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enough to hope that, if she could stave off a proposal during the stay of their guests, it would probably never be made. She had to be on guard only to-day and to-morrow, for on Tuesday he would be at Selbysedge, and Norah at Serborne Abbey.

Affecting not to hear Carrie's vulgar sally, she said, ‘Papa wishes to know if you would like to go round the grounds with him and Mr. Wyndham, Miss Wyndham.'

When 'papa' proposed the inevitable round of the hencoops, &c., he had, of course, never thought of Norah till Ann suggested this treat for her.

'Yes, I should, very much,' answered Norah, with, as Ann thought, hypocritical eagerness; but Norah was really anxious to put herself under police protection.

'Oh, I can show you all you care to see,' said Reid quickly; 'unless you are interested in fowls.'

'But I am; deeply. You know bacon and eggs are the staple manufactures of my country.'

'Irish eggs are always stale,' observed Carrie scornfully, her little soul still vexed within her.

• Because our breed of hens is so old-fashioned. As you've got the newest kind, you can have fresh eggs every day,' laughing.

But her little joke was not even perceived by Carrie, who never took the time or trouble to think for a moment together on any subject, except dress. She could say sharp things enough, but they were struck out of her on the spur of the moment; anything that needed a minute's reflection was out of sight of her mind.

'Papa never lets us have them; he says they're worth a shilling apiece, and there's nothing but bother about them.' This last in a lowered tone, for they were approaching within earshot of her august parent, who was waiting to personally conduct' the party round the premises.

He went the old round in the old order, and spoke of the same things almost in the same words he had used yesterday to Miles. He took as much credit for every chick as though it was of his own hatching, and of every lock as though it was his own patent; and, as to the flowers, Miles said afterwards to Norah: Faith, if I hadn't seen them all yesterday, I'd have thought he had created them this morning.'

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• But it was kind of him to take such pains to show us everything,' put in Norah amiably.

Just as kind as it is of you to admire yourself in the glass every day. The glass is greatly flattered, I've no doubt; but it isn't to please the glass you do it.'

(To be continued.)

BELGRAVIA.

JUNE 1884.

'I

The Lover's Creed.

A NOVEL.

BY MRS, CASHEL HOEY.

'One, and one only, is the Lover's Creed.'-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

CHAPTER XV.

MAVIS ΤΟ JACK.

WAS obliged abruptly to close my letter, partly written while

I was sitting by the side of poor Sarah in her last hours, and in which I told you of her death, and my own resolution. Still, I am not afraid that it will have vexed you or made you uneasy, dearest Jack, because I was able to tell you that I had found a friend. Now I am going on with my story; but not in the journalising way of the big packet that I posted at Liverpool on the day of poor Sarah's funeral; the same day to which I had looked forward with horror as the first of the voyage dreaded by her with so fatal a fear.

'I remember you said, when we went up to the top of the tower, that you liked to be able to make a picture in your mind of each place in which I should be likely to pass any of the time of your absence. We little thought then the fancy could have a wider sphere than the Farm. Now, before I tell you anything that has befallen me since the close of my last letter, I will try to describe the place in which I am writing to you, on an evening that is beautiful, even in London, and in the Euston Road. All this side of the town is strange to me: my uncle and aunt lived at Chelsea, near the river. The house is large, dull, quiet, and what in London they call clean. I have a good-sized front room, up two long flights of stairs, and I can see a good deal of sky overhead, a long strip of grassplat, with brown shrubs between it

VOL. LIII, NO. CCXII.

C C

and the wall of the next garden on both sides; a couple of trees, with brown leaves making a push for life, stand sentinel at the iron gate; and on the other side of the street there is a long line of large dull houses. Exactly opposite is a sculptor's yard, filled with marble monuments and plaster images. There are two windows in my room; they have brown curtains, and there is a good deal of brown in the carpet; but everything is very neat ; and what do you think stands in the middle of the little table, at which, close up to the window, I am writing? You would never guess! Then I will tell you. It is the china bowl from the Dame's Parlour that used to hold the flowers you brought me from Bassett. I packed it up in my trunk-I have all the flowers toowhen I thought I was going to the other side of the world. I am safe and comfortable here, but I am very sad. There are several governesses in the Home, all waiting for re-employment. Some of them are quite young, others are so far on in life that it is woeful to think of them as still obliged to go on earning a livelihood among strangers. Dearest Jack, if that which seems to be my lot here were really my lot, how hard it would be to bear! but how blessed and dear is the truth, notwithstanding all that I have suffered, and the long time, it may be, of waiting and suspense until you come for me!

The lady who is at the head of the Home is a very kind and clever woman; she likes me, I think, and she is almost as fond of hearing me sing as some one to whom I wish-oh how I wish!-I could sing the music that I have been learning here. For I have been going to your church, Jack, the Catholic church in Moorfields, and there I have been struck with great amazement.

But I am straying-as though I were talking to you, not writing only from my subject. Miss Metge has been so kind in her quiet way of conveying to me that she is satisfied with my meagre account of myself, and trusts me. She evinces interest in me, but no curiosity. I believe that I am writing on like this, while my head and my heart are filled respectively with thoughts and heavy anxieties, just because I am almost afraid to take up my story where I dropped it, so keenly did I suffer in forming the resolution to remain in England. I know you will not blame me for saying but little to you about my father; it is so much better that only just what is absolutely necessary should be said, even between you and me. What I know about him is only that he sailed for Melbourne by the "British Queen," on the appointed day, a few hours after poor Sarah's funeral. A respectable lodging had been taken for me at Bootle, and the address was, at her own request, not given to Jane Price, until she had ascertained that

my father had sailed. The rooms were taken by a friend of Jane's, and two days before the funeral I left the house in which Sarah died. When Jane knew that my father was gone, she told the truth to Dr. Chad, and asked him for his advice. I don't think he was angry with her or with me, but he naturally took the matter very seriously; for neither he nor Jane knew the real position in which I was left, and he asked her if she had found it. easy to make out life for herself, without help, that she seemed so light-hearted about my having to do this? She said no; she had not found it at all easy; but nothing could ever be so bad as my having to undergo what had killed her sister; and after all, if there was nothing else to be done, she could get me into the millinery room in the shop she is in. Jane told me this when she came to see me in the evening; she told me also that Dr. Chad had said it would be a pity I should do no more than that, with the good education I have been given, and the musical gifts I possess. Jane stayed with me that night; I went to Liverpool with her in the morning, and she left me at Dr. Chad's surgery. He was very kind, affected at the idea of my loneliness, much impressed by the misery of his late patient, and so perplexed about me that I longed to tell him I was not, although a most unhappy girl in some respects, the forlorn being he believed me to be; just as I longed to tell poor Sarah that day--you remember, dearest Jack, when you understood it all so quickly, without my having to explain, and allowed me to give her the consolation that to the last she clung to. For, when the end was very near, she said to me words of most uncalled-for gratitude, and spoke of you as my "reward". -as if anything I had ever done, or ever could do, were worthy of such a recompense as the love that is your free gift to poor me.

'You will like Dr. Chad so much when you know him. He is so quick, intelligent, and sympathetic. I have a picture in my mind of our going to see him together, and of his surprise, and quick piercing look at me, when he learns where the courage and serenity he so kindly praised me for during Sarah's illness had their source and origin. I could tell him about the money, and of course that made things easier than if I had been in very pressing need; but he pointed out to me that I must be very saving. I found he took a most serious view of my father's probable line of action, and I conclude that he had heard a great deal from poor Sarah, or guessed at it himself, for he said he could only advise me to leave my father entirely out of my calculations for the future; that he believed the step I had taken to be an irrevocable one, and that I should never hear of my father again. I cannot

quite believe this; he may not care to know anything about me now, but it will be different when you have come home, and I can tell him how happy my life is going to be. At least I will try to think that he will be glad. I suppose if I were to address a letter to him at the Post Office, Melbourne, it would reach him, because I am sure even from the little he said about my uncle Lewis that he is well known in the colony; but I will do nothing until I hear from you.

'Dr. Chad not only thought that I ought to apply myself to some regular employment, but that I ought to do so at once, before any more of my money was spent ; and he spoke to me of a friend of his in London, Miss Metge, the lady who is at the head of this house. Amy Silcote's having married and gone to live in Scotland, as I told you in my last letter, has deprived me of the only acquaintance I had here; but as I must be among strangers in any case until you come back, it did not really signify very much. Of course I was always thinking in all things of what you would like and approve of, and although I sometimes felt frightened for a while, because we are both so young, and so far apart, and there is so great a disparity between us, I soon cheered up, remembering that nothing can really harm us, after the words you made me say that day. But it came into my mind that as I had to go among strangers for the time of your absence, and had to arrange about doing so without being able to have your opinion and sanction, it would be well to use another name. Dr. Chad agrees with me in this, and he has recommended me to Miss Metge by my mother's name, Margaret Warne. I found Jane Price very anxious on this point she said several times that it was important to place myself quite out of my father's reach; and as I could not tell her why I do not feel this so strongly as she does, I thought it best to acquiesce quietly. She is a good kind woman, but oh, so practical! I suppose it comes of her loneliness and hard work since her parents' death. She has been very kind to me, and I can see that she feels and fears for me in the unknown world that lies before me. This made me wish that she could know; and yet I doubt whether she would understand it, if she did know; for she would think about the difficulties and the distance-all the things I think of too, but which cannot silence the hymn of thanksgiving that my heart is always singing.

'I need not say anything more about my stay at Bootle, or my journey up to London. Miss Metge met me at the station. The Home is almost always full: the vacancy when Dr. Chad applied for me was a fortunate accident. Of course it is on my singing that I principally rely to get an engagement as companion to a

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