SHADDECK LIGHT.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 34, 10 February 1892, Page 6

SHADDECK LIGHT.

BY MRS ATA V A GNES FLEHIXO, iethor of ' Wedded, Yet No Wife, , ' Lost for a Woman, , ' A Litt'.o Quoen,' ' A Wonderful Woman,' ' Norine'i ***venge,' Etc.

CHAPTER VI

AFTER BREAKFAST,

It is two hours later, and the hall thermometer stands at ninety. There is not a breath stirring, the roses droop their sweet heavy heads, the great beds of geranium and gladioln blaze in the yellow glare. The sea off there looks white and molten, the leaves of the trees hang motionless. Ib is the sultriesb of July mornings, and Vera has laid aside her in" dignatjon for the present, as she has every superfluous article of dress. She proposes ' resuming both presently, when the day cools off a little, for she feel* fehe has' been disgracefully imposed upon, bub at present it fij , too hob for dignity. The mosb ferocious Corsican, in such it'state'of the atmosphere, would be obliged to forego revenge : so, though her enemy lounges within a yard of her, Vera is in too wilted a state for vengeance or reprisal. Miss.Charlton, in a white dress, a white rose in her hair, a magazine in her hand, looks cool and fresh as a rose herself. She is one of the fortunate few who always look cool; she is never flushed, nor heated, nor freckled, nor sunburned. She is trying to read, but breaks off with a smile to listen to Vera's girlish chatt9r, for, however warm this young person may be, ahe is seldom too warm bo balk. Dora reclines on a lounge, languidly fanning herself and monopolising Captain Ffrench. Mrs Charlton is also present, her ponderous form filling a large wicker chair, her eyes half closed but all seeing, siient bat all hearing, her tight lips sealed, her eyebrows contracted. She looks uncommonly like a fab family mouser with eye and paw sharpened, ready to pounce in one soundless leap on her victim. This ir.reverent comparison is Dora's, who with pale, prebly face slightly flushed, with blue eyes shining, with ro3y lips dimpling, is, Mra Charlton feels, a foeman worthy of her steel. In the doorway the bone of contention, the stalwart young heir presumptive, for whom all these fair women have donned plumes and war-paint, stands, hismasculine vanity elateand tickled, immetostely amused at the situation, and wondering if "Abdul Aziz feels anything like this in'the "midst of the harem. Miss Lightvfr'ood is' certainly conscientiously dotertmn'ed to do her duty—the very utmost she can do fo'f herself and her sister*. For Dora Lighbwbod forms no plana in which that gipsy sister does nob share. ' I am a selfish little brute,' Dora calmly admits,'communing with her own heart; 'I am mercenary, lain unscrupulous in a good many things, I have a horrible temper, I give my who'lo mind to my clothes, I hate people us a general thing, but I love little Vera. I don't know why, lam sure. I never tried to, I never wanted to ; loving anyone is a mistake ; all the same, I am awfully fond of Vera. And if a rich man proposed to me and made it a condition that I should part from Vera, why, I wouldn't marry him. I cannot say more than that. .

She cannot. To refuse wealth for the eako of any human being is, in her eyes, the highest of all tests of love. As she lios here, in the 'golden bower' of her fair floating hair, in her pale-blue wrapper with its delicate trimmings, ,sho£ isj busily building castles in castlee, with a French cook in the kitchen, a French maid in my lady's chamber, three toilets per diem, a house up town, near Central Park, a pew in a fashionable church, horses, carriages, black drivers in livery, and Charlton Place alway3, for at least chreo weeks every J August, after Newport and the mountains have been ' done.' Somowhere in the background, ' faint and far oft, ia a tall young man of the muscular Christianity order, ready to sign unlimited cheques, and too much absorbed in scientific things, and explorations, and Hugh Miller's books, to push himself unbecomingly forward in the way of his wife's amusements. And Vera shall go to school for a year or two, to the most exclusive and expansive school whose portals greenbacks can unlock, and the child shall walk in silk attire, and currency have to spare. Then, when she is finished, they will make the grand tour—a winter in Paris, a Carnival and Easter in Rome, they will climb an Alp or two, and finish with a season in London.

•My dear Mies Lighbwood,' says the suave voice of Mrs Charlton, ' how many years is ib—l really forgeb—since your father died ? Ah ! what a shock his death was to me. In youth we had been so intimate. Is ib eighteen or twenty now ?' Dora awakes from her gorgeous dream. She looks across ab her kinswoman, more cat-like than ever, with her contracted eyes and feline emile, and is ready for hostilities in half a second.

' Odd thab you should forgefc, is ib nob, since you were such bosom friends. Ib is precisely nineteen years. Old cat !' Dora says inwardly, ' as if I didn't soe your drift. I have kept big Dick Ffrench too long, have I, and your Eleanor is oub in the cold? , • •Ah !' Mrs Charlton responds, her ample bueb swelling with a fat eigh. 'nineteen years. How time flies !' • Very true. Thab is an aphorism I have several times heard before.' •And you. dear child, you were—leb me boo—no, you could nob have been bwelve, because—' The malicious eyes contract a briflo more as they transfix the audacious little flirt on the lounge. Captain Ffrorich is oub of hia depth, but feels vaguely and alarmedly that bhie conversation is meanb to bo unpleasant. ,' Because that would leave ab tho proeont moment—l .am tho woreb person at figures in the world—Captain Ffrench, ninoboen and twelve, how much is that ?' •Ono-and-twenty I should say In your case.' responds, gravely, Captain Ffrench. • My father died, my dear Mrs Charlton,' says Dora, with a rippling smilo, ' nineteen years ago, I was ab the time eovon yoara old, only seven, ♦ I nesuro you ; tho family Bible is still extant. Last birthday I was six - arid - twenty. Sixend — twenty, fully two years older than Eloanor, Ido believe. And thon I lost my poor, dent , mamma, ho early. Things might have boon so dilloronb if sho had lived. It must bo bo nice to havo a mamma to look oub for one, to point out whom .to be atbontivo bn.and whom to avoid, in this deceitful world—to. lay plans for one ' • If one is nob capable of laying plans for one's eelf— very truo, , says bho other duellist, firing promptly. 'A mothor in many caass would bo a superfluity. To bo tossed about the world and learn one's own sharpness from hard experience ' •I beg your pardon, Mrs Charlton, did you address me?' 'Would'you not like to come out and visit the fernery? , cays Captain Ffrench, hastily, in horrible alarm lest this bloodless battle shall be renewed, • or—or is it too warm f

' Not in tho leapt too warm,' smiles Dora, • warmtjb ie my element. Vera, hand me my Hun-hat, please. Nellie, dear, what are your favourite flowers-—I shall fetch you a bouqilet.' She ties the broad tulle hub over tho loose crinkling hair, the email, pretty faoo, and

light blue eyes, gleaming wibh mirth and malice.

' It's a very fine thing to be mother-in-law To ii rery ningniricont thrue-tailod Bashaw.' she sings under her breath as she goes, buxMrs Charlton hoars her, and flashes a wratht ful glance after her enemy. She has been routed this bout, but hostilities have only commonced ; she feels she is an old and able veteran, and they iaugh best who laugh last. As she thinks ib, Miss Lighbwood's shrill peal comes back to her from oub the blaze of sunshine inbo which she eoes wibh Captain Dick. Dora's laugh is nob her strong poinfc, it in elfish and metallic, and does not hmmonise at all with the rosebud mouth and baby prettiness of face. ' That horrid old woman !' she exclaims, 'did you ever hear anything so spiteful, Captain Ffronch ? And all because you happened to be civil to me. Don't pub on that innocent face, 3ir, and pretend you don'c know.'

'By George,' says Captain Dick,' how uncommonly flattering , . I must endeavour to distribute my civility with more impartiality hereafter. You gave her ac good as she sent, however, Miss Lightwood—that must be a ebothing recollection.' 'It is, , answered Dora, setting her teeth viciously ; ' ever since I can remember I always hit bard.' She doubles up her small fist instinctively, and Captain Ffrench eyes it with gravity. ' Yes,' he says, ' I should think a blow of that battering-ram would settle almost any sort of combatant. But, perhaps, it is morally, not physically, thab you pitch into people. Moral whacks are so much easier to bear.'

IDo you think ao ?' laughs Dora. 'Judging by your exceedingly uncomfortable expression a few momenta ago, I would never think it. Honestly, it was in abominably bad taste, this pugilistic encounter in your preeonce, but what was I to do? You heard youreelf—it was she who began ib. .

' And was defeated with great slaughter ! It wae a perfectly fair light, Miss Lightwood, and I rather enjoyed it. I bespeak the office of bottle-holder when bhe next match comes off. For I infer this contest for the ' Hβ pauses and looks down ; Dora looks up, and at the mutual glance, so full of meaning, both explode into a frank laugh. 'Championship !' says Miss Lightwood, ' for what else could ib be ? Oh ! Captain Ffrench, conceit is> the vico of youi sex—beware of it. Is ihis the fernery ? How cool and green it looks ; and a fountain—is not the splash of the falling waters delicious? That reminds me—if I get up to-morrow, will you take me to your enchanted island, all unbeknown to Madame Charlton? Early rieing is not my prominent virtue, but Vera painted the delights of her water excursion in such glowing colours that I think ib is worth one's morning nap—for once.'

Captain Ffrench protests he will be only too blessed, too honoured. In reality he ie more or loss bored. For the past half-hour he lias been sighing inwardly for tho seagirt seclusion of Shaddock Light, his books and drawing-board. Nob that ho haen't enjoyed the skirmish, too, and the conversation of this piquant little woman of the world is spicy and novel. But eaough is onough—of tho first principles of flirtation he is absolutely ignorant; he has not had his after breakfast smoke, ho hae not had his every-day, rain -or • shine, constitutional walk. Hβ wonders what Eleanor is doing. How different eho is from this pert (poor Dot's ready audacity is pertness in his eyes), forward, sharp-voiced little person, who talks so much vapid inanity. Ho can see Eleanor with her slightly-bent head, her clear face, her large, sweet, serious eyes, thoughtful, and a little sad. For there is always a touch of sadness about Eleanor—why, he wonders. Her mother nogs her, no doubt; she is a hard old vixon, and can be deucodly unpleasant when she likes ; but somehow he thinks tho trouble lies deeper than that. She hae to work hard, but she hae the earnest nature of women who do not shirk work, who even tind in work their greatest solace when life goes wrong. ' Poor girl, , he thinks, and quite a new sensation stirs somewhere within Captain Dick'e broad cheat. Hβ ie not the sorb of man to fall top easily a victim to the tender passion, but if he were, and time, and propinquity, and a drowsy country-house yivon, a ball, serene girl, with gentlo voice and ways, all womanly sweetnesses and graces And then the shrill treble of Miss Lightwood breaks upon his dream, as her own was broken in upon a while ago, and claims him for the time as her own.

In the hall, Mr Charlton, blandest, suavest of old time gentlemon and courteous host 3, entertains Mrs Charlton with gossip about the neighbourhood, and details of the fine old families, the Huntings, the Deerings, the Howells, of tho old Puritan breed, who came over from Connecticut in 1650; and whose fathers made fortunes in the halcyon days from 1828 to 1545, when. St. Ann's sent out her fleet of •blubber hunters, , and dark-eyed foreignsailore reeled drunk about its quiet sbreeta. Vera nestles near Eleanor's chair, and relates her adventure oE the morning, at which Miss Charlton laughs.

1 Was it not a horrid shame 1' cries Vera, indignantly, 'and I never suspected—no, nob onee —he kept such a virtuous and unconscious face. Hβ know that fellow! ho was a bashful fool, and he sneakod upstairs to bod. Yes, very bashful, I should think; his modesty will prove fatal some day if he doesn't take care !' Eleanor laughs again. 'It was unpardonable, it was, really. 1 hope you did nob commit yourself to any very awful extenb, Vera ?' • I asked him a great many questions about Captain Ffrench, I know, , says Vera, still hob and, resentful, and seeing nothing to laugh at; * and ho had not a good word to say of himself. I daresay he was right; ib is a subject on which he ought to bo informed. Still, , with a sudden inconsequent change of tone, * I think he is nice—don't you V ' Very nice.' 'And handsome?' • Well—rather.' ' And awfully clever ? Now.don'b say you don't know; because ib is patenb to tho dullest observer. He talks like a book—when ho likes. .

' Then he doesn't always like, for I have heard him whon ho talked more like Capbain Dick Ffrench than Emerson or Carlylo. , 'Ah ! I don't know them. All bhe same, ho is clover. Ho is a musician—'

'Hβ plays the violin tolerably, as amateui'H go.' 'And ho draws boaufifully. And you noodn'i; bo so critical. Ho has your pioture over tho niantol at Shaddock Light.' • Noneoneo !' Kleanor'H chook flushes suddonly, uiid Mamma Churlbon, with one ear bent to dor hoHb, tho other turned to her daughter, prioke up tho near ono to catch more

'It. in thoro—nonsoiiHO or not—a crayon, an llko you as two pons, flabtorod if anything. And there in v duto, " Now Orloaiiu, Muy, 1801." So it Heoma, Mies Slyboob*, you aiid Captain Diok aro very old friends,' • Oh, no, no I I novor epoko to him in my life until four days ago.' Veru's larj,'o dark eyes Jifb and look nt her. They aro oyee of crystal oloarnetwt, the one beauty at prosent of hot , faco, down through which you seem to boo into tho absolute white truth of a child's soul. • I urn telling you the truth, Vera, she says her cheeks still hot, ' though you look as" if you .-loubted it. Some years ago 1 met Captain Ff ronch at a house in New Orleans where I gave music lessons. He came with an unole'of the children, and they adopted him as an undo, alao. The mother was a Fronch lady. To tho children I was simply mademoieello— he was Uncle Dick. Bub I never knew his name, never epoke to him till I met him there.'

Vera drops back on the marble. There is a ahade of annoyance on Eleanor's face, as if half-provoked at having this confession extorted. Her mother "is listening, unctuous, and well pleased. ' You evidently made a eilenb impression then, , said Vera. ' I said this morning, "That is Miss Charlbon's picture," and he said, "Then Miss Charlton is a very pretty girl." Here comes Dob, alone, I wonder whab she has done wibh him. Dob ! Where have you left Capbain Ffrench ?'

'Am I my brother's keeper ?' replies Dora, sauntering in, a greab nosegay in her hand. ' Here is your bouquet, Nelly. Captain Ffrench cut the flowers, and I ar ranged them. I am a milliner, you know, by profession, and have artistic tastes.'

' Ever so many thanks—your taste is exquisite. ,

' But where is Captain Ffrench ?' persists Vera, rising on her elbow; 'you are responsible for him—he was last seen alive in your company. There is no old well oub in bhe garden, is there, thab you could drop him into a Iα Lady: Audley ? And, besides, he isn't a husband in the way '

'Vera, dear,' sayl Dora, sweetly, 'you are horrifying M>-s Charlton with your wild talk of husbands. My sistor—she is only sixteen—talks dreadful nonßense sometimes, indeed, ib is a family failing— nob on bhe Charlton side, of course.'

' But, Captain Dick — Captain Dick ! What has become of Captain Dick ?' reiterates Vera.

' He has gone to St. Ann's for letbers,' Bays Dora, resuming her place on bhe lounge. 'Aβ it sbands about one hundroa and fifty out in the sun, you may imagine how fascinating he finds your society, when he prefers to it a blazing three-mile walk. Now, don't talk to me, please ; I am going to take a nap. ,

Which ahe does almost at once, her mite of a hand under her rose-leaf ckeek, sleeping as a baby sleeps, wibh softly-partod lips.

' How pretty your sister is,' Eleanor cays, gently. ' Yes, is ehenot?' Vera answers, proudly, 'and so much admired wherever she goes. People turn in the streets to look after her, and Madamo Le Brun says she never had a forewoman half so popular before. , ' You are not in the least like her.'

' Oh, no, nob in bhe least! lam the Ugly Duckling, you know. There is generally ono in every hatching. ,

'And, like the Ugly Duckling, will turn by-and-by into a stately swan,' pays Eleanor, smiling down on the dark, thin face, with its great Murillo eyos.

' No,' Vera says, shaking her head with n sigh, 'such transformations are only in fairy tales and pantomimes. I am the Ugly Duckling, and I shall never be the swan. But I don't mind. I would rather have Dot pretty than be pretty myself.'

Here Mrs Charlton rises, excuses herae'f, and Bails away. Mr Charlton departs to write letters in hie study. Eleanor resumes her magazine, and Vera, reclining on the lounge, lapses into a daydream. The day-dream changes gradually into a real dream, in which she is floating over sunlit seas with Captain Dick, past fairy inlos all dottod with email grey houses, until they finally, and rather unexpectedly, come to anchor somewhere in the upper part of Fifth Avenue, before Mrs Trafton's front door. Captain Dick moors his craft to the brown-stono steps, and ie going up to ring the bell, whon— ' Three for the governor,' cays the pleasant voice of Captain Dick, <n the flesh, 'one for you, Miss Charlton, and half a dozen for myself. Ncno for you, Miae Lightwood, none for you, Miss Vera, although I suppose it to rather soon for your five hundred to begin.'

Vera rubs her eyes and sits up. He hands Eleanor her letter, and Dora, who is also awake, sees with one quick, keen glance, that the writing is a. man's. ' 1 Hid not expect ' Eloanor begins in" surprise. Then her voice falters, fails, she looks afc .the envelope, and grows pale. She lifts her eyes, and casts an anxious glance at Captain Dick, but his countenance is impassive. Her letter is postmarked St. Ann's, the chirography onmietakably masculine, but there is no curiosity in bis face.

'Imusb deliver the governor's,'he says, and goes. Miss Charlton rises slowly and goee upstairs. Dora's eyes follow her. The Burprise, tho falter, tho pallor, the postmark—Dora has seen all. Dora hoe eyes that ace everything. 'Now I wonder what you are about?' muees Miss Lightwood, 'and who our unwelcome correspondent is ? Are you a, fiery Southern lover come to guard your own, or are you a little bill:'

Little bills are the bane of Dora'a life, but this is no dun. It is short and affectionate enough to establish the acouraoy of Miss Lightwood's iirsb guess. And ib closes

• I know you will reaenb my disobeying orders, but, resent or not, I must: ace you. Do nob be too hard on a poor devil, Nelly—ib is eight months since wo met. See you, I simply must. I will be on the other side of the boundary wall, (where Mr Charlton's peach trees flourish) about eeven this evening. I will wait until nine, as I don't know the Charlton dinner hour. Do not fail. I expect a scolding, bub a scolding from you, my darling, will be sweeter than words of honay from another. E.D.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING. Day has passed, eyening baa begun, Ib is six o'clock, and the white quivering heab is spent, a breezo risea from the Atlantic, flutters every lace curtain, and blows through every window and door of the fine old Charlton Mansion. Over in St. Ann's the noises of the day are done ; down in the warm flushed west the sun—who has nobly done his duty all day, and baked the earth to powder—i 3 sinking out of sight. The flowers lift their hanging heads, there is a rustle and a flutter through all the leafy trees, the birds chirp as they go to roost, and revived by sieeta and bath, the ladies of the household in the dusky seclusion of chambers, are robing for the great event of the day—of all one's days—dinner.

' Dob,' says Vera, tiptoeing around, and straining her neck bo get a view of the email of her back, where ehe wishes to plant a bow, '£ am afraid ib is of no use. I am afraid >tis bo be Eleanor.'

' What is of no übo?' asks Dora, for this remark has been made (like the generality of Vera's remarks) apropos of nothing. But she smiles, too, as if she understood. Their rooms adjoin, bho door of communication Iβ open, and both are before their respecbive mirrors.

• About Captain Ffrench. Bother this sash ! 1 can'b get ib to come straight. I think he must be falling in love wibh her, Pot. He hae her picture as I told you, over there in thab funny little lighbhouse, and he has a way ot looking at her— What are you laughing at?'

'At your perspicuity, dear, at your profound knowledge of the ways and munnern of Richard Ffrench. This big solemn Dick who thinks we are all dying for him. Ho you are convinced I have no chance ?' • Well,'says Vera, reluctantly, 'you see everything was in her favour. You did not havo a fair stark, Dot.. Eleanor was here three days ahead, and a good deal can be done in throe days ' Vera breaks off, for Dora is laughing immoderately. The simplicity and earnestness of little Vera are too comical.

'Vera, child, you will be the death of me ! Do you really think I have come down here to marry Dick Ffrench —if I can? What a humiliating Idas. Not but that it would be worth whila ' She glances wistfully out over lawn nnd garden, green glado, and dense ehrubbery. 'Yes, It would be worth while, and what I can —I will do. .

• Worth while?' repeats Vera, 'I ehould think so. Ib is like the Garden of Eden. Old Mr Charlton must be awfully rich, ' Dob. ,

'A millionaire, my child.' 'Ah !' sighs Vera— a long-drawn sigh, a millionaire! Whab a rich, respectable, beautiful sound that has. And to be the step-daughter-in-law of a millionaire, or even the half-sister of the step-daughter-m----law. What bliss !' 'Are you nob getting things a litcle mixed?' Dora inquires, bub Ver* pays no attention. The bow is tied now, geometrically, on her spinal column, and she is leaning with folded arms on the sill, halt out of the window. A great wisteria brails with its purple plumes ail about bhe casement, and makes a setting for the black curly head and brown mignon face._ ' There he is now !' she exclaims, involuntarily. Captain Dick perhaps hears, for he looks up. He takes off his hat, takes out his cigar, and pubs on a penitent, an agonised expression. 'Am I forgiven? , he asks imploringly. ' If you only knew the daye ot misery I have passed, with a sin repenbed of, bubunpardoned, on my conscience! And bhe tocein of the soul is abopb to sound—be merciful while there is yec bime. How am I bo consume lamb and mint sauce, writhing under your displeasure?' Dora does nob catch Vera's shrilly indignant rejoinder—she is too far oub of the window. The conscience-stricken one down below wears an aspect of desolation, ani t tries a second appeal, this time with more success. Vera is relenting, to judge from the softened tone of her voice— the remorse of the culprit is nob without ibs effecb. Then—' I wish you would come down,' eajs Captain Dick, still mildly plaintive. 'I haven't, a soul to speak to, and I am never more alone than when alone. Come. ,

'Come into the garden, Maud, , sings Vera ; ' it is more than you deserve, still—' There is a swish of silk, a waft of wood violet— Vera takes bhe last three stone steps with a jump, and ie at Captain Ffrench s side. Dora watches them with a well-satisfied smile until they disappear. 'Yes,' she thinks again, 'it would bo worth while. And then the satisfaction of out manoeuvring that old double-chinned Witch of Endor. My ago.indeed ! The impertinence of trying to make me out thirtyone in Dick Ffrench's presence. Eleanor is to be princess consort, and she is to reign monarch of all she surveys at Charlton. Ah, well!' Mies Lip-ht-wood node bo her own pretty face in bhe glass ; ' this is to be a drawn battle, and all I ask is a fair field and no favour. 1 will back myself to win against Eleanor Charlton any day, in epito of the picture in the light-house, and her throe days' start in the race. ,

Miss Lightwood, looking very charming in one of the coetumes purchased with the three hundred dollars, goes downstairs and finds her host and Mrs and Mies Charlton already there. Vera and Captain Dick are still absent, but somewhere near, for Vera's joyous laugh comes every now and the.n, mingled with the boom of Dick's mellow bass. Presently they appear, a sort of laurel crown adorning the captain's hut, and Vera looking like a young Bacchante with clusters of trailing grape tendrils tangled in her dark, crisp hair.

1 Let us crown ourselves with roses boforo they fade,' quote Captain Dick. ' Miss Vera has given me brevet rank—the laurel wreath that posterity holds in storo for me, hns been anticipated. Peace is restored, wo have buriod the hatchet, wo have smoked the pipe—two, or three pipes —of peace ' ' Speak for yourself !' retorts Vera, ' I don't «moke, although I am half a Cuban. We havo not kepfc you waiting, have we? It is all Captain Lick's fault. , Mrs Charlton frowns. Vera is nob the rose, but «he grows near that dangerous flower. And whatever the heir's sentiments toward the elder sister may be, hie liking for tho youn;;er has been patent from the first.

' How admirably Captain Ffrench and Vera get on,' she fays, smilingly, as she goes in to dinner with her host, and Mr Charlton laughs in his "genial way. ' Oh, Vee,' he says, ' Dick was always remarkably fond of children. And she is really a bright little sprite.'

' She is sixteen years old,' says madam, sharply, but the hint U lost. They are in the dining-room, and all other projects merge themselves in dinner. It is a large apartment, cool and airy, with a carpet like greenest moss, pictures of fruit and flowers on the tinted walls, sea-green silk, and frosty lace curtains. The appointments, the silver, the srlaes, the courses, are excellent. The Charlton cook may not be a cordon bleu, but hho understands her art, and the result is eminently satisfactory. It is yoars, Dora thinks, with a deep l sigh of complacency, since she has dined hoforo. Sho has eaten to live—no more. Something of an epicure in addition to hor other virtues, is Miss Lightwood, Her artistic taate takes in with real pleasure the snowy naperyj the tall epergne of choice flowere, the ruby and amber tints of the wines.

Mr Charlton is a vory king of hosts, an ideal old-time gentleman, genial and mellow as his own vintages, honouring till women with old-time chivalry, and with an Arab's idoa of the virtue of hospitality. Mrs Cnarlton, in the place of honour, is paying unconscious components to the ekill of his chef, and for the moment both eyea and attention are completely absorbed. Opposite sits Eleanor, whom Dora regards with considerable curiosity. She is paler than usual, she eats little, a more than ordinary troubled expression saddene the gentle eyes. By Dora'e side is Captain Ffrench, and while he lends careless ear to her gay sallies, she *eea with inward rage that his oyes wander perpetually to Eleanor. He, too, obeervee the cloud, but it never occurs to him to connect it with the letter of a few houi'B before. It is her nagging old mother, he thinks, who is fretting the poor girl to' death. He ia character reader enough to guess pretty clearly what sort of Tartar Mrs Charlton can be when she likes. A great compassion fills him. In the love of some men, tho element of pity is an abeolute essential ; the instinct of protection must be tho kindlier, of the flame. Richard Ff ronch is one of these. His passion is not very profound, perhaps, as yet, but if Eleanor Charlton were the most designing of coquettes, she could not advance her interests half so surely in any other way. Aβ he sits here, ho would like to come between her and all life's troubles and toils, to shield her from work, and sorrow, and nagging, for evermore. And Dora's bright blue eyes read his face, and hie thoughts, as he sits beside her, like a printed page. Indeed, lees sharp orbs might, for the print is very large, ' Stupid idiot!' she thinks; ' thoeo big fellows, all brawn and muscle, are sure to be besotted about pensive, die-away daineola, and their lackadaisical airs. As if anyone could not see it was all put on with her dinner-dress. She has studied him well enough, it seems, to know that the seoret sorrow sort of thing is safe to go down.

To be continued next Wednesday.)