to read.” “Very well, Esther,” said Dorothy. »— That is better. Now, if I go away you will rest 7 a little, and I have various odds and ends to do,” eid Esther, tenderly. One of her various “odds and ends” was to send | Arnall off to St. George’s to inform Barbara that the long-expected event had happened, and that _@ fine bouncing boy, the very image of Dick—of his father, she said—was now flourishing at Palace Mansions, And if the truth be told, Amelia Harris - went off on this errand without any great feeling of eatisfaction, for just at that moment she particularly wished to remain in the house, having.a great desire to be the person to impart the news to Lord Aylmer, — : when he should care to cee for Mrs, Hone s welfare. Of course, ate arcaet with her thoughte as ae went up the road, it was just possible that he might wait until after lunch-time, but then, on the other hand, there was not very much going on at this : time of year to occupy his lordship, and she was efraid bis impatient soul would bring him WANE aos 1 epi tae ew re Ra peihy ee oh, Sel Nia WE OPS NT tae feo Wee ae 3 . Seay ine Cae: Sr nie Peer eS aia EP ke Roe Ry RT Erk: 176 DINNA FORGET. to look after his prey as sad as he conventionally ) could. : And Amelia Harris was perfectly. right, for just afl she was passing the Knightsbridge Barracks on her way citywards, Lord Aylmer’s carriage stopped at the door of Palace Mansions. Esther saw it draw up, “Nurse,” she said, going softly into the little dressing-room, where the nurse sat crooning over the baby by the fire, “ will you answer the door for me— ~ Amelia has gone? It is Lord Aylmer.” The mere mention of a Lord was sufficient to send the nurse off to the door in a bustle, perhaps the good woman scented a tip in the near future. Anyway, when the door was opened to the great man, he was __ astonished to see a stout, comfortable-looking body standing smiling and curtseying within. “Yes, my lord—walk this way, my-lord,” and forthwith she — _usheréd him into the drawing-room, and ‘went back to the dressing-room to relieve Esther of the baby. “A very abe aes old gentleman, vine she 1 re- marked. 3 “Tg he?” said Esther. “No, I've never seen hun. 93 Meantime, ee Aylmer, atnpeobig nothing of _ what had happened, was standing at the window watching his horses, his keen and wicked old eyes” having noticed during the few moments that he had ~ been in the room that Dick’s portrait had gone. He heard the sound of the door opening, and turned to © meet, not Dorothy in her flowing blue draperies, with her sweet, shy grey eyes uplifted to his, but a tall dark-eyed young woman in a play. ne gown, who came forward and held out her hand in what was enmistakably the fashion of a woman who considered herself his social equal. | “Good morning, Lord Aylmer,” she said cordially, “J must thank you very much for all your kindness to my little cousin, who is very lonely just now. My name is Brand—Esther Brand.” F Lord Aylmer could not help starting a little, but he covered it by a profound bow and a protestation that he was delighted—enchanted, in fact—to have the honour of making Miss Brand’s acquaintance, — So this was the Esther of whom she had spoken in her letter — Esther Brand; ay, and likely to prove a brand between him and her. He looked with disgust, and a thousand bad words jostled one another in his heart the while, at Esther’s pale, resolute face, her firm, white, capable hands, noted her fearless manner, and admitted that she was unmistakably a woman of education and good breed- _ ing. And it is only fair to say that. Lord Aylmer 7 positively cursed his ill-luck even while he kept a smooth and smiling front to the enemy. - “And shall I not have the pleasure of seeing — _ Mrs.—er—Harris this morning 1” he asked, finding presently that there was no aign of Bok appearance. : - Miss Brand laughed. “Well, hardly,” she an- pe hl “ My cousin is as well as could pone be expected under the circumstances.” ; ‘What circumstances?” Lord Aylmer asked, thinking that Miss Brand was alluding to Barbara’s accident, ‘ “The circumstance of 8 baby,” said Esther, : mailing, Pebeever ea ie iin S004. 178 “‘DINNA FORGET. “Of what? Forgive me, but I do not follow. you," he said. “My cousin has got a baby, Lord Aylmer," said Esther, smiling still more broadly. Lord Aylmer jamped to his feet. Esther, not a Kittle startled, sprang to hers. “WHAT?” he cried. “ Mrs. Harris had a little 'son born at four o’clock this morning,” said Esther, who neither understood nor particularly admired this unlooked-for and ‘un- cealled-for display of feeling. | te “ Good God!” burst from the old lord’s lips. | For a few moments they stood staring right into one another's eyes, he astounded, disgusted, baffled; she puzzled and a little angry at his unusual and extraordinary behaviour. Of the two, the old lord was the first to. recover himeelf. : “Pon my soul, my dear lady,” he aaid, writh an immense attempt to seem jovial and even amused, « I never was so surprised in all my life before—never. — You might have knocked me down with a feather, FEE tc Ey MMe eh oN NED MERE Bue ge WE NE SS Le Med eae ins oN oo eee, LEK TE "pon my word, you might. A baby—a little son— ae | and I left Mrs. Harris late yesterday afternoon, and hadn’t the faintest suspicion that ales cs of the kind was in the wind.” 3 : Miss Brand raised her eyebrows and smiled rather coldly. “That is not very surprising, Lord Aylmer,” a _ she observed, “As you never saw my cousin before — yesterday, yen could not be expected to have so picions.” | “Qh! no, no; but you qaciiiet me we mach, oe pe he Casas os gehts | £7 [Rig ee Pend WOR ce Mat ad gear ew Ay Seen Mr Fa ORGAN a hh. POO hs, Peery ve EN poly SeBAS 1 RR SAND SOUT! Be RT| ee eT eas epi Chala Pans eee ee sain Us BSAA teresa s Fe ut saa ay, EN a Lae Ahad as Se hen Bees - ie s moe aunt yes, thanks: as well as wo could possibly ‘ i See ” Esther pind. “ And not too much upset by the accident to the poor old lady ease T hope?” he inquired tenderly. “Oh! no. Of course, she was upset at the time, ; but she was wonderfully calm and quiet after 2 got here.” “ And my valet’s wife—Amelia pete ie doea , she like her?” he asked, «Well, really, Lord Aylmer, she hardly owe - Amelia came in, and I had to send her off for the _. doctor almost before my cousin saw her. But I like her and find her very useful; in fact, we should be but very badly off to-day but for her.” ~ “That is good,” Lord Aylmer said with his: mort | fatherly 1 manner. He felt, this wicked ‘aud wily old man, that he would have to be continually on his guard with this steady-eyed young lady. By her advent the diffi- culties of the situation would be greatly increased ; _ if he succeeded now in ousting. Dick and getting hold of Dorothy, it would be in spite of Miss Esther Brand. Yet the difficulties of the situation only made him the more anxious to come off victor in end, only made him more determined to win rothy if possible, whether it were by hook or by _. crook. : He rose to go then, and held out his hand to his | ~ enemy. “y am not 2 only glad but greatly relieved — that Mra. Harris is able to make herself useful, | because I feel that I am in a measure responsible ied the accident hs your cousin’s own servant. J] Ak +) roe Se See ee BO ee oe En cect ES et eee eb as ess 180 INNA A FORGET, shall be quite anxious 6 hear ne she. goed, on—= your cousin, I mean. I wonder if you would send me a line now and again to Aylmer’s Field, near Norwich? I should be so much obliged.” ere “ Oh, certainly I will let you know ; it is very good of you to be go interested,” Esther Bel ens “Ah! that is good of you. I am an old man now, .. — and it is the distressing habit.of old people to worry _ themselves about everything. I shall worry more or less about your cousin until I know she is about again.” : “Oh, you mustn’t do that,” said Esther, pale “Then you are going out of town?” ~ “Yes. I am going to Aylmer’s Field for a few days,” he replied. “By-the-bye, I shall be charmed to place my carriage at your disposal during my absence—for as long as you like BELORW ATOR, for the matter of that,” he added. | «That is really very kind of you,” said Esther; “but—it seems rather taking an _ advantage | of you, 99 “Not at all—not the least in the world,” es in the old lord quickly. “I will tell them to send. round every morning for orders.” __ : ~ He went hastily away after this, chuckling 2 at ae access of his visit. “I thought she was going to be difficult,” his thoughts ran; “but she’s a woman, and, after all, the same Oe catch all of them—all of them. There are two things a woman never seems able to resist—diamonda and a golly smart a4 turn-out.” He sat still for a few minttos after they turned into the High Street, then called to Charles. 4 Ohatiog, \ drive slowly from here to St, George’ 8 famine he said. “Yes, m’ lord,” atiawered Charles. “Never knoo ’im take such a heap of trouble . before,” murmured Charles to the coachman. “ Ain’t it wonderful ?” returned that fanctionary, with a wink, ~The old lord was in luck’s way, for just as they reached the corner of the hospital Amelia Harris came out of the big building. She saw him in a moment, and Lord Aylmer called out for the carriage to stop. The carriage drew up close beside the kerb, and Amelia Harris stood quite close to the door, so that not a word of her conversation could be heard by the two stiff and solemn figures” who sat with their heads carefully turned away from the witked old man behind them. | “Well?” he said. | se “Well,” she said, looking at him in a hard, by : kind of way, “have you been there ?” 66 Yes.” “ H’m—nice little surprise for you, I should fancy.” “ Oh, a devil of a surprise,” irritably, Amelia Harris laughed cynically. “Ah, I’ve been wondering all the morning what you'd think, Well,” sharply, “does it make any difference, or are you ~~ going on, because if it does——” — «Well?” “Well, Pll send on this telegram and give her this - Jetter. Poor little fool! she has Woes worrying about the Indian mail all the morning.” “You will do nothing of the kind—of course I am 6 going on,” cried Lord Byhnge sharply, under hig EER eee PKS pee OLS aie Se es we g Pe ey RM CP EN ERET Yee ht Catan ga SRE eS A ee nM BY SY Bae Sern se 5 pak alta Tce MR ea) Cana Ui pia ye Rial ee - S 2 Cy 4 poe) at rn ‘ t | ‘182 | -DINNA FORGET, breath. “Give them to me—what are cha There —that will dé. Go back—take » cab—and look * after my intereste as if—thie—this—creature had not come at al] to interfere with my plans. If anything of importance occurs. write to me at Aylmer’s Field, © If you need to use the ete praph, be ver cereiut how . you word your message.” — Qn the old plan, I suppose?” ahe asked! “Yes; now go. Shy es to my slyb. i “Yes, m’ lord.” Ee Being September, the old doed toned his favourite Z club almost deserted—not that he minded, in fact he wanted the club to himself, and practically he had it. He did not waste time, but read the telegram at once. _ «“ Boy—both well,” with a sneer, and tore it into a — thousand fragmenta which he flung into the grate. _ ‘Then he opened the letter, in Dick’s well-known: Cie writing, bearing the Madras post-mark. ee It was a long and tender letter, full of solieitnaa! for her welfare and giving her amusing sucess beac 3 of his every-day life. ieee “Madras isn’t much of a place, my darling,” Dick said, “ but I shall like it ies cue when, Adel 5 are out here,” | “ Good God!” Lord ‘Avitier « cried toed .: then she means going outto him. So that’s your game, is it, a my little white cat?. Ah! we must see if we. can't make a change in that programme.” _ a _As he sat there muttering over the lntéee, an » old = ae gentleman, who was peacefully slumbering over the Morning Post, atarted miglently: and Saat to make ee profuse apologies. : _ “Beg your pardon, I’m ta sabe I was! +n0d ee . * RE EGG eR RN Ue anna Ee i ad ot ar ete SCP nail Misia OAM pas Hr at dee see A. SRO 3 oh _ MISORTET : 183 over the paper—ten thousand pardons, and—why, it's Aylmer! Bless my soul, Aylmer, are youintown! - How do you do?” | “Yes, I am in town—I’m quite well, thank you, end {[ don’t want the paper because [I'm reading letters of great importance,” said Lord Aylmer, rudely and pointedly, and with an utter absence of the delightful fatherly manner which he Ar so effectual at times, “Qh! really. Deuced unpleasant letters too, I should think,” said the old gentleman, who was a much more important personage than Lord Aylmer, and did not care a snap of the fingers for him. ‘He got up from the chair where he had been’ sitting, and waddled off to a somewhat easier one in ' ‘the big bow-window, where he sat down and began diligently studying the paper, only presently to go fast asleep again with the paper defiantly clasped in his arms. Lord Aylmer went on studying Dick’s letter, feeling better for the small passage of words, much as one often feels when a thunder-storm has cleared the atmosphere on a hot summer's day. | «All the game,” the letter continued, “I have got most comfortable quarters here, and I have seen a jolly little house about a mile from the town, where I think you will be as happy as possible. Iam looking - eat for a first-rate ayah for you, but really I fancy - it will be the easiest if you get an ayah for the child in town—there are always some who have taken children over and want their return passage, You sas _ see, my darling, I have not been idle about yoa, nor = “forgotten to make the best of my opportunities in "gathering information which may make you more 3 ES AE Re RC DS m CHRP ACE Me aoe, fs SEI a ea ee og Ue ALS UR Re ONO een ere 184 DINNA FORGET, ee comfortable, though I think sometimes that people ~ must wonder why I want to know about Nor and nurses,” For a long time Lord Aylmer sat lost in angry ~ thought. So this was the meaning of Dick’s sudden gurrender, his dutiful acquiescence with his uncle's wishes. There had been no breaking of his chaina when he set sail for the East, no burning of his boats behind him. Not a bit of it! No; the young gentleman had quietly—ay, and very oleverly—made the best of what to him was a very bad and very distasteful business, and intended to carry on the Palace Mansions arrangement in Madras just al he had done in London. =: ‘But somebody else had to be dealt with, the ae lord’s grim thoughts ran—somebody else with a brain a good deal shrewder than Dick's, and a will like cold steel. Lord Aylmer would have something to do and say in the matter of Mrs. Harris’s intended voyage to India, and he had no notion whatever of. allowing his nephew, whom he cordially detested, to carry out all his arrangements in triumph, and in epite ofhim, = He roused himself presently, and weit 6 the table 2 un where writing materials were lying. Then he forced himself to write an ordinary letter to Dick, telling ** he was in town for a few days, but was off to — Aylmer’s Field to-morrow, that my lady was better, — and he trusted Dick would bear in mind that he had to reinstate himself in his uncle’s good graces‘that — he might get over the disappointment caused by his refusal to marry Mary Annandale, and therefore he —~ ss tasted ke would spare no pains te make himself — ~ MISCHIEF 185 indispensable to his old friend, Barry Boynton. And at the end of this meaningless and commonplace letter, Lord Aylmer made an addition, which, like the scorpion’s tail, contained the sting :— _ “«P.S.—By-the-bye, you will be Gaccested to hear that your little friend Mrs. Harris has consoled her- self for your absence, without loss of time. I saw her yesterday with a gentleman in an uncommealy well turned out open carriage—splendid horwes, smart servants in white liveries, cockades, and all the rest of it. After a long and intimate acquaintance with the world, I have come to the conclusion that soft-eyed little women of that type have marvellous _. wisdom—they forget the past, give no thought to ~ the fature, take the hour as it comes and make the | - best of it. Sensible creatures!” : ‘And this most dangerous of all lies, the lie which was half a trath, Lord Aylmer dropped into the post- box, and in due time it went: speeding over sea and land in place of Esther Brand’s telogram, “ my m both Sasa oe sa CHAPTER XVII SUSPENSE. WHOLE month had. gone by and stifl no ae , had come from Dick to the anxious heart so fondly waiting for news in Palace Mansions. Or stay, that is not quite correct, for a long letter from Dick had come by each mail, but they had never reached Dorothy, each one of them aay wes in Lord Aylmer’s possession. “JT can’t make out why your husband-has never oe written, why he never answered the telegram. [= think I shall go into the post-office and find out af it really went.” ? “Amelia said it a Dorothy repeed ‘Bhe, poor child, had never admitted as much to hercousin, —__ bat she was prepared for the worst that could — possibly happen. Dick’s long silence was beginning to tell upon her, and she was not recovering as quickly as might be desired; indeed, her doctorand —__ her cousin, too, were for the most part thoroughly ae uneasy about her, And yet, she had now been nearly six weeks without a line from Dick—Dick, who _ had left her with such fond words of love on his lips _ —ay, and in his eyes; Dick, who knew that now, of | is all times, letters would be of greater value than ever _ they had been, when she was left alone in her hour of trial. Yet he had not written, there was Mars ae suawer to the lege hoardings the ae ae aC te SUKPENEI, | 187 there had come no word nor sign out of the dark biankness of hope and fear, doubt and despair which was gradually creeping over her. And, after all, she told herself, it was not to be wondered at if Dick had got a little tired of her—a stupid little thing like her, as ignorant as a child. What was there in her to keep such @ man as Dick faithful and true when the width of half the world was stretched between them? And then her eyes fell upon the bangle, which she always wore upon her left wrist, with its bright beacon of hope and trust, Dick’s last message to her—*Dinna Forget.” No, nothing should make her doubt him; he was overworked, ill, something had happened eo keep him from writing. “Don’t worry sheet it, dear Esther,” she said bravely. “Dick would not leave me without a letter without some good reason for it. Please don’t doubt him; you don’t know how good and kind and thoughtful he is, you don’t indeed, Esther.” “No, I don’t,” said Esther, drily; then with an outburst of tenderness very rare in one of her serene and composed nature, she cried, “Oh, don’t look at ‘me in that reproachfal way, darling. I want to __. believe this Dick of yours perfect—I do, dear. But when we go on day after day, week after week, and [see your anxious eyes, see your face getting whiter and _whiter—why, I can't help feeling angry at times, and suspicious, and—and as if I should like to _ kill somebody,” she ended passionately. ‘Dorothy did not speak for a long time, but sat tracing the words on her bangle with a very thin and 188 DINNA FORGET. “T know what you must think,” she said at last. « And I know what Dick’s silence must seem to you; but I promised to trust him whatever happens, and I always will. He gave me this the very last of all,” she cried, holding out her wrist—oh! so much too — | small for the pretty bangle now—towards her cousin, “and-he gave it as a ‘oken between us: ‘ Dinna Forget. I know it will be all right by-and-bye, Esther, I know it will; but wait a little longer, before you condemn him, just a little longer.” The piteous appeal went straight to Esther’ ee heart. “Well, I won’t mention him again, Dorothy —_ dear, not for another month. We will talk about | other things. Are you going for a drive to-day? _ The carriage will be here at three o'clock.’ “Just as you please, dear,” Dorothy answered listlesely. “TJ think you ought to go. It is good i you, and _ good for the boy too, and of course you wun't have - ® carriage—at least, not such a carriage—alwaya.” “No,” said Dorothy. , Esther was busy making a wonderful bonnet for es the wonderful boy, and she pinned in several folds of lace and tried several effects before she spoke again. _ “Isn't it odd,” she remarked at last, “that Lord — Aylmer has left his carriage and horses and ta! mip in town all this time, when he is away ?” : : “Perhaps he never takes them 5. 7 town,” suggested Dorothy, _ “Perhaps not. i wey, it is very pleasant for us _ as itis,” Esther replied. “Well, I shall go and get ready,” and gathering up her bonnet and materials, she went out of the room, rong Big! alone, gi I LGN SiR t ieee a aa culate bikin ek ie au pagly mae by ag artis SNE WS ibs, | ene a teh) a a ed pe % Rae SUSPENSE 189 - Almost immediately Amelia ‘Harris came in, bringing a bag filled with little vases of fresh flowers. “Qh!” said Dorothy, “those are the flowers from Aylmer’s Field. They are lovely. Is it a pretty place, Amelia? JI suppose you have often been _. there.” ~ 2 “Yes, madam; I have been there once or twice,” Amelia replied, “It is a fine place, is it not? ” Dorothy asked. . eo A. very grand place, madam,” said Amelia, appar 7 ently giving all her attention to the flower vases, “And Lady Aylmer—what is ‘she like? Is she nice—handsome ? ” “My lady is very handsome, madam,” ‘said Amelia, putting the last vase in its place, and coming to put a fold of the window curtain straight. “ Very . haughty and hard-like, but very handsome for all that.” : . “ Ah!” Bas | - Dorothy sat in silence fora minute or two. Amelia ip ee began to tidy the little table between the window and the fireplace. | : «Tt seems such a pity that——” Dorothy began, intending to say, “such a pity that Lord and Lady Aylmer did not get on well together.” Then she broke off short, suddenly remembering that it would not do to speak of Mord Aylmer’s private affairs to his valet’s wife, and also that she was not supposed -. to know more of them than Lord Aylmer himself ~ would be likely to tellso new an acquaintance as she oe was. Amelia was looking at her with an expectant se expression, and Dorothy made haste to finish har 190 DINNA FORGET, “Tt seems such a pity that Lord Ayimer. has née heir,” she said confusedly. Amelia Harris not unnaturally, perbaps, misunder- pie stood her. “Lord Aylmer has an heir, madam,” she said quickly, thinking that Mrs, Harris was giving a keen eye tothe future. “His nephew, Mr, Richard Aylmer, is the heir—he is in India.” “Ah! yes, really,” said Dorothy. She felt very. sick and faint as she leant back among the cushions, ~ Amelia Harris thought she was disappointed, wheroaa, in truth, Dorothy was only nervous and upset at the sudden mention of her husband's ie nam 8, . Mr. Aylner ” Amelia continued, “ + ig in ‘is army— in the 40th Dragoons, A handsome young mene aniat, but wild—very wild.” Dorothy got up. “Yes, I dare say, but I ought : not to talk about him,” she said, her voice trembling, and her eyes misty with teara “I must go end dress for our drive.” ve She was sobbing passionately by the ne she got : into her own room. “ Dick, Dick,” she cried passion- sy ately, “it is hard to have to deny you like this, for it was denying you, though I said nothing. Why are you leaving me to fight my way through all these — difficulties alone? I won't believe that you are false “ - to me—not until you tell me so; but if it jis #0, you ne ought to tell me, you ought to tell me!” She was sobbing passionately, and the cade Ge tears ran down her poor pale face and over her little cold hands. They recalled her to herself, “6 No, I will be brave, I won't denbe you, my aa ‘There ie a i: Pac Ray aod something I don’t understand, I will wait a little longer.” ‘She unlocked a drawer in her ‘witli and took out the large picture of Dick which she had hidden out of Lord Aylmer’s way. “My hes my dear love, I will trust you and believe you,” she murmured ae “7 will not give way again—I will be brave.” She heard ths carriage draw up with ‘the usual Jingle and dash, and hastily locked the portrait away oa Then she bathed her face in cold water, and ried to remove the, alas! unmistakable signs of teara Roa her eyes. Not very successfully, though she went out immediately afterwards, walked into the _ drawing-room, and found there—Lord Aylmer. “Qord Aylmer!” she cried, then went quickly across the room to him, “Oh! I am ao very glad to see fyou,” she cried, “I did not know you were in town. “I came up ‘task naght, dear lady,” he said, taking both her hands in his and speaking in a very soft and tender voice, “But you are ill, you-are not oe recovered, you are unhappy about something.” “1%” murmored Dorothy, evasively. “Oh! I am . not s0 very well—but——” : “But you have been crying,” said Lord Aylmer, eae il keeping her hands in his, “Perhaps,” Dorothy admitted. : « Perhaps—I am sure of it,” he returned. “But what is the matter? If there is anything that I can — do, you know that you have only to command me.” _ He laid stress on the words you know, which in any * other circumstances would have been enough to put r * ero a are : sig: . pit x APE ts OSS Fe ON peak iA bP RNS She Ra ein 3 | 193 ‘ DINNA FORGET. — Dorothy on her guard. New, however, with her thoughts filled with Dick and his strange and inexplicable silence, she did not notice the unusual tone. “Oh!” she cried impulsively, “there is some- thing you could do for me if you would.” — . “What?” he said eagerly. “Tell me.” — ~— But Dorothy did not tell him. She wanted to Bay, “T am Dick’s wife, I am so wretched and so unhappy at his absence. Let him come Home and I will love and reverence you for ever.’ That was what she wanted to say; but when te | was face to face with the opportunity, her COURAgS ; failed her, and she was afraid. | She “Tell me,” he said persuasively. pathy « No—not now—some day, perhaps,” she answered. : “You shall tell {me now,” said Lord Aylmer, — steadily. me He looked go Hangin and #0 depen that possibly, in another moment Dorothy would have given in and the mischief would have been out, but fortunately at that moment Esther Brand came in. he “Oh! is that you, Lord Aylmer?” she said pleasantly. Lord Aylmer dropped are hhanda with an inward curse ; but he turned to greet Miss. Brand | with his blandest smile and most amicable voice. Bey ee the opportunity was lost for that day. 2 “May I jom youin your drive 1? he said, after a a a few minutes. ee “Why, surely ; it is your carriage,” coer Dorothy. Pere mae “Whenever you care ; use it, it. is. yourn” id Lord Aylmer ana t? : ee SUSPENSE, a eee, Bo it happened that the two ladies and Lord Aylmer went for a drive together. And whilst they were driving along Kensington Gore, a young man who -was walking with a lady and a little girl, recognised Lord Aylmer, and lifted his hat. Lord Aylmer looked annoyed, but he had no other choice than to raise his hat in return, “ Who is that? ” asked Esther, “Oh, some young man or other—I really cannot tell you,” he answered. , And Dorothy sat back in the carriage not feeling sorry that the young man had recognised Lord Aylmer, because in the lady walking beside him, she recognised the lady with the cold serene eyes who occupied the flat above her own. But Esther, who had a dumb and indefinable sense of something wrong, and had seen the look of intense annoyance on his face, chose that moment, of all others, to ask Lord Aylmer the one question which, though she did not know it, was the most awkward of any that she oe eould have asked him. : “Js Lady Aylmer in town?” she asked shea” - “Yes.” He was positively surprised into a, the admission. “Qh! then I suppose she will be calling on my eoudin before long ?” Esther scarcely put the remark in the formofa | question, and yet it was a question. Lord Aylmer” found himself in the face of a difficulty for which he was not prepared. Yet he made haste to answer, for Dorothy's cousin was emphatically a young woman who could not be ignored. —“T do not ae I een answer for Lady Aylmer in that respect,” he avin eavcn tN) Laney Late RUC ES IVa Aaa RUNCLen ATE encore ith uit NS Ca me Yul A asol Ney SRR Ake Sa seh ay : \ Rg * Pd wR 194 coy DINNA FORGET, said, with his most punoiiioues air, “ She and I do het = in any way live the same life, do not visit in the same society, except so much as is unavoidable at Aylmer’s Field. In fact, we do not get on very well together —more is the pity—and she goes her way and I go mine, without one in any way trying to influence the _ other. It is just possible that Lady Aylmer may call © on Mrs. Harris; but, again, it is exceedingly probable _ that nothing would induce her to do ao. Really; I cannot answer for her one way or the other.” “Ohi I gee. What a pity it is,” said ‘Enther, quietly. bs Dorothy, my ‘dear she renienead sasdatly t ue A cousin when they had reached home and were — enjoying a cup of ae oe don't abc: Lord Aylmer; © . he is horrid.” cried. “Qh! Esther, and he haa bid, so kind ce Dorothy : : “Yes, I know; so kind that one ; wondes ae lied 2 takes such a lot of trouble. But his very kindness makes me think of a nasty medicine covered up with __ syrup—you taste the syrup first and you get the full flavour of the nasty medicine prec ly and it taster ee all the worse and nastier for the syrup.” ee 66 Why, Esther, that was just ele d, But ; - there Dorothy broke off short, remembering that : 3 Esther did not know Diek’s identity. © . “Just what who said?” Esther asked. ee “J did not say anybody said anything,” or ae Dorothy, sharply; “but something of the same thought occurred to me once before. Still, he has : been lxndness itself, and I sees that 1 was ae unjust and wrong ABO him,” “Ho, Dorothy, my child; he’s a wicked old man, © end I don’t believe he’s your friend at all,” said Kether, impressively. ‘I feel as if he might be very dangerous to you, and I shall stay with you until this mystery about your husband is cleared ep one way or the other.” Dorothy heard some tone of her cousin’s voice which set her nerves ary ering: oF Mather, dear, it will be cleared up.” “Yes, yes, dear,” said Esther, contin eke But, all the same, she had little faith of that. She had set herself to try and find Richard Harris out, and she had found that there was not an officer of - that name -quartered at Madras. Dorothy had — . spoken of a good appointment and of Dick as a _ soldier; but there was no trace of him to be found. Out of a desire to spare her cousin until she was _ stronger, Esther kept this to herself, but her faith in _@ happy ending to all this mystery was very. very CHAPTER XIX, _ LIGHT WN DARKNESS, JN a veranda of the Government House at Madras, ‘Dick Aylmer sat ' smoking—smoking ss and brooding over the inexplicable tangle which we call life. , ‘He had now been three months without one word from Dorothy. He did not know if the child had been born or not, if mother or child were living or dead, if Dorothy, his dear little *wife, were false or true. He had heard from her once after reaching India, when she had written in good spirits and with © many words of love for him, and in fondest anticipa- ae tion of their meeting in a few months’ time. | But after that letter there had been utter silence, He had written every week, he had telegraphed e several times, and to-day the mail was in again, and there was still no news. He had three of four letters of no importance on the chair beside & him, and the English papers, but nothing from her. He had had news of her—oh! yes—the news contained in that postscript of Lord Aylmer’s letter, and he had dismissed that from his mind at once ag an ill-natured lie, and for a week or two he had poarcely troubled himself about it. Yet as the ‘weeks crept heavily by, each week bringing fresh laine that letter came back to his is Honghte liGHT IN DARKNESS. aay | over and over again. Could it be possible that his little girl—oh! no, no—nothing ~should. make him ‘believe it, nothing, nothing. « ae And yet why did she not erie: She- must be at Palace Mansions yet, because his letters had never. been returned, nor yet his telegrams. Once or twice he had thought of writing to the landlord, or rather the office at which he had taken the flat, but he shrank from doing that, because he might be casting a slur upon Dorethy’s fair name, which she would never be able to shake off. © » No, that course would not do. He had thought and thought, he had turned it all over in his mind, and, excepting the idea of writing to a private detec- tive and putting the case in his hands, he could think of no way of solving the mystery. While he was sitting there brooding. over his thoughts, a@ young man dressed in white garments came through a doorway behind him, and pulled up a big chair a little nearer to Dick’s, in which he carefully disposed himself, ** Really, Dick,’? he remarked, “I don’t call this half a bad place. Not so jolly as London, of course, but still not half bad.’? | ae *T hate it,” answered Dick shortly. The other, fresh from home, looked at him with ‘amused pity. * Poor old chap! like Town better. Yes, of course. Why did you nae ones then, eh? You got the post that was meant for me.’ ‘Tord Aylmer got the appointment and I had to — come—I had no choice. I shouldn’t be here if I had, you may be-sure,”’ Dick answered. ‘Ah ! Lord Alymer. Queer old chap, eh?’ — - 198 DIANNA FORGET. 3 : “ Awful old brate,” said Dick with a righ . “but . he happens for the present to be the ruler of my fors . tunes, and a thorough-goin g old martinet he is too.” “Ah! I saw him the other day.” ! Dick looked up with some interest. 1 « Did you, a though? In Town?” < “ Yes.” * _ ae Now, Town to Dick ‘meant where Deratiee was, and for half an instant he had.a wild idea that this _ man might be able to give him news of her. It died almost in its birth, however, and he said indifferently i. enough, “ Were you in town long?” _ = “A sortnight altogether. My sister lives i in town, = you know.” i : “No, I didn't—didn’t know you had’ a sister.” “Oh, yes; she’s a widow—has a little flat” “A flat!” Dick pricked up his ears. “Yeo, ae Where?” : a a - “In Kensington. Palace Mansions aly called* = : e “In Palace Mansions,” Dick managed to repeat, Becks ee The whole world seemed to be blotting out ina strange and insidious fashion, and it was two Cc three minutes before Dick came to his full eners: a again, — ne “I don't think she ought to live there,” Marston Ree went on, not looking at Dick, but attending to his pipe. “Living alone except for the child You never know what the other people are, don % you _ know. Now, there’s a pretty little woman ged > < the flat below her oe “What number is your sister's” Dick shed in oe harsh, strained voice. _ ee Soke ig “No. 6," Marston soswered, ~ gaid. LigET IN DARKNESS, 7 | . ce 199 bine tae Eat ie ae Bud ier rhe eae fie tens 3 in the flash of an instant Dick had dade: a wild ie ‘ _ ealculation. he he meant Dorothy by “ae Pretty ee little woman.” “Well?” he said. © He felt sick and faint and cold ; he knew that n now oF he was on the eve of news, and ‘Marston’ s tone had made him dread to hear it. | a : Marston, all in ignorance, went on spoabing. “Such a pretty girl. I saw her several times— _ fairish hair and delicate-looking, almost like a lady. Well, she went to live in the flat below my sister's, and was very quiet. Husband came and went. My sister fancied it was a bit suspicious, and was careful to get no acquaintance with her. Well, for some months all went smoothly and quietly enough, then she heard, through her servants, I suppose, that Mrs. Harris's husband had gone off to India, and that she was going out later when the child was born.” “Was Hide a child?” Dick ae He was trem- bling so that he could scarcely force his es to frame _ of the words. Marston noticed nothing, but went on with ie | : story. “A child. I don’t know if there was one | then—there’ sone now. I’veseenit.” Dick sat mall by a mighty Shor vey Well? ” he “Well, only a fow days after the poor chap ha i, & gone, my sister eaw her handed into a smart carriage ® by an old gentleman—heard the footman call him ‘ my lord ’"—pair of high-stepping horses—all in ae grand style. And now that carriage is always there, end who do you think the old gentleman is?” a a “How should I know us i answered Dick, who wae SiR Nibetaa ee Me: Ek er gah esSol a TN git URIBE ER bana seh pear canal tit Nir BOM RAR C a gre arg ae aN tt AU het MRS CEA en ria rc oe pn eh eer a Se bie PE cago vote cA ES Bees We eee aaa ae ine! +f ; cea tu 2 Be see 200 — DINNA FORGET. | going over and over the postscript of his anole letter. “ You’ know when I tell you,’ ea Novae ith? a chuckle; “it was your old uncle, Lord Aylmer.” “ Impossible !” Dick burst out. : “Not impossible at all, my dear chap,” said Marston coolly. “I saw her driving with him myself, and jolly wretched she looked over it. I must say I pitied the poor devil out here; but I _ dare say he is having a very good time all the same. Eh? What?” he asked of a native servant, who had noiselessly approached him. my 66 My lady wishes to speak to you, Sir,” said the ee man, who spoke very good English. “Qh! all right, I'll come,” and Marston oibiae leaving poor Dick to fight his battle of pain alone, So that was it, after all. No, he wouldn’t believe ee and yet—yet—how could he help believing it? Marston had told him the plain unvarnished facta, not knowing that Dick Aylmer and Mrs. Harris's husband were one and the same man. So this was why _ his uncle had suddenly taken a guiding hand in his _ fortunes—this was why he shipped him off to India, at what might be called a moment’s notice. “He had. seen my Dorothy and wanted me out of the way, and ae , : Ata Lies ase Buia he got me out of the way, and my darling—but no, ~ a G . “ no—I will believe pet ome until I have acon Ce her.” determine what would be the best to do, what would — be the best course to take; trying, too, to unravel — ae For half an hour he sat in deep thought, er . a the rest of the tangle, part of faith had been opened Piss i out before him, But that was an ae task for” Seeeeatte oe ae key me? a pr One ORE TN ete ELK RE eM tA SORT Ny! Pr ener re te a ee SS “LIGHT oN DARKNESS, | 801 , +him without farther information, and he began to - wonder how he could get home, and how arrange a plausible excuse to Lord Skevversleigh. He must | go home, that was certain ; evidently his letters and _ telegrams had been of no effect, probably they had _ never reached her at all, Why—perhapsthat wicked ald savage had found means of stopping them, and in that case Dorothy perhaps was fretting her heart eut, wondering why he never wrote—perhaps—well, perhaps the child’s birth would be in the papers. In spite of silence and mystery she might, as a last resource, have put that in, in the hope of catching his eye. - He began hurriedly to unfasten the paper lying on the top of the little heap beside him. Ah! the — Standard. “Abbington— Bowes—ade—Duchess of Dreamland—Hingston—” No, there was no © 4 little babe called Harris in the short list. oe He put down the paper in dire disappointment. _ Poor Dick! he was getting so weary of being dis. appointed that each blow seemed to fall more and - more heavily. And then just as he was letting the paper fall to his knee, two words caught his eye—two > words— Dinna Forget.” With a great throb at his heart, Dick caught the paper back jigain. Yes, it was a@ message from Dorothy, right ou! of the depths of poe: _- “Dinna Forget. To Dick.—This long mlcnee @ killing me—why do you not write? For God’ssake _ _ pat me out of suspense one way orthe other. D.A.” ee For fall five minutes Dick never moved, thenhe _ ee reverently took off his hat and thanked God that He Boe hed made the way plain at last. eo. i . vee eld man who was the: jet of ae ‘house gail for his native. country, hurrying off the Yet, though the way Vv was plato, it was nots an n easy : one. It would be difficult for him to get away from Madras, and neither letters nor telegrams were 2 evidently of any use, since Dorothy had not received _ those that he had sent. Decidedly, he must go home, whatever happened he must go home, even if would not get. a As soon as Lord eavveuioiel retimod to the ‘ ‘ he went the length of sending his papers in and trusting to chance and good fortune to be able to _ make some sort of a living enough to keep Dorothy and the child. But in any case home he must go, to __ set his wife’s mind at rest, and to force that old sinner on to his knees to sue for the mercy which he house, Dick sent. to ask if he could see him, and to ~ I have in the world.” Now, it happened that fea Skeuvelslet, hese” | him he explained something of the position of affairs, fe eading with, “And I See go io if it costs me all We x En ie liked Dick very well, had particularly wished to make Marston his military secretary, and had he Ween able to refuse his old friend Aylmer, he would certainly have done so. There were, however, : certain pages of past history which practically ; precluded this possibility, but they did not preclude © : - him from allowing Dick to throw up his appoint- ment and betake himself home as soon ag he liked; and with the very next steamer Dick said good- : bye to India and to Government House, and se boat at Brindisi and journeying homewards ‘over. land, like an avenging spirit with whom the LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 203 would have a very hard reckoning and but seant quarter. For always in his four there was that piteous appeal, ‘‘ This long silence is killing me—for God’s sake put me out of suspense, one way or the other.” CHAPTER XX. HOME Y dint of hard travelling night and day, Dick x accomplished his journey home from India in __ fifteen days—a short time in which to traversesucha __ distance; but oh, how long it seemed to Dick’sanxious heart and feverish imagination! The fast P. and O. boat seemed to be standing still, the paseage through the Suez Canal was maddening, although they went — straight through, which was as lucky as unusual. Then there was the seemingly endless delays in - getting off the steamer and into the train at Brindisi, _ and when at last they were fairly off, the train — seemed to crawl along no faster than the boat. Yet, — in spite of all this impatient and vexatious amxiety, — Dick made an unusually quick journey home, and _ in fifteen days from touching at Bombay, he found _ himself walking along the plasiorm: of the Victoria ae station, ee It was hard on the time of Christine “acowe of | | : people were hurrying to and fro, most of them with : that buey and impatient look upon their faces which ae even the dullest persons generally assume at the approach of the festive season. But Diok did not # : trouble himself much about them. He had very little - luggage to impede him, all his heavy baggage having _ been left in the steamer to come by ses—in bit) sa ee had only his ordinary portmanteau and his hat-box, _ oe @ couple of rugs and his stick, all of these he had with him in the carriage, so that he was almost the — ee first passenger to get his luggage passed. “Cab, sir?” asked his porter. “Yes, hansom,” Dick answered. The man shouldered the portmanteau and went off to the cab-rank, Dick following; but he was not destined to reach it without interruption, for as he _ crossed the less crowded part of the platform, he heard an exclamation of surprise and roan himeelf . face to face with Lady Aylmer. “Dick, Dick, is it you?” she cried, starmg at him. Dick put out his hands to her. “Yes, Lady Aylmer,” he gaid; “T'vecome back. ['m in troubie —horrid trouble!” ae “‘ My dear boy, how?” she cried. - Dick looked about him, he was anxious not to waste ® moment in getting to Palace Mansions, “You are going away,” he said uneasily. “I amkeeping you It is a long story, and I am anxious to get home to = my wife.” “Your wife, Dick §” cried Lady Aylmer, opening _ her eyes wider than ever. “ Why—but there, I won't keep you. Come with me, I have the brougham -here. I’ve been secing Constance Seymour off, she has been staying a few days with me. I will drive you where you like, the cab can bring your luggage.” “That is awfully good of you,” said Dick. “I can tell you the whole story as we go along. But first tell me where is he?” : OF ccc tes with « significant nod. 6 ‘DINNA, kroner. ie vos ube oS «There is somebody, and I don’t think he has been successful this time. Something is going on, and his temper is fiendish, and I’m afraid, my dear ee he will take your return badly.” | a «J don’t think, Lady Aylmer,” answered Dick a steadily, “that he will find himself in a position to make any remarks on the subject. Then P haba don't know what he is after just now?” | “Not in the least. And I don’t choose to ask the servants, though I dare say they know all ‘about ity she answered. : “Then,” Dick said, “ J will tell you. eS I Sice” this window? I feel the change of climate a little... Thanks. Well, Lady Aylmer, I have been married : more than a year, and he saw my wife, and—and did — her the honour to admire her. He sent me out of the — way to India, and look at this,” opening wis aie a book and showing her a scrap of newspaper. “I have not heard from my wife for more than three Sire pe then I found this—a pitiful message from her to I have written, telegraphed, eaten my very — Lo out, and he has stopped all communication between us. She is breaking her heart believing that I am false to her—I who live only forher.” And when yon meet my lord—there will be a . reckoning,” Lady Aylmer said inguiringly, = =—s_ i “Yes,” answered Dick, grimly, “there will het a reckoning, and I don’t think Lord” Aylmer wil venture to question me about my return home.” Lady Aylmer drew a long breath. “As to. ai my dear boy, time will show. Lord Aylmer is very _ fertile in excuses and in audacity. He very possibly _ may pool turn the tables on sian act the virtuous eer 01 ancl, and get the | better of 3 you. Be prepared for s ' 7 anything.” ee “He cannot ‘explain intercepted letters pas tele Z j a a - grams,” cried Dick, “Lord Aylmer is capable of explaining anything! : - Lady Aylmer answered with conviction. ‘They very soon reached the road in which Pale or _ Mansions may be found, and as the brougham drew up at the entrance to the building, Lady Aylmer — Joe uttered an exclamation of surprise. “My dear boy, you will catch him in the act—that is our carriage.” _ _ The servants were huddled up in furs over their _ ae - gorgeous liveries, but Dick knew them instantly. _ They, too, recognised Lady yee: and touched their : hats, , aS Go. straight in,” ake a 4 Whieh are the windows?” _* To the right of the oor? Dick anes eed. | _ They were scarcely an instant, and Dick felt j in hia cacket, “I took my latch-key by accident,” he whie- pered. “I little thought I should find itso useful.” __ : 4 _ The next moment he had opened the door, when - Amelia Harris hearing him, came quickly out from =~ the kitchen, and fell back aghast to see her ladyship and my lord’s heir, Mr. Aylmer. ce “ You here,” said Dick in disgust. “Not one word - —at your peril.” _ Poe. _ Mr, Aylmer—my lady ——” she began, when Lady ge Aylmer stopped her by a wave of her hand. _ “Go back to your kitchen, woman,’ she said sohily, “Dick, is there any other entrance to this house? Ee Not Then lock that door. We shall require thas eke woman later, pete DINNA. FORGET, on a. She pointed imperiously to ‘the door out of which ce Amelia had just come, and there was no choice but _ obedience. All this had passed in a whisper, and Lady Aylmer said in the same tone to ere “ Which a is the drawing-room ¥ ” : “That—the door is not closed.” ‘Ts there a screen?” % Y eB. 9? 4 “Push it open,” she said. oe And even as Dick cautiously did so, they heard ve Lord Aylmer’s voice speaking to some one within. “But, Dorothy, my darling, my dear little ee ve - do you refuse me? Is there nothing E oan o6 to . propitiate you?” = ae _ “Nothing,” Dorothy’s a soft voice spoplied en would it not be best for her to take the child to © _ Belgrave Square? I suppose you have a HESS, me my dear?” oe “Oh, yes. Esther would make me have & ure,” <8 " Dorothy answered, a “Then just take what you are likely to want for 2 the night and let the nurse pack up a few things for atill here. Tell them who ske is, of course; and see _ that they make her comfortable. {¢ is better for her _ to be out of the way of this,” : “T would rather stop, Lady Aylmer,” edad - Dorothy. “Don’t part me from Dick so soon, for he would have to come back here. I will stayin © this room. I will keep: quite out of the way, indeed : ‘I will.” eo _ Very well—very well,” said my lady, amit an She was very considerate and tender with — ~ ologures of the past hour. It was a terrible end a even to an unhappy marriage, and Lady Aylmer, oS _ remember, had been married for love. a Well, that exciting day dragged iteelf away. : ‘ Dorothy would have Dick send off a telegram to — Esther and Barbara, announcing his return home. — ‘Wee Barbara bad recovered yery dowly from ber _ tory ‘ordered. off to. Bosraemoth ~ had taken her. 5 | the fire talking. And Lady nies ests yn oe the bed of him who had lived so wicked a life, and prayed with heart and soul for that mercy which he - had never troubled to ask for himself, and could not ask, now that it was too ate : Ly * : ae Raipoe All in vain! The life wii mio a : been a noble one, but which had been ee é See her manner what find hapened if Lady Aylmer, i is it——?"” arms and kissed her, Lady Aylmer now.” 4 ‘My dear she sai ‘6 0 ane CHARLES 3 NOR 2. 5 3 Paid For! (Her Ransom), 4 Elaine. = 6 On Love’s Altar (A. Wast- »ae <>: ed Love). 1 Better than Life. = 17 Married at Sight, 18 Once in a Life. 19 A Life’s Mistake. 20 She Loved Him, 21 The Marquis. > 23 "Twas Love’s Fault eS (Nance), | aA Queen Kate. : > 25 His Love So True (Leslie’s eee Loyalty). 26 In Cupid’s Chains. _ 27 Just a Girl (A Strange oan - Duchess): ea 28 ‘The Outcast of the Family {6 29 The Mistress of Court =» Regna (Claire). Illus- = trated. & 30 A Coronet of Shame. ‘ 81 An Innocent Girl (Her _.- Heart’s Desire). Illus- ee trated. poe fee ces en ee _ Address oY) Box, Lyet. set cs : Dae THE, FOLLOWING BOOKS —By— - EO eee ARE NOW READY* IN THE LAUREL LIBRARY: ‘The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be : ‘sent by mail, on receipt of the price, GEORGE ee 5 27 Vandewater x eave We WereerieteeLricreee RLAMLALOR ARRAS GARYIGE "33 By Devious Ways (rhe « Girl of His Heart). I ; lustrated. 33 Story of a. Passion. Hee trated. 89 Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold. 37 Heart for Heart, 39 A Modern Juliet. 40 Nell of Shorne Mills. 41 A Heritage of Hate. 42 The Shadow of Her Life. 43 Love, the Tyrant. 44 At Love's Cost. 45 With All Her Heart. 49 Only a Girl’s Love. 50 Leola Dale’s Fortune. 51 Only One Love, 52 His Guardian Angel. 06 Iris; or, Under the Shad- ow. 58 Maida. st 09 My Lady of anu ‘and es other short stories. 99 A Woman’sSoul (Doris). 2) 100 A. Wounded Heari (Sweet as a Rose). . z 104 Olivia. 105 The Earl’s Heir. 25 cents each, by the SONS, Posnisners, oy Sinai Nae ey ES aN a ea 3e7 LL a TTT SUE EI SARA BER UI : LLL we and boldest arguments ever put forth against the Bible as ‘the cause of the patriots in’ the American Revolation, and renewed the determination of the men of ’%6 to conquer Ox particularly referred to by the mover of the resolution, he conceived that he had but a few days of liberty, and imme- ¢ Shortly after it was finished, Thomas Paine was arrested as He contrived on his way there to call on Joel Barlow, and — of the United States. oe address GEORGE MUNRC’S SONS, _ BY ooh, THOMAS PAINE, SECRETARY TO THE COMMITTEE OF ee AFParns a THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, © -# ‘Dar AGE or RaeAsoN is andoubtedty. one of the aba being the inspired word’ of God. _ a its author, although born in England, warmly pouedt ae wrote and published several pamphlets at that time which a die. He afterward went to France, and at the time of Hie’ French Revolution was a inember of. the Convention. A © raotion being made in that body to exclude foreigners, of a which there were but himself and one other, and as he was ¢ diately proceeded to write the second part ci the ‘‘Age of - Reason,’ the first part having been written some time before. 4 3 a foreigner and conveyed to ‘the prison of the Luxembourg. ¢ put in his hands the manuscript of the second part of the . ** Age of Reason,” poeeercy to the protection of the citizens : AGE OF R REASON, _ ‘ke two 'Parts, Complete in One Books, - Sees a manne Re b coomeatc S) eee me ie for sale by ail newsdeaiers and oe bwelions: or she, possi. on ipt of 25 cents, by she publishers, i QO0QDGOGCGODDGOGEGGGOGHG654¢ QO66 ae ; “The spOrey five Guardsmen. “PWENT Y-FIVE Mosrmeencis. OF [)UMAS : MAILED FOR $1.50. ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY IN THE ORDER IN WHICH THEY SHOULD BE READ. Ascanio. ‘The Two Dianas, The Page of the Duke of Savoy. 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They have _had a large sale, and have invariably given entire satisfaction. ~ For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail, on receipt @ of the price, 10 cents each, by the publishers. ie ie GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS, Munro’s PusBiisainc HousE, 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 5 * = aa > < F z aie se 4 ee : 4 é * ‘ Bi wpa BOO Sie eS 3: Ae 1 Sissevin Ss 70 ire eae ao et, spit x 4 S Pasiaey ie aa fee toes Te, See ee ast aed voce Re et Spe ee enna ist : Z , 4 4 n f x oF om : See ets e 3 Ese ye ee Ba : é "* i Cpe ee * s be ‘ . oar 8 Caen Sere Fl ae $2 ¥ Pi dihelt. 5 op nee Pee ~ fon Chey e a > SNe ee Se ee a, % 4 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. “No. Title Pages | No, Title Pages 62 The Executor. ...........473 | 1640 Ways of Providence,....215 189 Valerie’s Fate........... 1641*Home Scenes........5... 216 229 Maid, Wife, or Widow?.. ‘286 Which Shall it Be?...:..846 ‘839 Mrs, Vereker’s Courier Wards hese Sea 490 A Second Lites cate. 390 DOLLA C DAN o. heve uh Bou ne 178 794 Bouton’ s Bargain........ 205 797 Look Before You Leap..234 805 The Freres.............. 630 806 Her Dearest Foe......:. 473 814 ae Heritage of Lang- 815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird... 900 By Woman’s Wit........ 207 997*F orging the Fetters, and The Australian Aunt....166 4054 Mona’s Choice. ..2....... 800 1057 A Life Interest.......... 431 1189 A Crooked Path......... 390 1199 A False Scent........... 1867 Heart Wins............. 262 1459 A Woman’s Heart....... 894 1571. Blind Fate... 2.2. ..20.0.. 835 .2158 What Gold Can Not Buy. Mrs. Alderdice. #082 An Interesting Case..-.. 366 Alison. 481*The House That Jack Built esa ee Soe Hans,Christian Andersen. 1314 Andersen’s Fairy Tales. .3880 W. P. Andrews. 1172*India and Her Neighbors.285 FE. Anstey. 69 Vice Versa... vo... 2. 2N5 6: 221 225 The Giant’s Robe........ 280 003 The Tinted Venus. A #arcical Romance...... 819 A #allen Idol. . 4616 The Black Poodle, ‘and Other Tales. -s.......6. 239 G. W. Appleton. 1346 A Terrible Legacy.. .... 804 2004 Frozen Hearts........... Sir Edwin Arnold, 7960 The Light of Asia....... Edwin Lester Arnold. 1685 The Wonderful Advent- ures of Phra the Phe- nician .....° 2. Fy teenie 347 TT. S. Arthur. 4337* Woman's Trials....:.. .216 1636 The Two Wives... . 184 1638*Married Life....... .214 1649*Seed-Time and Harvest.216 1652* Words for the Wise......215 1654*Stories for Young House- keepers.......... pea sie: 212 1657* Lessons In Life. . Rees A ey 1658*Off-Hand Sketches...... 216 1660 The Tried and. the TPEMIDLOG Aas yer cee sat 212 2164 Ten Nights in a Bar-room and What I Saw There. Sir Samuel W. Baker. 267 ane and Hound in Cey- Ce eee ee in Cey loa HIME RS anes Sa aN ti 1502 Cast Up by the Sea...... 410 Rr. M. Ballantyne. 89 The Red Eric..... AA than Se 178 95 The Fire Brigade........ 170 96 Erling the Bold.......... 184 772 Gascoyne, the Sandal- Wood Traders coca 259 1514 Deep Down.............. 420 Honore De Balzac. 776: PETE GOMob vo. Wola es 212 1128, Cousin Pons........ eres si 1318 The Vendetta........ Om 2189 Shorter Stories.......... 186 2231 The Chouans....../..... 290 S. Baring-Geuld. (87. CourtcRoyal: ot.s5 eg 403 878 Little Tu’penny.......-. TIP DEM V-G oeic ght faucets eacaeee! 283 1201*Mehalah: A Story of the <* Salt Marshes...) ....2%. 270 1697*Red Spider... .......... 222 1711 The Pennyeomegqnicks...448 17638. John: Herring: iccieseess 445 1779* Arminell.... 2... Fis aitis Fae 519 1821*Urith...... Sane SOS Ae +. .438 Frank Barrett. 986 The Great Hesper...... 1138 A Recoiling Vengeance.. 1245*Fettered for Life........ 813 1461 Smugegler’s Secret....... 1611 Between Life and Death.292 1750 Lieutenant Barnabas....292 J. M. Barrie. 1896 My Lady Nicotine. ......20€ 1977: Better Deadi 7 oe Abe. 2099 Auld Licht Idylls....... 2100 A Window in Thrums... 2101 When a Man’s Single... | 2167 A Tillyloss Scandal...... 164 25 Cents a Copy, or Five Copies for %1, Post-paid. 2091 Vashti and: Esther...... POSSE CG sash hu cea ae wk ardent 1646 Charles Atichester.. . .. 833 1589*The Sergeant’s Legacy ..342 97 Allin a Garden Fair.... - 146*Love Finds the Way,and | 1055 Katharine Regina........ _ 1247 The Lament of Dives... 1378 They Were Married. By Basil. No. Title Pages 344*** The Wearing of the — Green 2 year ea ede 275 585*A Drawn Game......... 304 G. M. Bayne. IGIS*Galaskis ak ees 237 Aune Beale. He donee 239 199*Fhe Fisher Village...... Alexander Begg. 1005* Wrecks in (bbs: bea nee By the Writer of nh oe s Letters.”’ E. B. Benjamin 1706*Jim, the Parson... .... , 244 1720*Our Roman Palneee ale oOU A. Benrimo. EK. F. Hekaoi. oe POCO ae ee eons ee ae 213 E. Berger. EB. Berthel. Walter Besant. dame Uncle lack cere. ih ca 140 A Glorious Fortune..... ‘Other Stories. By Besant BHATRICOS aavaceees 6 ~ 280 Dorothy Forster......... 2838 824 In Luck at Last......... 882 Children of Gibeon pee 459 904 The Holy Rose.......... 906 The World Went Very Well Then........ eet ataie 366 } 980 To Call Her Mine........164 1065*Herr Paulus: His Rise, His Greatness, and His 1151*¥or Faith and Freedom. .356 1240*The Bell of St. Paul’s. .. .352 | 244 Walter Besant and Jas. i ne 1413 Armorel‘of Lyonesse. 1462 Let Nothing You Dismay! - Paget® -itle onl 40 No. 1530 When the Ship Comes’): Home. By Besant and | : RiCGe 4 VF eet a reedans aah ea 7 1655 The Demoniac. .:: ... "gay Hehe, Saga 1861 St. Katherine’s: uy" ‘the i ee oe Toweru sviniveee cares, Oy Sel ae MW. Betham-Edwaris. 273 Love and Mirage; or, ‘The® Waiting on an Island.. 579*The Flower of Doom, and 3 Other Stories........... sy eb 594*Doctor Jacob SS ae ie 1023*Next of Kin—Wanted...220 1407*The Parting of the Ways.390 1500*Disarmedy: seas 203 1543*For One and the World..340 -1627*A Romance of the Wire.192 Jeanie Gwynne Bettany. 1810 A Laggard in Love...... 189 a |: Biornstierne Bjornson, — a 1385 Arne.. fe tae £ 11888 ‘The Happy" Boy. He William Black. 1Yotande: 2085 22.028 478m 18 Shandon Bells...... ote DESA 21 Sunrise: A Story of These. ‘ PAMES SF Ee tang tewans ats 32 at ; 23 A Princess of Thule.. 8844 39 In Silk Attire. : RRA IARI 316+ 44 Macleod of Dare. 294. * 49 That Beautiful Wietoh. (215 ? 50 The Strange Ad) ventures of a Phaeton..... A ie 372 70 White Wings: A ¥ abt. ing Romance...... hile ROR Se She 78 Madeap Violet......... 4310 — PEER. SI 81 A Daughter of Heth.. ..386.' agement: 124 Three Feathers......... OE Jo Cage 125 The Monarch of Mincing . fe ieee ad Wane. 5 Pe aes oe Q71 bre 126-Kilmeny,,.. ooo ae ees 240 /138 Green Pastures and Pic- Gadilly cera an a 391 265 Judith Beh senanen: Her’ Love Affairs and Other Adventures,. ..........260. 472 The Wise ee of In- verness. |. 627 White Heather... WG eg -1143*The Inner House........183 | 898 Romeo and J uliet: A Tale of Two Young Fools...162 962 Sabina Zembra ......... 454 1096 The Strange Savenoies cf a House-Boat.. + OBR, 11382 In Far Loechaber:....... 284 1227 The Penance of John oor eee Coe eee etree iene 6 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. No. Title Pages 1259 Nanciebel: A. Tale of Stratford-on-Avon.. .... 1268 Prince Fortunatus....... 421 4389 Oliver Goldsmith......-. 1394 The Four Macnicols, and Other Vales. 25 ess 1426 An Adventure in Thule.. 1505 Lady Silverdale’s Sweet- CATO e SS Gee erent 1506 Mr. M. 1725 Stand Fast, Craig-Roy- SHOT Le eee ceer oe ec 408 1892 Donald Ross of Heimra..367 R. D. Blackmore, eilelie igre €:6.0 BIOL@ire teow ihie selene 67 Lorna Doone...........- 454- 427 The Remarkable History of Sir Thomas Upmore, dete gl agenda BANS aN Shi 210 . 615 Mary Aner ley 625 Rae or, My Father's SNA (ents Oe Bs ees arene 896 629 ne the Carrier... 333 630 Cradock Nowell......... 568 631: Christowell.,...0...%%.. 458 6382 Clara Vaughan.........: 489 633 The Maid of Sker........ 507 636 Alice Lorraine.......... 494 926 Springhaven’....0.2.0..- 1267 Kit and Kitty... ...2... 419 |. : Isa Blagden. “05 The Woman I Loved. and the Woman Who Loved WE ieee: siearie tee ahsomree Edgar Janes Bliss. 2102 The Peril of Oliver Sar- gent Frederick Boyle. S56* A“ Good Hater... coco. 244 Miss M. EK. Braddon. 85 Lady Audley’s Secret. ..279 56 Phantom For PUNE Ur 464 PAONULOV mE LOVE occu ee oes 333 110 Under the Red Flag..... 153 The Golden Calf......... 297 OVA NIXON caval: ouis On RQee OOe 211 The Octoroon?. 6.382... 160 234 Barbara; or, Splendid Ste MI BOLY oe eos Cet p geese. 256 263 An Ishmaelite.......... 338 815 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884. Edited by. Miss Mw. EK. Braddon. yor 434 wy ard’s- Weird.oc0 0... 312 478 Diavola 480 Married in Haste. Edi- ted by Miss M. KE. Brad- BOR a es Oe eae 240 No. Title Pages’ 487 Puttothe Test. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon... :363 488 Joshua Haggard’s Dauehteris saa e seks sees 4 489 Rupert Godwin.......... 369 495: Mount Royal... 2.22.2... 431 496 Only a Woman, Edited by Miss M. EB. Braddon.390 497 The Lady’s Mile......... 425 498. Only a Clod.......6e. 685 403 499 The Cloven Foot........ 416 511 A Strange World....... 429 515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant..... 416 524 Strangers and Pilgrims.473 529 The Doctor’s Wife,..... 431 542 Fenton’s Quest...... ... 240 544 Cut by the County; or, Grace Darnel .......... 163 548 A Fatal Marriage, and * The Shadow in the Cor-: ner. sivas 549 Dadies: Gatless : or, The Brother’s Secret, and George Caulfield’s Jour- ee ese ets NOY Ks Se NR ee etek 552 Hostages to Fortune. ..409 553 Birds Of: Prey 189 - 174 Under a Ban........:. 270 - 190 Romance of a Black Veil.160 aS 194 “So Near, ‘and Yet So ; SUES CNA aa tit Fee eRe tb ary: ~ 220 Which Loved Him. Best? we or, Two Fair Women.,.184 987 Repented at Leisure... .283 244 A Great Mistake..... -. B84 _ 246 A Fatal Dower.......... :249 e 249 ** Prince Charlie’s Daugh- Gia! teres, OF, ‘The Cost of ee eee ee we cianr eae + Diana’s Discipline......244 “254 The Wife’s Secret, and ae ht AAT DUL-E ASO chavs cass t _ 878 For Life and Love.. — 988 The Sin of a Pattie: or, Vivien’s Atonement.201 985 The Gambler’s Wife. ...309 - 291 Love’s Warfare....... 5 181 292 A Golden Heart......... 184 296 A Rose in Thorns....... 183 ma nie The Fatal Lilies, and A ~ - Bride from the Be seer reese esse More Bitter than ‘Death. 304 In Cupid’s Net...... eget 305° A Dead Heart, and Lady ' @wendoline’s Dream. . 306 A Golden Dawn, and ~ - Love fora Day......... ; 807 Two factors: and Like no face eee eee eas Seti ee HEME Maia... a EP ASD 4; 480 A Bitter Reckoning. . 433 My Sister: - 459 A Woman’s, Romp inion: Ove ay 460 Under a Shadow........245 461 His Wedded Wife........ 300. 519 James Gordon’s Wife.. 547 A Coquette’s Conquest. 304, 322 A Woman’s ae aeey 173 948 The Bhadew. of a Sin. Kates ee . 465. The Earl’s Atonement...254 466 Between Two Loves..... 290 3 467 A Struggle for a Ring... .245 469 Lady Damer’s Seeret.. . .256 | 470 Evelyn’s Folly.. 968 See 471 Thrown on the World.. 476 Between Two Sins; or, -. Married in Haste.. 516 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce. 261. “518 The Hidden Sin.........312 576 Her Martyrdom.........289 626 A Fair Mystery: la The Perils of Beauty.. 456 | 628 Wedded Hands..........358 LOgs) GEISCIO A So fay nee co hse 234 741 The Heiress of Hilldrop: A or, The Romance of a Noung: Gitl oss 2c5 og Pe 1285 Yi 745 For Another’s Sin: Or, Aes pels for Love Raa! hae Sree et 2: ed 8. Aaa a Verdict, ei ‘ 792 Set in Diamonds.........277 807 If Love Be Love..........257 ee ee ee ae ed 822 A Passion Flower........ oor) 829 The Actor’s Ward....... 815 853 A’ True Magdalen; or, One False Step. ........ 364 854 A Woman’s Error....... 286 908. A Willful Young Woman. 282. 922 Marjorie.........20.0..5. 346 | ~- 258 924 l'wixt Smile and Tear.. rH at 923 At War With Herself... 927 Sweet Cymbeline........ 353, 928 The False Vow; or, - Hilda; or, Lady ae 928 Lady Hutton’ § Ward; at Mt Hilda; or, The F’ MEV OW. 261 928 Hilda; or, The False _ Vow; or, Lady Hutton’s a Warden a 929 The Belle of Lynn; or, The Miller’s Daughter, £263 ; 931 Lady Diana’s Pride; or, One Against Many... Rrifeces oda es Ve 933 A Hidden ‘Terror . 223: 949 Claribel’s Love Story: 952 A Woman's War. 963 Hilary’s Folly; cr, Her : Marriage Vow........ 012 955 From Gloom to Sunlight: er eee or. From Out the Gloom. 828 | 958 A Haunted Life; or, Her pe OL OPI DIG Sib Voor dee 288 - 964 A Struggle for the Right. 245 967 Bonnie Doon............ 968 Blossom and Fruit; or, Madame’s Ward....... '313 969 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, Not Proven.. 973 The Squire’ s Darling... 160 975 A Dark Marriage Morn..311 978 Her Second Love... .... 198 982 The Duke’s Secret....... 3835 985 On Her Wedding Morn, and The Mystery y of the Holly-Pree.. oe 178 i ceee ewer eter 990 The ‘arke Error, and Arnold’s Promise......, 995 An Unnatural Bopdage, and That Beautiful Lady ct aise. aoe 164 1006 His Wife’ s Judgment. ...302 1008 A Thorn in Her Heart. -256 1010 Golden Gates......0..2.. 256 1012 A Nameless Sin...... cnaeee 1014 A Mad Love............. 70 1031 Ivene’s Vow......... gone st i: | e013. One a canee Many; or, - Love’s Hidden Depa. “206 19 2014 One False_ Step; or, oe : . 86 on 8 269 | Be Second Thoughts... : oe A ‘Lady Diana’s Pride... 197 True Magdalen... 2015 Two Fair Women: zt OF, A ol Loved ‘Him 2053 The Love that ‘Lived: Or,” Madolin’s Lover........320 2068 Lady Latimer’s Escape. 236 2188 His Perfect ‘l'rust.. 8385 - Fredrika Bremer. ae 187 The Midnight Sun....... Charlotte Bronte, — we 215 Jane Byres. is .ees pees 3 BTOSHIPICY citer cc cap neon ea eae 944 The Professor... eer Rhoda Broughton. ett 86 Belitida.) ies ees ‘261 7 Nance ee co ee se sett eee ew ce me eee nce vests ets mao oa! bye, "Sweet. hearts ce ec Gees 344 765 Not Wisely, Bubitoo Well gid 767 Joan.. 768 Red as a Rose is She. y 769 Cometh Up as a Flower. Xi 862 Betty’s Visions... 2.02... — 894 Doctor ee iTS eo ae 1052 Signa’s Sweetheart. ..... 1091 A Modern Cinderella.. 1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife.. 1155 Lured Away; or, 1T he Story of a Wedding- é Ring, and The Heiress 401 OP ATNEH oe | ia-vaisk eee 160 1179 Beauty’s Matringer Pane ee: 1185 A Fiery Ordeal.......... 206 PISGAGUeIM ai CoN yea eel wasine 219 1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation.324 RBS CMILY Seals oc Aeon ial eee ue 187 1291 The Star of Love....... ale 1328 Lord Lisle’s Daughter... 1338 A Woman's Vengeance. "O15 1843 Dream Faces............ 296 _ 1373 The Story of an Error... 299 _ 1415 Weaker than a Woman.289 1444 The Queen of the County.386 1628 Love Works Wonders; or, Love’s Victory; or, Redeemed by Love.. 270 1951 The Mystery of Wood- leigh Grange:... 252.22. ‘2010 Her Only Sin... 0.0.4.4... 2011 A Fatal Wedding..... .,.160 2012 A Bright Wedding-Day; Re FS - 892 That Winter Night; or, ies: The Pilgrim’s. Progr or, Her Mother's Sin... 174] Robert Bubhiunes 145 ‘Storm - Beaten?’ his ores and The Man.. 154* Annan Water.. a@ 181*The New Abelard. 268 The Mar ae of Mad- C1NOR oe AS B98* Mathes, 20 vies tae yee 468*The Shadow of ‘the ee i i a ad Sword 646* The Master ‘of the Min Love's Victory... Abe 1074*Stormy Waters. . 1104*The Heir of Linne. 1350 Love Me Forever 1455* Lhe momen oe alot : John hue see w eee e eee paints ated. Pe