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see you to-morrow. Promise you will not start without seeing me. Do promise, Geoff!" Her colour rose as she spoke, and then left her very pale.

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Certainly, as you wish it. But I fear I must be a very early visitor."

"Never mind. Come at any hour-ten-nine."

"At ten, then; so good-night."

"Are you not going to say good-night to me?" asked the Earl in an injured voice.

"Oh, yes! Pray forgive me, Torchester."

When they were gone, Miss Grantham rang and inquired if Miss Grey had returned. Receiving a reply in the negative, she desired that she should be sent to her as soon as she came in.

When Maggie knocked at Miss Grantham's door after receiving her message, she entered and found the heiress in a long white dressing-gown, sitting by an open window and looking out upon the

sea.

"You wanted me, Miss Grantham ?"

"Yes; come and sit down" (in a low, soft tone). "I have nothing to say, yet I want to speak to a reasonable human being."

Maggie sat down. "Are you wise," she asked, "to sit at that open window in so thin a dress? The air is quite cold."

"Yes, I believe I feel chilled," replied Miss Grantham, rising with a visible shiver and closing the window. "But I was so lost inthought, I forgot everything."

Maggie looked closely at her friend, and was grieved to see the paleness of her cheek-the heaviness of her eyes.

"And what news have the evening papers brought you?" she asked timidly.

"Oh, the worst! The bank is gone, and Mr. Trafford's money with it."

"And he is he dreadfully distressed ?"

"Of course. He will not show it; in fact, he took it splendidly.. But oh, Maggie, I cannot tell you what I felt to-night when he talked, even in jest, of going into the workhouse! To think of his wanting anything in the world that I have! There has always been such a marvellous charm about Geoffrey for me. There is so much power in his careless ease-in his simple, natural, kindly manners. I ought, I suppose, to be very much ashamed of myself; but I do feel that, if he loves me not, chaos is come again. Do not despise me, Maggie; I feel so strange and low, and hot and cold—as if I wanted to put my head somewhere and cry." And the proud, beautiful, spoiled heiress suddenly knelt down, and, clasping her arms round Maggie's slight figure, laid her head upon her shoulder. As Maggie tenderly returned her embrace, she felt a terrible thrill of pain and

guilt-pain, for she knew there was disappointment-bitter disappointment-before one she so sincerely loved; guilt, because, however she might turn from the belief, she could not help the terrifying consciousness that in her own humble self was her friend's worst rival. Why had Trafford ever crossed her path? Why had that extraordinary sympathy, that unspoken understanding, sprung up between them? And yet, even had she the power, could she renounce this crown of her life, this secret sense of attraction?

"I never felt quite the same towards any one as I do to you," said Miss Grantham, after a pause during which she had overcome a strong disposition to cry. "Your life has been so different from mine; you know so much more of its graver side than I do. You are such a wise little thing, yet you do not preach or flatter. And I know a lot of what they say to me is flattery, but I can't help liking it. Still I am a sort of girl to like, am I not, independent of Grantham and all my belongings-eh, Maggie ?"

"You are-you are.

For my own part, I look upon your rank and wealth as a sort of barrier to my affection. I should like to work with you or for you.'

"Well, I should not," said Miss Grantham, smiling and resuming her seat. "I like to have everything I fancy, and I hate being crossed. I wonder I do not hate Geoff Trafford; he has worried me more than any one else in the world. I wonder what he will do ?" Maggie shook her head in token of her incapability of suggesting a reply. "I suppose he will become a confirmed wanderer," added Miss Grantham.

"It costs a great deal of money to travel," said Maggie thoughtfully. "There again! poverty hedges him in. Something must be done, Maggie. Mr. Trafford promised to see me to-morrow before he goes to town, and I hope to persuade him to hear reason and yield to his friend's wishes to arrange something for him."

"It will be very difficult to approach the subject."

Awfully difficult," said Miss Grantham, half unconsciously clasping Maggie's hand. "But I must-I will find the courage to do it." "There is no use sitting here talking any longer; I shall go to bed," said Miss Grantham. "And, Maggie, if you would be very good to me, you will read me to sleep."

(A long pause.)

"I will indeed, with pleasure."

"Well, ring for Cécile and get some poetry I know, that I need not follow closely; 'Evangeline' will do."

But it was long before Maggie could lull her troubled friend to rest; she was feverish and wakeful, with hot, dry hands. Sometimes she dozed, then started up wide awake and palpitating. At last, calling herself thoughtless and selfish, she peremptorily ordered Maggie to bed, where, though weary and worn with a crowd of

distressing, troublesome thoughts, she could not sleep till the dawn had come.

Miss Grantham made a semblance of breakfast in her own room, and dressed with unusual care, yet she was much dissatisfied with the result. "How pale and ill and frightful I look, Cécile.”

"Pas du tout, Mademoiselle! ce n'est qu'une délicatesse tout à fait charmante."

A knock at the door. "Mr. Trafford wishes to know if Miss Grantham will see him?"

"Yes, of course. Where is Lady Dormer?"

"Miladi has not yet risen."

"And she takes two hours to dress!"

Miss Grantham cast another dissatisfied glance at the glass, and then went hastily downstairs.

Trafford was standing by one of the, windows as she came in, and, when he turned to meet her, looked so little distressed or cast down that she could not help smiling; while he, on the contrary, was quite struck by the pallor of her cheek.

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Margaret! you cannot be well; and your hand is quite feverish. What is the matter? You have not lost a fortune nor a friend.”

"There is nothing the matter with me, Geoff, except that I am troubled about you."

"Well, you must put me out of your head. I cannot bear to think that I am a source of discomfort to you. I am by no means in despair myself."

"I see that." She sat down, and an awkward silence ensued.

"You wanted to see me; you wanted to speak to me. I am all attention."

"Yes, Geoffrey" (twisting her hands and showing signs of uneasiness). "Will it not be a great complication of your difficulties, this attack of Mr. Bolton's ?"

"It will not simplify matters. But is there anything you want me to do for you?"

"Oh, I should not like to trouble you about myself when you have so much to think of; but-I want to tell you something, Geoff, so much, and I cannot."

"Why, you could tell me anything, Margaret." Nearly anything but this" (turning very white).

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guess ?"

"Can you not

"Good God! you have not entangled yourself with Erskine and want me to extricate you? If that is it, I'll pull you through

somehow or other, trust me."

"Yes, of course, I would trust you; but, thank heaven, I am as free as air so far as Sir Hugh is concernel."

"Well, I am sure you cannot be in debt; and all human woes, so far as I can see, arise either from love or money," said Trafford, laughing. "Have you quarrelled with poor Torchester? If so, I am sure you do not want my help to make it up."

"No, of course not. Oh, Geoffrey, it is partly about money, only I am afraid of you."

"Afraid of me? Come, that is too large a draft on my credulity." Trafford looked at his watch; he was beginning to feel rather uneasy at the sight of Miss Grantham's excessive embarrassment.

"No, don't look at your watch, Geoffrey. What I wanted to say is, that if—if you want money to do anything or go anywhere, you will not mind". (A sudden break-down.)

"In short, you would like to bestow half your fortune on me?" put in Trafford, smiling. "I have not the least doubt you would do so in the generous impulse of your heart. But, ma belle, such things cannot be in this commonplace world."

"The half, Geoff!" cried Miss Grantham, suddenly walking to the mantelpiece, where she rested her elbow and covered her face with her hand; "I wish-I wish I could give you the whole."

Something in her voice, her attitude, her emotion, revealed her full meaning to Trafford, who stood a moment silent, more touched and embarrassed than he would have cared to own, a dark flush passing over his brow; then approaching Miss Grantham, he gently took the hand that hung down by her side. Kissing it with the most loyal respect, he said, in a low voice: "That would be impossible, unless, indeed, I could give you my heart and life in exchange; and both have passed out of my keeping, or they would have been yours before this. There is my secret, sweet cousin."

Miss Grantham pressed his hand and drew hers away instantly. Trafford, not knowing very well what to say or do, turned to leave, when Miss Grantham, without uncovering her face, exclaimed eagerly: "One word. It is not that odious Madame de Beaumanoir? Any one but her !"

"Madame de Beaumanoir! Most certainly not."

"Thank God! Now go away, Geoffrey-do go."

He kissed her hand once more, and when she uncovered her eyes she was alone.

TEMPLE BAR.

OCTOBER 1873.

Uncle John.

1

By J. G. WHYTE-MELVILLE, AUTHOR OF 'KATE COVENTRY,'
DIGBY GRAND,' ETC.

Me forthinketh, said King Pellinore, this shall betide, but
God may well foredoe destiny.-Morte d'Arthur.

VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.

THE LETTER-BOX.

Fall taxes levied on friendship few are so galling as the corvée that compels a guest to inspect and admire the house in which he is entertained. To follow your host, with wet feet, and hands in pockets, round the stables, the kennels, the farm, and, worse still, the kitchen-garden, may well create a gloomy doubt that you had better have staid away; but this becomes a certainty when, in dismal attics and cheerless corridors, you stumble against a coal-box or are brought up with your head in a housemaid's closet. I will not ask my reader, therefore, to accompany me beyond the hall of a comfortable countryhouse in one of the midland counties; a hall well warmed and ventilated, where a good fire burns opposite the glass door that looks out upon the lawn. It seems to blaze the more cheerfully that a hard frost has bound the whole country in misery and iron. The leafless hedges stand stiff and bristling with frozen rime, the bare trees in the park are clearly cut against a dull grey sky, the very grass crackles under the postman's foot, and that functionary would seem to be the only moving creature in the parish but for an inquisitive robin, in a bright red waistcoat, with his head on one side, who hops and jerks restlessly across the gravel in front of the hall-door.

In consequence of the postman's arrival, a well-dressed free-andeasy butler emerges from certain back-passages and corridors, bringing

VOL. XXXIX.

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