little stately manner, and salutes you with a formal curtsey; and then, under all this air of dignity, you discover the very merriest hearted little romp that ever existed. You must be fond of her. As refined in mind and in manner as the most fastidious could require, she has at the same time the humour, the native fun of her country-it sparkles in her eyes-it bubbles in her laugh. She is a little patriot, too: when Ireland is mentioned, you will see her cheek flush and her spirit rise. It is the only strong feeling she seems to have; for otherwise, like the jolly miller of Dee, she cares for nobody, and if others care for her, she does not appear to thank them for it. I have often heard men say, how in love they would be with Rosa Moore, if it were not for this thankless, hopeless, remorseless indifference. Now, I think this is a mistake; for I believe her great charm really lies in that very recklessness of what others think of her, or feel for her, in the eager childlike impetuosity with which she seeks amusement, and in the perfect self-possession with which she treats everything and everybody.'

'And Mrs. Ernsley, Henry; what do you say of her?' 'Mrs. Ernsley? It is much more difficult to say what she is than what she is not; so allow me to describe her in negatives. She is not handsome, for her features are bad and her complexion is sallow. She is not plain, for she has pretty eyes, pretty hair, a pretty smile, and a pretty figure. She is not natural, for her part in society is pre-arranged and continually studied. She is not affected, for nobody talks to you with more earnestness, or more of natural impulse and spontaneousness; but still she is always listening to herself. She is the person who is attracting, who is charming you, natural to a fault, unguarded to excess (she says to herself). Then, she is not a bad sort of woman; she has a great regard for her husband, and takes great pains with her little girls; but she is always playing with edged tools; she is always

lingering on the line of demarcation. She is eternally discussing who are in love with her-though she is such a very good sort of a woman-and who would be in love with her if she was not? Above all, she is by no means partial to other women, whether they have stepped over the line or kept within it. She will hate you, Ellen, depend upon it, with an innocent kind of hatred; she will do you no harm, for she is kind-hearted in reality; only it will be nuts to her if anybody says that Miss Middleton is not near so pretty as they had expected; and she will try to put you down whenever you open your mouth; but don't be put down, and then you will remain mistress of the field, for she will grow so fidgety (not cross, for she is, in fact, good-tempered), that she will lose her self-possession, and then all will be over with her.'

'I have not the slightest wish to enter the lists with her. But now, tell me something of the men who are here.'

'That will be quickly done; Sir Charles is a fool; Mr. Ernsley is a prig; and Mr. Farnley has a broad kind of humour, and a talent for mimicry, but he is coarse and unrefined, which, by the way, is perhaps the reason that his daughter thinks it necessary to be so painfully the reverse. Mr. Brandon, your aunt's brother-in-law, is an agreeable Mr. Manby is a lout.'

man.

'And Sir Edmund Ardern?' I inquired.

Oh, as to Sir Edmund Ardern, I entreat you, on the same principle on which pastry-cooks cram their apprentices during the first few days, to talk to him incessantly. Let him sit by you to-morrow at breakfast, at luncheon, at dinner, walk with him, and ride with him; I shall not come near you, in order that he may have full scope for his fascinating powers; you shall be fascinated till you cry for mercy.'

I laughed, but secretly thought that something of the severity of his satire proceeded from the fact that Sir Edmund was the only handsome and pleasing person in the house, and I did not feel inclined to take entirely for granted that Henry's judgment of him was correct.

Our tête-à-tête was soon interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Ernsley and the arrival of tea. Mrs. Ernsley threw herself into a large armchair, flung her bonnet and shawl on the opposite couch, and then began arranging her hair. 'You look tired, Mrs. Ernsley,' said Henry.

'To death,' she answered. 'Dear Mrs. Brandon has been wondering whether the stars are inhabited or not. It is not fair to make one stretch out one's mind so far.'

'What did Sir Edmund pronounce on the subject?' inquired Henry.

'That there was much to be said on both sides of the question. I left them at that point.'

'Do you like Sir Edmund ?'

'I wish you would not ask me.' 'Why?'

'Because he hates me, and I won't own to a passion malheureuse. He nearly overturned poor Mr. Farnley to-day at dinner in trying to avoid the chair next me.'

'Oh no; it was in trying to get the one next Miss Middleton,' observed Rosa Moore, with an innocent expression of countenance.

Mrs. Ernsley continued, without noticing the interruption, otherwise than by a downward movement of the corners of her mouth: 'I had a thousand times rather be hated by him than be liked in the way in which he seems to like any one, qui lui tombe sous la main.'

'No doubt,' said Henry; 'next to being loved there is nothing like being hated.'

'You think so too, then ?' said Mrs. Ernsley.

'Certainly,' he replied. 'It gratifies one of the strongest tastes, or rather passions of one's nature—that of feeling emotion one's self and exciting it in others. If I could not see the woman I loved agitated by her love for me, I had rather see her tremble-shudder even-at my presence, than look as if Mr. Manby had come into the room.'

'What a detestable lover you would make!' exclaimed Mrs. Ernsley;-'always, by your own admission, on the verge of hatred.'

He laughed, and said, 'It is an old saying that love and hatred are closely allied.'

'Not more so than hatred and contempt,' I said; 'and in incurring the one, one might, perhaps, gain the other.'

Both my companions looked at me with surprise, for I had not joined before in their conversation, and a secret feeling (I was aware of it) had given a shade of bitterness to my manner of saying it.

Mrs. Ernsley seemed to take the remark as personal to herself; but said good-humouredly, though somewhat sneeringly, 'Since Miss Middleton has pronounced so decided an opinion, we had better drop the subject. What is become of Edward Middleton, Mr. Lovell ?'

'He has been abroad for some months,' replied Henry; and Sir Edmund Ardern, who at that moment joined us, said, 'The last time I saw him was at Naples last February: we had just made an excursion into the mountains of Calabria together.'

'A very unromantic one, no doubt,' said Mrs. Ernsley, 'as everything is in our unromantic days. Not a trace of a brigand or of an adventure, I suppose?'

'None that we were concerned in. But we saw an exbrigand, and he told us his adventures.'

'Did he really?' exclaimed Miss Farnley; 'and was he not adorable?'

'Not exactly,' said Sir Edmund with a smile; 'but some of his accounts were interesting.'

'Was he fierce ?'

'No, not the least. I fancy he had followed that line in his younger days more because his father and his brother were brigands than from any inclination of his own. One of the stories he told us struck Middleton and myself in a very different manner.’

'What was it?' I asked, unable to restrain my anxious curiosity.

'I am afraid you may think it long,' said Sir Edmund; 'but, if you are to decide the point in question, you must have patience to hear the story:—

'Lorenzo, that was our friend's name, had been engaged in several skirmishes with the gendarmerie that had been sent into the mountains to arrest the gang to which he belonged; he was known by sight, and had once or twice narrowly escaped being seized. He had a personal enemy among the gendarmes—a man called Giacomo, whose jealousy he had excited some years previously at a country fair. They had quarrelled about a girl whom both were making love to. Lorenzo had struck him, and Giacomo had not returned the blow before they were separated, and his rival safe in the mountains beyond the reach of his vengeance. He brooded over this recollection for several years, and, when he found himself at last officially in pursuit of his enemy, he followed him as a hungry beast tracks his prey. One evening, with two or three of his men, he had dodged him for several hours. Lorenzo had made with incredible speed for a spot where, between the fissures of the rock, he knew of a secret passage by which he could elude the pursuit, and place himself in safety. He strained every nerve to turn the corner before his pursuers could be upon him and mark the place where he disappeared. Between him and that corner