THE SUNDERED HEARTS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIII, Issue 7567, 20 February 1886, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE SUNDERED HEARTS.

BY MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, Author of " The Double Life," " The Bailiff's Scheme," Ac., &c. [Tn order that any new readers may begin the perusal of this story with the following instalment, and understand it just as though they had read it all from the beginning, we here give a synopsis of that portion of it which has already been published Lord Champney and his wile B»rbara had become estranged from each other by the treachery of Felix Warner,a cousin of Lord (Jhampney's, who, in Cise his Lordship should die childless, would succeed to his title and estates. The Lady Barbara had had but one child, a girl, who was put out to nurse by her husband whilo she was lying noar doath. When alio recovered, and asked for uer child. Lord Champney, whose jealousy had been finned into a florcs rage by Warner, refused to let her have it and when, in a lit of remors*. ho afterwards w<nt for the child, he was informed by Mrs. Narr, tho nurse, that it was dead and buried. The terrible blow seemed to deaden the heart of Lady Barbara, and her husband went abroad for m*ny years. On hi* return, it seemed as though the unhappy pair would ba reconciled, but Warnor managed to widen the breach between them, by conspiring with Colonel Effingham, an old and detested lover of Barbara's, to excite Lord Champney's jealousy lo >ucli a degreothat reconciliation would be impossible. Warner had become encaged to a beautiful girl named Dora Cllesaom (daughter of Squire Chessom), for the sake of the monoy it was supposed she would inherit. But the old Squire died suddenly, without making his will, and It was found that Dora was an adopted daughter, whoso mother, Mrs. Narr, claimed possession of hoi, as the young nquir* Che«som declined to do anything for her. When Felix Warner found Dora in London, with her drunken mother and her vagabond father, Jack Narr, who was an escaped criminal, he treated her so rudoly and insultingly that all love for him died out of her heart. She felt convinced that the Narrs were not her parents, and resolved to escape from them, which she did, with the assistance of Wool Weir, »n old neighbour and devoted lover of Dora's,whom she had rejected in favour of Warner. But hor retreat was discovered, and she was recaptured by the Narr3, and taken to u retired house at Chiswick, called the Black Cottage, which Warner had provided for that purpose. Soon after their arrival, Mrs. Narr discovered that Chiswick Lodge, the country residence of Sir Graham Gallagher, the court physician, overlooked Black Cottage. This gave her and her husband great uneasiness, as Mrs. Narr had formerly been Sir Graham's wife's maid, and through him had obtained Lord Charapney's child to nurse. Warner, while on a visit to Lord Champney at Saltair, one of his many residences, learned that the name of his dead child's nurse was Narr, and at once thought that Dora must be that child, and that the Narrs bad lied about her death. He adroitly drew from Lord Champney th» fact that his child had a birthmark—an irregular cross —on the right arm above tho elbow, and then as soon as posiible set out for the Black Cottage. Meanwhile, Noel Weir had tracked the Narrs to their retreat, and, to Dora's inexpressible delight, appeared under the window of her chamber one evening after dark. A large tree grew cloie by, one long limb of which stretched under the window. Noel soon climbed to that limb, and arranged for Dora's instant departure. Ske had put on her travelling dress, and was about to step oat on tho limb, when a cab drove lutiously up tothagite. Felix Warner alighted from the vehiclo, hastened towards the house, and Dora drew back into nar room in despair. The result of Warner's arrival is told in the chapter below.] CHAPTER XXIX. PUT TO THE PROOF. The arrival of Felix Warner at that lafc hour at Black Cottage, and so unexpectedly to Dora and tho young Squire, of cours interrupted and deferred the young girl's projected escape, " Was there ever anything so inopportune?" sighed Dora, as Warner disappeared with Mrs. Narr within the door of the dwelling. " What shall we do, Noel " Wait and see what the villain wants," replied Noel, from his sheltered nook amidst the thick foliage of the trees,

He cannot want to see me 2" said Dora, anxiously and uneasily. j> \ " I think he will call upon you." Dora began .to tremble. Noel could see how white her face grew, as she leaned against „the window, looking up pleadingly at him. " , , . , " If I could only be spared this meeting 1" she murmured. ' r,v :t - » ■■ - The young Squire's heart yearned toward her. v -A,; • "My poor little Dora!" he, whispered. "Be brave. Remember lam near you, , and I shall be ready at your call to spring in at the window at your aid. Ab soon as he goes, we will make our escape. Can't you keep up your courage a little longer ?" . , ; ,,, The girl nodded assent, and her countenance grew brave and calm. She went back into the room and removed her hat and sacque, and then, returning to the window, leaned against the frame, and looked out upon her lover with softly shining eyes. i v'-i-Kr She was standing there, when her door unlocked, and Mrs. Narr entered, bearing a light. ' . "Yon have not gone to bed, Dora?" she asked, in a harsh, peremptory voice, holding the light above her, and peering at the bed. " Ah, no ! There you are at the window amoouing J" She set down the candle, and advanced towards the maiden. r . Dora dropped the thin laoe ourtains, thus screening the open window, and moved a few steps towards the centre of the room. The woman eyed her critically. "You'll do," she muttered. "You are looking even better than usual, with them blushes on your cheeks v Someone has come 1" " I know it," said Dora, quietly, " I saw him—Mr. Warner." "Oh ! you did ? I never saw a man who loved a girl as he loves you, Dora. He has traced you here— "You mean," interposed Dora, "that you sent him word of my whereabouts." ; , The woman looked at Dora sharply, and then broke into a boisterous laugh. " You keep your eyes open, Dora," she exclaimed, admiringly. " Well, I won't deny that I've Bent him word where to find us, for a kinder, civiller-spoken gentleman I never saw ; and so he's come, and he wants to see you. Will you go down to the parlour, or will you see him here ?" As she asked the question she looked around the neat chamber, as if to examine into its fitness for a reception-room. The bed was set in an alcove, and hidden by curtains of white dimity. The room itself ! had always served as a lady's private sittingroom, and was well-adapted for the purpose. "I decline to see him at all," said Dora, spiritedly. "I dislike Mr. Warner, and I have no wish to hear any more insults from his lips. If you are my mother—as you claimyou will protect mo from the foul presence of this man." Mrs. Narr frowned. " This is pretty talk to your mother !" she ejaculated. " You are my daughter, you are a minor, and consequently obliged by law to obey me ; and I command you to receive Mr. Warner as my friend, if not as your own. Things have come to a fine pass, I think, when daughters, if they have been adopted out by a fine family tha,t turned 'em out poor and helpless, attempt to dictate to their mothers. You have got to see Mr. Warner or you'll regret it—that's all." Dora's cheeks flushed with indignation, yet she controlled herself admirably. "I am in your power, Mrs. Narr," she said, coldly. "Since I must seo your ' friend,' I will see him here." "And you'd better be polite to him," warned Mrs. h'arr, shaking her head threateningly. " You are only the daughter of poor parents,'and your line-lady airs won't pass here. Just forget that Squire Chessom and his wife ever adopted you, and made much of you, and bear in miud that you are only Dora Narr, and not much at that." With this she retired from the room. Dora retreated again to the window. A minute later the door again opened, and Felix Warner came slowly and hesitatingly into the chamber.

Dora regarded him in surprise. All bis smoothness and assurance seemed gone. He was pale and dejected, and appeared to be in deep trouble. His eyes drooped before her bright glances, and his manner was at once anxious, humble, and deprecating. His new character, however, sat well upon him. His deep melancholy, as perhaps he knew, was becoming to him. Ho had left Saltair on the previous day, as has been said, and had slept in London the previous night. This day, at the close of which ho had now called upon Dora, had been spent by him in the vicinity of the Surrey Farm, of which Jack Narr had formerly been sub-tenant, engaged in a close investigation of the affairs of the Narrs. He had made various discoveries, and now, when he stood before the young girl the' picture of sorrow and humility, he was at heart glad and exultant. He paused near the door, and, raising his eyes in seeming timidity, exclaimed in a voice of deepest melancholy : " Dora" "Miss Chessom, if you please, sir!" said Dora, with spirit. He came a step nearer, and looked at her as in anguished pleading. Dora drew closer to the window. Her radiant brown eyes were glowing like stars. The rose tint in her cheeks flickered like a red flame behind an alabaster shade. Pure and dainty and sweet, with a rare and glorious loveliness, she was as much above Warner as an angel is above a demon. He seemed to feel the distance between them, and made as though he would have knelt to her. Dora," he said, in a broken voice, "I have come back to crave your forgiveness for that cowardly insult of the other day. I did it in a moment of madness. Forgive me." And now he actually sank on his knees at her feet, and lifted his pleading face, on which were tears. He was a splendid actor. He might have made his fortune on the stage, since he acted the character he had assumedthat of the heart-broken, repentant sinner—to the life. Dora was bewildered. Yet, somehow, she felt vaguely his insincerity, and shrunk from him. "You had better rise," she said, coldly. "Kneel to your Maker, not to your fellowmortal." "My place is at your feet," groaned Warner. " I will never rise until you have forgiven mo. Can you not make allowances for me, Dora ? Is there no tender pity for me in your soul ? I was mad when I insulted you. It all came from my accursed pride. Can vou ever make allowances for me ?"

" i don't think I tan, replied Dora, dryly. "But hear my defence," he urged. "I come of a proud family—the Champneys of Champney Mere. They are a haughty old race, and—and I was in fear of my cousin, whose heir I am, .Lord Champney. I had told his Lordship that I loved Miss Chessom, of Chessom Grange, Sussex, and had told him that she came of good family, and was of gentle blood. He gave his consent, which I asked as a matter of form, to our marriage. And then came your letter to me, declaring your rightful parentage. You can never know what a shuck that was to me—never 1" He paused, as if he were choking with emotion. " Was it not a shock to me ?" asked Dora, with a mournful pathos. " I lost home, name, friends, a position in the world, a tender father and a lover, all at one blow." " No wonder you thought I deserted you, , Dora, and all the while 1 loved you better than I loved my life," said Warner, humbly. " My love and my pride battled, but my love won. I went to London, determined to plead for our immediate marriage. I entered your lodgings in time to hear Narr protesting, while half-intoxicated, that he should make a speculation of your marriage. A horror and disgust of your relatives came over me. Before that disgust had worn > off I had insulted you, as you know but too well. Dora, I went back to Saltair a miserable, heart-broken man. I would that I had died before I had alienated from me the priceless boon of your love. Have you no pity for me ? Does not your heart soften to "my repentance ?" ; V ! ■ Did your heart soften to my sorrow and despair when you found me with the Narra in London?" demanded Dora, sternly, her proud, high-bred face severe in : its. purity and calm rebuke. " You . found me with people of whom I knew nothing, save that they claimed to be my parents. I had nothing in common with, them. In that hour 1 could have-turned to ; you as a child turns to its rightful home —but you repulsed me It was not me you loved, Felix Warner —not plain Dora's self —but the supposed heiress of Squire Chessom, the well-connected young lady." . ■ "By Heaven,"no! The Chessoms are well enough, but even you, innocent as you are of the laws of society, must know

nought of social casta to comprehend that the Chessoms could not afford an equal match with a member of the bouse of Champney, It was the low. connections I .shrank, from— that , vulgar, drinking couple below, with their career as fugitives from - justice. Believe me, Dora, I am not so bad as you think me!" ; " You need not defend yourself to me, Mr, Warner. I have no longer a personal interest in your character or thoughts. _ •Warner did not seem to hear her. He continued : ~"I went back to Saltair, bearing a poisoned arrow in my heart. I thought the matter over, and all your winsome young beauty came up to my mind like a veritable apparition, and I knew that I had made the mistake of my life, and that I loved you as a .man can love but once. Yesterday I received » telegram from Jack Narr, telling me where you were. And I have come to you, Dora, < a humble penitent, asking forgiveness and restoration." s "You are too late 1" said the young girl, sighing. "Too late ! Oh, not too late. 0, Dora, unsay those fatal words ! I love you, I love you. You will not oast me off ?" • Dora gently unolasped from her dress his clinging fingers? There was a real anguish in his face and voice that touched her to the quick. She felt convinced now that ho was sincere, and her tender soul pitied him. "You pain me, Mr. Warner," she said, softly, her bright young face glooming. "It is all over between us. You yourself cut the tie that united us. Spare me any further words." You cannot mean it, Dora," cried Warner, shrilly. " You will let me woo you back to me as gently as a bird woos its mate ? You are lonely and sorrowful, under the guardianship of two oppressive, hard hearted, and uncongenial persons. Let me lift you out of this bondage. You promised to be my wife ; redeem that promise now. I will buy off these people, so that you shall never see them again. I will marry you at the church altar. I will take you with me to Champney Mere as my honoured and beloved bride, and Lord Champney and Lady Barbara, his wife, will make you welcome. Marry me, Dora, and your life shall be one dream of joy. Yon shall never know a care, a sorrow, or a burden. I will shield and guard you as something too rare and precious to encounter the rude shocks of life. You shall be to me like some rare exotic flower, or like some glorious tropic bird, made to live in the sunshine. Oh, Dora, marry me, and let me show you how I love you." He pleaded as a man pleads for what is dearer to him than life. His voice trembled with passionate desire. He was terribly in earnest.

Dora's face, with its bright radiance clouded over, its piquancy given place to a sweet seriousness and solemnity, and her great brown eyes—black now—foil of tremulous lights and shadows, shone upon her pleading lover with the glory of an unattainable star. "I believe you are sinoere, Mr. Warner," she said, gently, "and I pity you." " Pity is akin to love, they say. Don't you lore me, Dora ? Do you remember the sunny morning when, as we sat in the old drawingroom at the Grange, I asked you to be my wife You looked up at me then with shy blushes, Dora, and whispered assent. Is that love all gone, darling ? Have you banished me entirely from your heart ? Can a woman love and so soon forget ?" " No, she cannot love and so soon forget," murmured Dora, half-unconsciously. The leaves on the tree by the window rustled, as if the wind was shaking them. Noel was trembling. Dora seemed to be going beyond hii reach, decoyed by the false light of this false love. A moan arose to Mb lips, and was changed to a heavy sigh. But Warner heard nothing to indicate to him the presence of a listener. " You have not forgotten then ?" he whispered, beginning to hope, as his hidden rival began to despair. " You love me a little still ? Oh, darling, you give me new life, You will marry me ?" He arose, and put out his arms to embrace her. She put him from her by a commanding gesture. You mistake me, Mr. Warner," she said, with a pretty girlish dignity. " I said that when a woman' loves she cannot so soon forget. But I did not say that I had ever loved." " You are playing with me." "No, lam telling you the truth. When you came to Chessom Grange, I was but a child in experience. I was flattered by your gallant attentions and compliments. When you asked me to marry you, I assented. I fancied 1 loved you, but it was only a fancy. After you came to me in Londonafter I had fled from you and the Narrs— was astonished to find how little I grieved for your loss. I have never shed a tear of regret that you turned out so ill. I have never had one sleepless moment for you ! I have never wished you to return ! In short, Mr. Warner, as these statements show, I never loved you 1 There was a time when you might have won my love, but that time Had you come to me in London in tender love and sympathy, you might have won my heart 1 Now it is too late—for ever too late!"

Warner's cheeks whitened. " If on are in earnest?" he said, huskily. " In full earnest 1" "Riches, honours, a lovely home, plenty of friends, my love and devotion, our happy marriage—nothing will tempt your heart back to mo ?" '• Nothing whatever ! said Dora, lowly. ''And I hare thrown away the priceless gem with my own hands ?" Dora bowed slowly and pityingly. Warner turned from her with » groan. . That moment held for him an awful bitterness — the bitterness of a terrible defeat! He had expected to win her back by a show of sorrow and penitence, but though she felt a pity for him, it was not of the kind that is "akin to love." A little while they stood thus in a dead silence. Dora, looking behind the parted curtain into the shadows of the leaves and branches of the tree, encountered the radiance of a pair of glowing eyes. Strangely enough, as she had not owned to herself that she loved the young Squire, her heart thrilled as it had never thrilled before. Presently Warner came back to her, and said : " Dora, is your decision irrevocable?" The girl blushed as she answered in the affirmative. "I could give you your freedom if you would consent to marry me," he urged, eagerly. " Otherwise the Narrs will continue to keep yqu a helpless prisoner here." " They cannot do so long. This establishment is beyond their means. Once you withdraw your countenance from them, Mr. Warner, and they will give np this cottage, and return to lodgings.. You know they came here simply on your account, and by yonr advice." <■ Warner's face began to harden. > " You deny thatyou ever loved me, Dora," he said. "Do you love another? That Sussex chaw-bacon who presumes on his university education and the fact that he is the son of a country squire, and who has been hanging about you since you left the Grange, and till you came here—surely you do not love him f" . ■ > "I decline to make you my confidant," said Dora, spiritedly. "I do not recognise your right to question me." "I have the right of a cast-off loverthe right of your betrothed husband," said Warner, bitterly. " Our engagement has never been dissolved—"

" I dissolve it now, then." Warner's face became livid, yet he strove to speak calmly. "Dora, that country • clodhopper is no match for you. Your beauty, your purity, your charming ways, your childlike innocence, all constitute a more than royal dowry. You are a match for a king— " Last week you did not think me a match for a nobleman dependent," interposed Dora, with a dash of sarcasm. A gleam of anger appeared in Warner's eyes. Dora's shot had gave home. " You are not generous," he said, hoarsely. "I see, however, that 1 am too late. Harsher measures may induce you to look at the matter in a different light. I am inclined to leave you to the tender mercies of the Narrs. Perhaps, after you have had a further taste of their authority and ways, you may think you can do worse than to marry me. Your chaw-bacon won't find you here ; and if he should, the discovery won't benefit him. , In England, there is a law to punish those who abduct minors from their parents and guardians. He "will not dare to break the law. Your father has full and entire claim upon you."' , ! ' ' '■ ■' •' 1 "I doubt that Jack arr is my father," said Dora, coolly. 1 ■ 1 Warner started. I " What makes you think so 1" he de* manded, huskily.

" My instinct. "J Warner looked relieved. > " Romantic nonsense," he muttered. " It's hard to come down to the truth ; but I don't wonder it is so. I 'pity you, Dora. Brought up as you have been, this reverse is terrible'.' Forgive me the harsh words I have been betrayed into speaking, and believe me your true friend. - If you want help and comfort, or if you get tired off this place and .these people, let,me know. My .arms are always open to you. ; Think the matter over tonight," he added, "and you , may - have a different answer for me in the morning." ) " You stay here to-night, then "I shell be here n. day or two. 1 will call upon you again to-morrow. Perhaps reflection may teach you wisdom." ; t , ' He held out his hand. Dora hesitated, then placed her hand coolly into his. " You need not wait here for, an answer," she said ; " you have it already—the only one I shall ever have for you !" . ' Warner pressed her hand, paused, seeming' to be gathering his courage, and then with a sudden movement he caught the sleevd of her grey dress in his fingers and dexterously tore it open to the elbow ! The girl started back, reddening with indignation. But Warner held her wrist in a fierce , grip and drew it up to the light. . He saw imprinted upon the white,, soft flesh what he expected. There it was—a red, irregular cross, small and quaint of shape, but perfectly distinct and recognisable ! It was the mark which Lord Champney had described as having been upon the arm of his supposed dead daughter ! Warner uttered an ejaculation that Dora failed to comprehend, and said : "Forgive me that mad impulse. lam going, Dora, but you may expect me to-mor-row." . * j; He hurried out of the room in a strange agitation, locking the door behind him, and giving the key to Mrs. Narr, who was sitting patiently on the stairs. / Then he followed the.woman down to the parlour, muttering: "I see it all! The girl is the daughter that Lord Champney and the Lady Barbara mourn as dead ! I see my way clear to an immediate fortune ! The girl's spirit must be broken. She must become mine ac once, by fair means or foul. I shall stop at nothing."

CHAPTER XXX. A CHANGE OF QUARTKRS. In one of the pleasautest parts of Surrey, and but a few miles distant from the Thames, lies the ancestral home of Lord Champney, known as Champney Mere. The house itself is a grand old mansion, with a magnificent fa9ade, and presents a most imposing appearauce. It is flanked by stone terraces, with stone steps, and low carved balustrades, and it is approached by a wide, lime-shaded avenue, at the foot of which is the great gateway, guarded by a picturesque stone lodge. There are stately gardens, fine parks, and sunny lawns belonging to Champney Mere, and all these were kept in immaculate order, although Lord Champney had paid the place but flying visits for many years, and although his wife had not been here since the early days of her marriage. The mere from which the place took its name, lay to the eastward of the house, and in full sight of its long east windows. It was a fine, clear sheet of water, covering about fifty acres, and its borders were fringed with pollard willows, whose drooping branches trailed on the water, and cast a host of tremulous shadows. Upon that day, in the latter part of June, which Lord Champney had appointed for his return to the Mere with his wife, the place presented a scene of rare festivity and gladness—such as, indeed, it had not witnessed since the Baron had brought home hiß bride eighteen years before. The day was lovely. Not a stick, stone, or leaf marred the cleanliness of the wide avenues and walks or the smooth-shaven lawns. The mere lay in the glad sunlight, within its fringe of encircling willows, like a glittering and giagantio diamond. . The house itself wore a festal air. Although the house steward had had but two days' warning of the home-coming, the plate glass windows glittered like jewels, and were shaded by gay Venetian awnings, fresh from London. A flag fluttered from a staff on the topmost turret. The entranoe doors were open, and the wide, great hall and the grand portico outside were all wreathed with flowers and branches of spicy, odorous pines.

The tenants of the Baron, of whom there were at least thirty, had gathered, with their families, to do honour to the return of their landlord. The house servants, who had been attached to the Champney family all their lives, had gotten up this impromptu reception of their master, who, they fondly hoped, had come back to the Mere to spend the remainder of his days ; and the tenants had joined in with them with hearty accord, for the Baron was one of those persons who are ever considerate of the rights and wishes of those inferior to himself in point of wealth and station. At about three o'clock in the afternoon the tenants had assembled on the lawn in gala attire, the house steward moving about among them and doing the honours of the occasion with a beaming expression on bis portly, rubicund countenance. " This begins to look like it, Mr. Hodges," he exclaimed, clapping a stout miller familiarly on the shoulder. "We're going to have the old times back again. My Lord has done with them heathenish furrin courts, and is going to live at home with my Lady like a Christian. You'll see gay doings now, mark my words. Company from London, excursions to abbeys, to the Tems, to where not, and tiding and hunting parties, and feasting and jollityoh ! it all seems too good to bo true!" "So it do, Mr. Leffles—so it do!" returned the miller, half-growling, half-approvingly. " The way I look at it is this : vYhen a nobleman has a handsome propitty, clear an an'cumbered, I take it it's his duty to stay't home on it, and not go gallivanting off to heathen countries, as my Lord has done, Why, I hear strange stories of them Germans, and no good of 'em, except that they are good at drinking beer, which, I take it, 'is the best thing you can say about 'em. Furriners are heathens, anyhow you take 'em. There's no difference between 'em, only some cat frogs, and some don't." The house steward was about to reply to this piece of profound wisdom, when the children and young people set up a great shout of joyous welcome. The carriage was coming ! Mr. Leffles retreated to the house, in the main hall of which the servants were drawn up in phalanx, and placed, himself at their head with an expression of the severest dignity on his portly face. The carriage had been sent to the station to meet the travellers, who had come on from London, having left Saltair on the previous day, and having spent the night in town, stopping at a hotel. • Presently the carriage approached the great gates, which swung open, amid shouts and cries of welcome, and wheeled slowly up the avenue.

Flowers, singly and in bouquets, were showered upon the new-comers, and rained into the open carriage, and the Lady Barbara bowed and smiled right and left, and Lord Champney, pale still from illness and mental pain, took off his hat and waved it in smiling, courteous acknowledgment , of the hearty greetings. ; .v "How happy they are !" said little Mrs. Hodges the miller's wife discontentedly. "See the white plume on her bonnet flutter. , It's' plain that my Lord dotes on my Lady, and that she has everything that heart can wish for, and not a care in the world. What a difference there iB between rich and poor and high and low, to be sure ! It's the way of the world, I suppose." - • ' The carriage bowled on, its occupants still bowing and smiling. - What a farce it all was to the Baron and the Lady Barbara ! They happy, and without a care ? They had not interchanged a word since they had left Saltair Manor on the previous day. They had occupied different apartments' at the' London hotel, and were farther apart at this moment in heartt than if their bodies were at the opposite Poled. The carriage drew up at the portico, 1 and Lord Champney alighted and; gave his hand" to the Lady; Barbara. The two ascended the steps together. r j 'J rr A moment was given in the hall to greetings of old family servants, and 'then the noble couple passed into the drawingroom, "i Leffles and the housekeeper followed.' '. " Leffles," said his Lordship, r with > a ghastly smile, " I have been ill, w you see. I am even bow fitter to be in bed than out of it. Let the tenants be properly entertained with caked and ale, and whatever else they want. r Let them have a good time, and a dance on the lawn if they like ; and say to them that i Lady Champney and I r properly appreciate their cordial and kindly reception,

and shall hope to see them all here again at k a later period." , ...... , Leffles bowed, and withdrew on bis errand. The housekeeper, a prim little woman in a blaok silk gown, brought herself under the > Lady Barbara's notice. • . " Why, Mrs. Bisset," said her Ladyship, extending her hand with a smile. 41 You are still housekeeper, as you were eighteen years ago. . How little you have changed." " Aud I may say the same to yourself, my Lady," replied Mrs. Bisset, much flattered. You are looking as young and fair as yon did when you came here a bride, and handsomer, my Lady J" she added enthusiastically. " You look like a queen. Ah, it's easy to aee tbat you are happy." The Lady Barbara's fair face shadowed a little. She toyed with her glove fastenings, bending her head so that her countenance might not be seen. "Yes,. Bisset," said Lord Champney, with an odd laugh, "her Ladyship's very happy» And so am I. You haven't complimented me on my bright looks. But about the rooms. Are they ready ?" The housekeeper looked puzzled as she responded, with a courtesy : "Yes, my Lord, but I thought Lefflea must have made some mistake. He ' said your Lordship ordered the east rooms to be got ready for my Lady, and ordered for your own use a suite in the west wing. And though I thought Leffles must have misunderstood the letter, the rooms are all ready—" " Quite right," interposed the Baron, out* ting her explanations short. " There was ne mistake. 1 know the way to my own room^, and shall not need attendance to them. Bisset, you may show Lady Champney to her own apartments, and be kind enough to attend upon her until the arrival of her maid, who will be here with the luggage soon." As he concluded, he went out hastily, and sought out his own apartments. There was a compassionate look in the housekeeper's eyes that touched the pride of the wrongfully suspected wife. "You may lead the way upstairs, Mrs, Bisset," she said, calmly, yet with burning cheeks. "I will go to my rooms." Mrs, Bisset obeyed. The "east rooms" were situated directly over the drawingroom, and overlooked the mere. They consisted of three or four apartments, connected by sliding doors, and com* prising boudoir, dressingroom, bedchamber, and bathroom.

The windows were long and wide like doors, and opened upon a wide balcony. At the present moment, as the afternoon was sultry, all . the windows were ajar, and the room was penetrated with the delicious summer breeze that was scarcely more than a zephyr, yet sufficient to relieve the air of , deadness and oppressiveness. The furniture of tho boudoir was upholstered in a pale blue satin, in a fine state of preservation. Flowers crowded the vanes, looped up the lace window drapery, and filled the basket-frame which took the place of the winter grate. Their perfume was inexpressibly delightful. The Lady Barbara laid aside her bonnet and wrappings, and sat down in an armed chair by one of the windows. A host of memories thronged into her mind as she sat there, and held her silent. She had couae to Champney Mere a bride, fresh from the marriage altar. These had been her bridal rooms. Sidney had fitted them up for her before her marriage. Sho remembered that he had chosen the pale blue satin upholstery, because, as he had said, it contrasted so perfectly with her dazzling complexion and hair of pure pale gold. How everything had changed since then ! Mrs. Bisset, solicitous for her Lady's satisfaction, hastened to say : " I have taken care of these rooms myself, my Lady, since you were here. The rooms have been kept dark, and the furniture hasn't faded. Bat 1 suppose your Ladyship will fit up your rooms in modern style ?" " I dare say," said the Baroness, carelessly. " Yet I like them as they are, What is that noise, Mrs. Bisset? Wheels?" The housekeeper went to the front window. "It's the trunks, my Lady," she said. " . will order them brought np." She hastened to do so. [To be continued.]