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satin ribbon is untied, fastening the packet of There were India-backed chairs with brocaded letters 'From my dear son Joe,' when we remember and flowered cushions, worked curtains, marble that that loved one was killed in Cuba, a hun- and velvet-topped card-tables. And are not dred years ago; that all his family are gone, his several sets of powder and patch boxes menvery name and existence forgotten, until that long tioned among the bedroom furnishings? The eyes hidden bundle of papers arraigns a warm-hearted of many ancestors watched their last descendant sailor vividly before us. What a theme for from the picture-covered walls-fair dames in romantic dreams does that slender wine-glass powdered heads and huge hoops. Men in afford, below whose ornamented rim is engraved, "The charming Miss Jenny Walker.' The frail "The charming Miss Jenny Walker. The frail glass has long survived the fair reigning toast of some eighty or ninety years ago. Is she the figure in that nameless portrait, in white satin and floating lace, hair looped with pearls, and slight fingers clasping a rose, a curiously spotted spaniel crouching by her side? No one knows ; for of her not one single memento remains but that ancient glass, and perhaps the egg-shaped rouge-box of enamelled Battersea china painted with tiny flowers. A peculiar charm, a subtile melancholy, invests, for some, such objects, quite indescribable to the uninitiated.

In the writer's family, some time ago, a set of papers were found which for long years had not seen the light. By means of these musty, yellow pages, written in faded ink, in clear handwriting, we find ourselves transported to an ancient Hall in the south of England, to roam from room to room, and look on each, exactly as they were in 1746, the year after the Young Scottish Chevalier unfurled his standard! Far in the depth of the country, the old house stood, four miles from the nearest small market town. No picture of it remains; so a mental one must be formed of a many-gabled lath-and-plaster, 'post-and-pan' dwelling; or perhaps a long, low brick house, mellowed by time into harmonious greens, reds, and yellows, covered with roses and geraniums, surrounded by stately trees, and incomplete without its bowling-green, fishponds, and gay parterre. Who knows how rich in colour were the old walls inclosing this haunt of bees and birds, and how sweet the perfume wafted from the lilacs and syringas, gillyflowers and fair white lilies?

The owner of this old house, who lived here alone with his servants, we will call Squire Chalcot. He was the last of his name; and for generations, had been, with every circumstance connected with him, totally forgotten, until the contents of the papers enable us to picture very vividly his surroundings. Nothing striking or sensational was discovered; no hidden secrets came to light; still, this sketch of an old house, and its contents so long ago, may, from its truthfulness, possess some little interest.

The mere names of the rooms at Chalcot Hall have an old-fashioned ring. The 'hall' of course, with 'Delph' ware standing on the mantel-shelf and in the oak corner cupboard; the Ale and Small-beer Butteries,' the Parlour,' the 'Buttery Chamber,' the 'Hall Chamber.' The furniture, chiefly oak, would suit the panelled rooms.

high-peaked hats and buff jerkins, or, more likely, flowing love-locks, for among the large number of pictures, one only is described, A Portrait of Charles I. Surely some of these gallants have fought for the crown, and the old man may have mourned his inability to send a scion of his house to further the cause of the 'king over the water.'

Squire Chalcot's musical tastes were evident. That flute on summer nights would startle the garden; an air or two on the violin or hautboy owls, who had all their own way in the shady would help to while away the long evenings; a pleasant change from the game of backgammon with some neighbouring crony. There stands the board on the spindle-legged table, beside the ostrich egg and painted cocoa-nuts;' and the bowls for ninepins' tell of outdoor amusements. The quiet slide of time in that remote spot was clock; and what excuse could lazy servants give pleasantly marked by more than one quaint silver for late rising, when the great larum' in its glass case up-stairs sounded in the morning? Let us peep into the chambers above. 'Mrs Molly's,' one is called; and we wonder at the ponderous bedsteads, and imagine the suffocating feeling of sleeping behind those cloth curtains lined with silk, or coarser camblet' or fustian, especially

as none but feather-beds were used. The 'lace quite in harmony with the many-carved and counterpanes' and 'silk damask quilts' sound

guilt-framed' looking-glasses. The heart of some Mrs Joan or Mrs Betty, who in close mob, fustian gown, and tidy neckerchief, ruled the domestic arrangements, must have rejoiced in the 'spruce chests' and presses laden with 'linen' and 'calico,' 'dowlas' and 'huckaback;' and the vast store of china, glass, and the like, from the flow'd wine and syllibub glasses,' to the 'horn, glass, and pewter dishes.'

And what sort of figure moved against this background? Alas, form and features are for ever unknown! Was Squire Chalcot a stout, red-faced, jovial, hunting Squire, as some of his possessions seem to indicate? That punch-bowl, with its memories of many a convivial evening which hang with the 'silver spurs' in the hall; of auld langsyne; the 'hawk's hood and bells, the long guns' and 'fowling-guns;' the 'crossbow,' and 'twenty-six ox hunting-horns.' We would rather picture him of spare form, with the refined and clearly cut features, keen intelligent expres sion, and dark eyes, contrasting with the white powdered head, which often please us in old miniatures. Of course he wore a wig, and certainly had a large stock on hand, or carefully preserved his old ones, as we read of seven wig in a box.' His wardrobe contained much gay attire; indeed, he was something of a dandythe 'Compleat Beau' was one of his books-and no doubt on suitable occasions appeared to no small advantage in his 'blue silk

waistcoat

wrought with gold,' small scarlet cloak, silver shoe and knee buckles, and glittering shirtbuttons with diamonds. One of the four diamond rings enumerated adorned the hand holding one of many snuff-boxes-tortoiseshell for common use; one with a 'whisle' on it to call his dogs; several of silver and mother-of-pearl; and more than one of gold, with his arms engraved

thereon.

But probably Squire Chalcot was more at home when, in his sober brown clothes and skull-cap, he sat in his library, with no gay colouring or handsome distinctive binding to give each book a face of its own; rows of dingy brown calf-skins, or heavy board-bound volumes, lined the shelves, hardly distinguishable but in size from each other; the sole brightness, their occasional red or mottled edges, or brass clasps. Nearly every noted author was represented. Plays abounded, from Ben Jonson and the dramatists of Charles II., to the Post Boy Robbd. A wide range of history was embraced, from Josephus to An Essay on the Late Queen;' including the very popular Roman and English Histories of Echard. How fresh and new-looking the 'Spectators' and Tatlers,' 'Prior's Poems' and Dryden's 'Virgil.' Seated in his arm-chair, the Squire would take a Voyage to America,' a 'Journey to Naples,' or visit Russia with Tolande; while maps and geographical works showed his acquaintance with other countries besides his own. Classical authors not omitted; nor works on astronomy, philosophy, and mathematics wanting. The Florist, and numerous volumes on gardening, in English, French, and Dutch, speak of country pursuits, as do the Game Laws and Art of Agriculture.' The many books on 'Physick' prove our good Squire had paid that subject no small attention-perhaps from the remoteness of medical aid; and well-thumbed was Culpepper's 'Dispensatory.' That he was a good Churchman, there seems no doubt; Burnet, Atterbury, Tillotson, Sherlock, Barrow, Hopkins, that line of famous divines, had all contributed sermons and books of devotion, of which there was a collection so extensive that it might be imagined the library of some clerical relative had descended to him. For lighter reading, there was 'Gulliver's Travels,' and Sir Roger L'Estrange's Fables.' Mention also made of a silver box full of coins, and a 'gilt medal of William and Mary in a shagreen case.'

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And is there no tinge of romance about this lonely old place? no sign that bright joyous days were once the lot of its inhabitants? no traces of woman's presence? Yes; though invisible to others, those aged eyes see a fair shadowy form gliding through the quiet rooms; and in his ear echoes a gentle voice, and laughter and sweet singing; for deep in the secret recesses of Squire Chalcot's heart, ever green is the memory of her whom he has lost-his wife. Up-stairs, in the 'gilt leather box,' are put carefully away, as precious treasures, things that belonged to her: 'an amber egg' and a 'heart set with diamonds and small garnets'-lovers' gifts of long years ago. Her diamond rings and earrings, her 'girdle buckle,' set with the like precious stones, and many other 'tryfles' in a small velvet trunk,' are all as tenderly laid aside as Dr Johnson placed his wife's wedding-ring in the little round box

among the cotton-wool. There on the spinet still lies the 'parcel of songs' she used to sing. The tiny 'scissors in the old silver case' lie useless, as they have for years. Those embroidered sweet bags' have still a lingering faint perfume. Those dainty 'mother-of-pearl spoons with silver handles' must surely have been a bridal gift, matching the small blue and white tea-dishes' and chocolate cups. How we long to gaze on her 'picture' in the shagreen case! Those shagreen cases and little antique boxes! how they speak of the far-off past; how vividly they recall those long departed ones, to whom their ancient-looking exterior brought thrilling memories, who kept their treasures therein, or took the sparkling jewels from the now faded satin cushions, to deck themselves with joyous youthful glee for some gay assembly or county gathering, or some rout' or ball in the rarely visited Metropolis. Let us hope this gentle lady never fastened her 'pearl necklace' with an aching heart, although too often

Pining cares in rich brocades are drest,

And diamonds glitter on an anxious breast. Folded away in presses and cupboards, all lavender and woodruff scented, are the dresses once worn by Squire Chalcot's wife-her 'black lace hood,' recalling sweet old Mrs Delany's face; and if health's own cunning hand had painted the rose and lily of her cheeks, how must her husband have admired her in her 'green tippet with silver fringe,' or in her 'blue tabby suit. But the 'red and white gown lined with red,' her 'scarlet silk night gown' (evening dress), and the prevalence of that hue in her wardrobe, seem to point to dark hair and soft brown eyes. How bewitchingly becoming must have been the scarlet long cloak and hood,' when, seated behind her husband on the 'plush pillion cover,' now mouldering _in_the lumber-room, she travelled over hill and dale, on the rare occasions of leaving home, her trunks following on horses laden with 'pack-saddles' and 'panniers,' suggestive of rutty roads deep in mire in those secluded country parts. On Sunday, she picked her way to the neighbouring church, carrying a wrought Common Prayer Book,' and 'umbrello,' then destined solely for feminine use; and her brocaded mantle' and 'scarlet feather muff' would attract many eyes to the Squire's pew.' She would not much trouble the grave books in her husband's library, but content herself with a few favourites-Country Dances, the 'Lady's Delight,' the 'Royal Cookery and Receipt Books,' the Compleat Housewife,' 'Lady Rich's Closet,' and the Common Christian Spelling Book;' 'Thomas à Kempis' and the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' doubtless enriched by the quaintest woodcuts, not being absent from her little store of literary treasures.

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And one other shadowy figure haunts the old house-that of a little child. Few are the signs of its presence-the earliest perhaps that volume, Instructions to a Son.' But the little son was never to receive tender lessons from a father's lips. A 'coral,' a 'child's gown lined with green,' a 'parcel of silver toys, tell the tale of the joy and hope that once had been, and then passed away for ever.

Farewell to thee, old Hall, with all thy associations! Faint and shadowy as are the images

which flash upon our inner eye as we think of thee, who can say how near they may be to the truth-the real memory of 'what has been, and never more can be!'

VALENTINE STRANGE.

A STORY OF THE PRIMROSE WAY.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. HIS FEET WERE IN THE PRIMROSE WAY, AND HE HAD NOT THE HEART TO LEAVE IT.

I HAVE omitted to tell of an encounter between Val and Gerard, in which Val received as many and as hearty thanks for the service he had rendered as the most exigent of men could have expected. Gerard took the restoration of the money of his friend almost as if it had been a gift. He associated the recovery of love, fortune, and happiness with Val Strange, and longed for an opportunity to show his good-will to his chance benefactor. On his side, the long-standing friendship between them rose to white-heat, and stayed there, for Gerard's enthusiasms were neither easily excited nor quick to cool. In the expressions of his regard and affection, he did not seem altogether gracious-feeling it hard to speak out where he felt so keenly. He blundered through with interjectory ejaculations of 'Old fellow' and 'Old man,' the rough clumsy amity touching Val to the quick all the while, knowing what he had meditated against his friend's peace.

'I owe you more than the money, old man,' the grateful recipient of new fortune had told him. 'You know.' That was all he could say on that matter; but the blush on his honest face and the ashamed tenderness of his eyes, were eloquent even to his rival. Val of course poohpoohed the notion of gratitude.

'My dear Gerard,' he had answered, 'you owe me nothing.' (He knew well enough what Gerard owed him.) You don't want to insult me by supposing that I might have bargained with you for the papers.'

That was so ridiculous, that even in the tremor of his gratitude Gerard had burst into a great shout of laughter at it, and had struck a jovial hand in Val's and gripped him hard.

As he lay in the heather after Gerard's departure, the remembrance of this scene forced itself upon him. He has got the money, hang him!' said Val moodily. If I hadn't been so ridiculously Quixotic and punctilious about it, I might have saved myself this humiliation; I might have saved Constance from the talk of every old tabby in the county, and everything would have been open and above-board.' He began to think somewhat bitterly and angrily of Gerard, and to feel that his hitherto successful rival stood somewhat unduly in his way. It is the most natural thing in the world to hate a man if you intend to injure him. In such a case, hatred is a sort of spiritual corn. If y f you allow your boots to pinch your toes, nature protects them-and grows corns. If you propose to pinch your soul, by damaging a man who never harmed you, your moral nature protects itself by a hatred. And in each case the protection is a source of considerable discomfort. He has got the money,' said Val again; 'confound him! That ought to be enough for him. It was a piece of amazing luck to get it, and he

may be satisfied with what he has. And what right' and here Val began to think himself on stronger ground-'what right has he to wreck a woman's life?' He began, on the strength of that reflection, to feel himself virtuous. And he had at least the assurance from Constance's own lips that she loved him. To marry another man in such circumstances would be - he scarcely cared to characterise it with Constance in his mind. And so, by steps almost imperceptible, the unhappy Val went downwards towards hatred and dissimulation, and justified himself as he went.

Mr Lumby was not long at the picnic, being still a little weak in body as in mind. It was one of the pleasant characteristics of Lumby Hall that nearly all the servants were old family belongings. The parlour-maid, for instance, was the daughter of a coachman and a cook who had made a match of it, and retired from servitude at the Hall after growing up there from stableboy and kitchen-maid. The present coachman had been stable-boy; the butler had been pantryboy; the footman had been a page in the old house. All the servants were held by ties of old association to the place, and one or two of them had felt the triumph of the rehabilitation of the family as though it had been a matter personal to themselves. One of these attached old servitors gave Mr Lumby his arm as they walked down the gentle slope of sward which led from the Welbeck Hollow to the lower meadows. There the carriage waited, and with Milly by his side, Mr Lumby drove away. The young people kept the thing going to a late hour. On the tombstone of the poor princess, a great bonfire was lighted as the shades of evening fell; the trees round the beautiful little circle were stuck full of Chinese lanterns; the band played, and the guests danced and made love, and otherwise enjoyed themselves. There were seniors enough present for the preservation of the proprieties, and not enough to damp the hearty hilarity of the time. Gerard, when everything was over, surrendered Constance to Reginald's care, and drove his mother home. old man was sitting up to receive them, and in answer to remonstrances, declared that he felt well and strong. He had insisted on re-hearing from Milly the whole story of the recovery of the lost papers, and had grasped it more clearly than before, and now he was quite full of the approaching wedding.

To his surprise, the

'Gerard, my lad,' he said with feeble cheerfulness, you must have a bachelor party before you are married. I had a bachelor party. You must ask Valentine Strange. We owe everything to Valentine Strange, and I always liked him. I was always very friendly with his father and his uncle in their day. We must have Valentine Strange.'

Gerard and his mother were both so happy in the old man's recovery that festivity seemed natural to them. And why should not Gerard give a party to his bachelor friends before he finally left their circle and became a Benedict? It befell that Val received an invitation to that festival within eight-and-forty hours of his interview with Constance, and that it came by the post which bore to him the first letter he had ever received from her. The wedding was

already fixed for the first of July, and Gerard's farewell to bachelorhood was naturally fixed for the preceding evening, the thirtieth of June. And here was the month already.

On the morning that these two missives arrived, Val had received an unusually large batch of letters. His hope of hearing from Constance had risen by this time to exasperation, and he ran feverishly through the bundle in search of a lady's handwriting. In his haste, he passed two epistles as one, and Gerard's invitation was among the first letters he opened. He glared over it, and felt stricken. Old Lumby had written a postscript to it with his own shaky hand. Your father and your uncle,' he said, 'were dear friends of mine. You must come to my son's party.' He had signed this brief and shaky message, 'Your grateful servant.' The Stranges were not without their debt to the Lumbys, Val remembered; and whatever happened did but seem to make the enterprise he was bent on look darker. He was none the less bent upon it; but he rebelled, naturally enough, against the gathering host of circumstances which made him feel criminal. His was a mission of knight-errantry. He was going to save Constance from a life-long slavery and misery; and for a knight-errant to have his conscience throwing mud at him as though he were a thief, was decidedly unpleasant. The almost piteous gratitude of the broken old man hurt him, and appealed pathetically against his purpose.

wrote simply: 'We love each other, and I will not surrender you.' He initialed that Cæsarlike despatch, and having inclosed it in an envelope, was about to address it, when it suddenly occurred to him that his handwriting would be known, and that some inquiry might be created by it. He tried to feign a lady's hand; but even to his own eye the fraud was too transparent to deceive anybody. He set his wits to work to find a way through this difficulty, and after a minute or two of thought, he saw it. He looked at his watch, consulted a time-table, rang the bell, and ordered the dogcart for the railway station. Driving thither, he took train for Bristol, desperate with impatience on the journey. Arrived, he took a hansom, and drove to an hotel he knew, a quiet and retired house with an old-fashioned clientèle. His uncle had been wont to stop there, and Val was known. He ordered luncheon, and made a feint of eating, and descended for a chat with the landlady. By the way,' he said casually, 'did my maiden aunt ever stay here?' The talk had been going on for some time, and this query was dropped with considerable artfulness.

'I didn't know you had a maiden aunt, Mr Strange,' said the landlady.

'Didn't know I had a maiden aunt?' said Val. 'Nonsense!'

Upon my word, I didn't,' returned the landlady, laughing. 'Why didn't she get married?'

'I shall have to tread on the old man, to get That's not my business, Mrs Oakley,' said at her,' he thought, and he began to dislike the Val lightly. 'But'-drawing the envelope from old man for lying there to be trodden on. Why his pocket-'I have a little joke for her here. would people get in a knight-errant's way? AI don't want her to know from whom it comes. knight-errant prancing along among primroses Will you address it for me?' to rescue his appointed imprisoned damosel, had a right to better treatment, surely. She didn't love the fellow. She loved him, Val Strange. And yet, here were people blocking his road to her, and insisting on being injured by pure justice.

But at last Val discovered Constance's letter. He did not know her handwriting, but he knew the crest on the envelope, and he tore the missive open with trembling fingers, and read this:

DEAR MR STRANGE-We have both been foolish. I appeal to your honour. Allow me to forget. Yours truly, CONSTANCE JOLLY.

Now, this of course was absolutely maddening, and in the circumstances, the recipient felt himself justified in the employment of a good deal of strong language. Val was a gentleman, and by all rules of courtesy, a gentleman is forbidden to swear over a lady's letter. But Val gave way, and raged, and then sat down crushed for a minute, but recovering himself, began to cast about in thought for a means of untying this knot. He felt the delicacy of Constance's position; he began, even in a minute or two, to see how well this coyness became her, and to feel that he would be very much worse than unheroic if, because of such a check as this, he drew back from his enterprise. So he caught up a pen, drew a sheet of paper to him, and began to write. Words came easily, and he filled three or four pages with protestations.

'No,' he said suddenly; 'expenditure of words in a case like this is waste of power.' So he

'Valentine's Day has gone by, Mr Valentine,' said the landlady. 'I hope you're not going to plague her.'

Not at all,' said Val. 'I think I'm going to please her. Do address it. She won't know your handwriting, and of course she would know mine.'

The landlady took the envelope, and sitting down, dipped her pen in the ink. Tell me the address,' she said. Val gave Constance's address, and the landlady wrote it flowingly.

'Thank you,' said Val. And now, give me a postage-stamp, if you please.' He stamped the letter, and dropped it into the post-box in the hotel lobby. That will pass unsuspected,' he said to himself; and after a little further talk, designed to cover his retreat, he drove back to the station, and turned up at Brierham in time for dinner. A day or two went by, how heavily and monotonously you may guess; and Constance, struggling with herself, refused to be drawn into a correspondence fraught with so much danger. Outside the magnetic influences of Val's presence, she could control herself, and could call pride and honour to her aid. During this time, Gerard experienced curious treatment at her hands. She was languid and cold at one moment, and warm and eager the next; and he, being without the key to the puzzle, was perplexed by the extraordinary variations of her manner. Constance tried hard to compel herself to some tenderness towards Gerard which should seem to herself to commit her to him irrevocably, and this struggle naturally bred a reaction of languid coldness.

This also in its turn re-acted, and in her selfreproach she was once or twice amazingly sweet and tender to him, and looked at him with such eyes, that he could read nothing but love in them. His own willingness to read that sweet message helped the deceit ; and his constant patience under her coldness, his simple manly loyalty, and the downright sincerity of his worship, were not without their effect upon her.

once. The circumstances in which he and the Yankee adventurer had met and parted were not altogether soothing to his self-respect, and though under ordinary conditions he would have forgotten and forgiven, he was so tender now, that even so slight a matter as this made him sore.

'You have met Mr Strange once before-eh, Search?' said Gerard, who was in high good spirits.

'I remember the fellow,' said Val haughtily, neither knowing nor caring that he renewed the disagreeable impression he had at first_sight created. Why should he care, whatever Hiram or anybody like him might think or feel? It was his ordinary habit to be courteous to all men, and his misfortune that he met Hiram in this unusual and abnormal mood.

'Look after Mr Strange,' said Gerard; 'there's a good fellow.' Hiram did not care to valet Mr Strange, and this was the first disagreeable he had encountered since coming to Lumby Hall. But he obeyed nevertheless; and having seen Val's belongings taken up-stairs, began to unpack his portmanteau, when out fell a large envelope with exceedingly frayed edges. Across this envelope were written in characters of unusual clearness, these words: "Thy grace being gained, cures all disgrace in me.' Hiram saw them, and thought nothing of them; but catching up the envelope, a portrait slipped out of it. He had seen Constance more than once, and the portrait was too true to be mistaken. What brought Mr Strange with a portrait

No answer coming to his Cæsar-like despatch, Val began to grow nervous about it, and to fear that he had overdone authority. And all this time the fatal day was drawing nearer, and Reginald's knowledge forbade Val the house, or he would have gone thither and made an opportunity for seeing her. This being out of the question, he wrote a long letter of appeal and protest, and putting the old ruse in action through a new medium this time, again had it forwarded under a female hand. Constance shed many bitter tears above the lines he had penned; but she kept a resolute silence. Some anger began to rise in her heart at his persistency, even whilst she valued it as a proof of the love she prized so dearly, and felt to be so disloyal. But everything was binding her closer and closer to her own spoken bond with Gerard. His parents' affection, the general understanding that the marriage was settled, the very imminence of the ceremony itself, the suffering Gerard and his people had already undergone, the congratulations of her friends on her lover's recovery of his old station, and the renewal of the match-she felt powerless to struggle against all these accumulated influences. And so, Val began to anger her because of Gerard Lumby's sweetheart? And what he had power to pain her. He, meanwhile, unconscious of the influences which moulded her conduct, or weighing them imperfectly, sat in the shadow of his own egotism, by this time grown monstrous, and in its gloom saw nothing but itself. Constance's marriage with Gerard could be nothing, to his mind, but a hideous and shameful sacrifice, and at all hazards he was ready to stop it. But how? The days went on, and he was powerless, and to add to his miseries, Gerard came over a week before the date appointed for the wedding, and seeing how Val had lost his old cheerfulness and jollity, insisted upon his going over to Lumby Hall, and staying there with the guests who had already begun to arrive in view of the impending cere

mony.

'So be it,' said Val at length, overborne by Gerard's reiterated friendly pressure. He was kindly and gentle by nature, but he was halfmurderous in his feelings towards this blundering genial happy rival, who thus insisted on flouting his happiness in his face. Gerard had driven over; and nothing would satisfy him but that Val should at once drive back with him, and take up his abode at Lumby Hall until the wedding. The other accepted this programme in desperation, and gave orders that the necessary things should be packed at once. Perhaps even this move, mad as it appeared, might lead to something. The two young fellows drove from Brierham to Lumby Hall together; the one all joy and friendship, the other all despair and hatred, which he dared not show. To Val's surprise, Hiram Search received him. He had the keenest memory for faces, and knew him at

was the meaning of the inscription on the envelope: "Thy grace being gained, cures all disgrace in me?' Hiram was unfavourably impressed with Mr Strange, and was ready to believe evil of him. This little event of the photograph affected him, therefore, somewhat unduly.

And now, as the least imaginative of men may fancy, Val's position began to be unbearable. Any further approach to Constance was impossible; and though she had confessed that she loved him, the confession seemed only to have set her apart from him the more determinedly. At Lumby Hall he had almost as much freedom as he would have found at home, and in the afterdinner dusk he used to absent himself from the jovial party in the smoking-room, and prowl round Daffin Head, and stare at the lights in the house, feeling like the Peri who at the gate of Paradise stood disconsolate. One afternoon, when the marriage had grown so perilously near that his head swam and his heart failed to think of it, he wandered on the customary way, hoping, in spite of despair, that some avenue yet might open, when a trim little figure came tripping along the country road, and he recognised a late fellow-passenger, the girl he had befriended at Southampton. She knew him, and made him an odd little obeisance, half nod, half courtesy; and he seeing that she came away from the Grange, seized eagerly at the poor straw of hope her presence afforded.

'Good afternoon,' he said awkwardly. 'I think I remember you.' She repeated the compromised obeisance, and smiled and blushed with plea

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