AN ILL-WIND.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5460, 11 January 1896, Page 2

AN ILL-WIND.

[by iza dupjus hardy.] Autiox of " A New Othello," " Only a Love Story," &c, &c. {All Rights Reserved.) "Hark ! don't you hear something like a ohild crying?" said Lxicy Hilton, looking up from her needlework. " Nonsense, it's only cats," replied Lydia. not raising her eyes from the fashion-book she was intently studying. "Listen, Lv, ' For the new mode of cutting the cape on the bias, lay a fold — ' "

"Wait, Lyd! it is a child's voice— and listen ! there's a tapping at the window," added Lucy. She threw down her work, crossed the room, opened the window, and looked out into the night. ' : ; "Oh, don't, Lvi;. you are letting in a most horrible draught ! " exclaimed Lydia, as the icy breeze swept in and fluttered the pages 6f her fashibn-b'obk: Looking oxvt from the cosy-curtained room, that was warm and bright with lamp and firelight, into the shadows of the garden where spaces of moonlit snow gleamed between the dark masses of the shrubberies, Lucy for the first moment did not see a small figure cowering against the window-sill, until a little, white, woet begone face was upturned to hers, and a little voice sobbed pitifully : " Oh, please, lady, do help us ! Mammy's very bad, and we're so tired and hungry, and so cold ! Do give us something to eat, and if 11 make mammy better." " But where is she ?" asked Lucy. "There, lady!" • Lucy leant.out of the window, looked in the direction the ohild indicated, and saw a dark, motionless heap lying like a blot on the whiteness of the enow.

" Lying there? Oh, Lydia!" she exclaimed, in compassion and dismay ; " it's a poor woman lying in the snow ! Go round to the front door," she added to the little boy ; "round that way, and I will come to you there."

" Oh, Lucy ! do take care ! It may be a plot to lure you out of the house,?' remonstrated. Lydia, whose imagination was romantic. .

. "The poor woman might die if she was left: to lie out there in the snow without help," replied Lucy, hurrying out of the room. .

In a few minutes she returned, and called to the servants with, what seemed to Lydia unnecessary excitement, " all about a tramp."

" Sarah, bring a glass of wine, and a biscuit, and my thick shawl. Lydl, whore are your. Bmelling-salts ?" • . " What's the matter ?" asked Lydia. "The poor woman has fainted; she is quite insensible, and the child won't leave her."

"Mind what you're about; it may be sometning catcMng !" Lydia entreated anxiously. But Lucy had no time.to lose. She ran back in!to the snow«covered garden, Sarah and the doqk following with lantern and restoratives to where the insensible woman lay. TJxey held the salts to her nostrils,' and j*ucy, gently raising and supporting herj head, put a spoonful of wine, to her lips, but her simple endeavours at reanimation were all in vain.

" Oh, Miss Lucy," said Sarah, " I'm afraid tMs isn't a faint ; it looks like something worse. * * * I'm afraid she's — — " The girl lowered her voice and looked at the child who was crouching by the woman's side and .clinging to her, crying piteously, but quietly, too weak and frightened to sob aloud.

Lydia presently came out, wrapped in furs, having felt nervous at being left so unkindly alone in the house, and stood at a discreet distance.

"What shall we do?" said Lucy anxiously. "Do you think we could manage, to crrry her to the house ?" The servants demurred, and Lydia remonstrated in alarm that they didn't know what might be the matter with heir.

"Here's the master, misa," exclaimed the cook, gladly, and Lucy, a loving daughter, arid always glad to see her father, had never been _ more glad than now. The Reverend James Hilton gazed in surprise and solicitude' on the group of all Ms little household gathered, round the prostrate woman. Their figures stood out darkly, like black silhouettes, against the snow in the. moonlight; the yellow rays of the lantern, which Sarah held, fell full on the woman's pale face and on the fair head of child nestling againat her. :

Lucy quickly explained the position, and the Vicar instantly desired Sarah to go for the doctor, calling at the Lodge on her way to send the gardener to help to carry the poor woman to the house. His instructions were promptly carried out, but before the Doctor arrived it was evident to the Vicar's experienced eye that there would be nothing when he came for him to do— no help that mortal hand could give would avert the end that was approaching fast. The patient was sinking rapidly from insensibility to death. They could see now that she was a pitiful wreck of what had once been youth and beauty, and her clothes, although they were old and worn and shabby, had, like the wearer, seen better days. But this poor soul woujd see no more days, no, nor hours, on eaitb now !

Lucy was terribly shocked at the tragedy passing under their eyes, the common everyday tragedy, that yet never loses its infinite awe-stirring impressiveness. . " Oh, father ! to think of a woman dying Of cold and starvation at our very gates !" Bhe aaid, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

"It may not be only cold and hunger that have brought her to this pass, my child," said her father, soothingly; "we cannot tell under what illness she may be sinking, until the doctor comes."

When the doctor did come,it was only to shake his head and confirm their fear that the end was close at hand.

It was with difficulty that they had got the little boy away from the dying mother; he had been given into the kindly care of the good-natured cook,, who strove to cheer and comfort him with tea and cake and cold ham. The child was ravenous, and «'ate like a. little wolf," as the cook said, but when he had feasted his fill, he had sav,ed a piece of cake, and cried to be allowed to go and take it to his "mammy," — his mammy who would never know or speak to him again, who even then

" Without a word or^sigh or groan to show

. A parting pang." had passed, a nameless unknown amongst strangers, to a land where cold and hunger, sickness and sorrow, shall be no more.

The doctor's opinion was that she had been far advanced in Consumption, but that undoubtedly privation, hardship and exposure had hastened the end. Who was this hapless waif who had thus drifted into their home only to die ? The child, when questioned, could tell them little. His name was Jackie, his mother's Mrs — — they could hardly make out the name, but thought it sounded like Dormer. They bad lived in London, in a street, close to High Street, "where the shops were," but he could give rib nearer description of it. They were going home, to mammy's home;. mammy had spent all the money she had on the train, and they had been walking all day, and mammy said they would get home to-morrow. Where was home ? Rose Vale. Was that the name of the house or village P He didn't know. Where was his father ? He had no dada.

Thi3 meagre information was all that they could gather, until Sarah came to Mr Hilton, bringing a little silk bag whioh they had found round the dead woman's neck, and hidden in her bosom, attached to a ribbon. There didn't seem to be anything in it bat bits of paper, she said, but she thought the master ought to see it. Eeverently and carefully the Vicar opened the Uttle bag, and took out the papers which had been thus jealously treasured over the dead woman's heart. They were only torn fragments — torn across and across; but on piecing them together he soon made out two certificates and a letter. The first certificate was of the marriage of John Edward jDorimer and Emma Bolton; the second, the birth of ' their son John aboutla year afterwards. ! The husband's age was given as twentyleven, the wife's twenty-one. By the date, tittle Jackie must be about sis years old; Vi(»r laid the paters' down thxmghtbJ]y^with a algh of c&Bpasaioa. Th«e

had been no wedding-ring on the woman's finger, but perhaps it had gone for bread— for her child's bread. What hidden story did these torn fragments— torn, yet treasured in her boßom— hint ? Was it by accident, or by some hasty act of unbridled passion, an impulse of destruction, followed and regretted afterwards, that they had come to this condition ? The letter might give some explanation. He turned to it ; it was only torn twice across, and he had no difficulty in fitting the pieces together. It was written on thick vellum paper, without date or address ; it had been apparently dashed off in haste, in a large bold scrawl, that had something characteristic about it. The Vicar read :— "My dear Emma, " I have nothing to add to what I said in our last interview. I can only regret that you received it in. such a- Spirit. I trust you will think better of it, and at least for the boy's sake consent to the plan I proposed. . If you persist, in refusing this arrangement, the best for all. pai-ties; there can be no necessity for any further communication between us. — Yours, '" J.E.D." There was no date nor address. " Poor soul !" said Mr Hilton, laying the letter down. " Whatever the story may be, it is a tragedy that has been played out 'to the bitter end!'" " What is to be done with that poor little boy?" Lydia, Hilton asked the next day, languidly sympathetic, albeit rather bored with the whole business. " There's only one thing to do with Him," | replied the Vicar, " keep him until we can ! find out.if he has any relations, anybody belonging to him who can take charge of him." " But that may take a long time to find out," demurred Lydia, "and then there may not be anybody !" "In that case 1 must look out for an opportunity of placing him in some good orphan school." "And until then we can keep him," said Lucy, appealingly. "It will be a dreadful trouble and responsibility," observed Lydia. "I will look after him, and take all the care of him," Lucy assured her. "He is such a dear 1 little fellow ; such an affectionate, .tender-hearted child." - ■ • - "I wish he wouldn't cry so,' it always makes me quite miserable to hear a child cry/'; said Lydia, who, indeed, felt it so distressing that she kept carefully out of the way, and left to her sister the sad task of telling the boy of his los 3. This was perhaps the best thing she could do, for, as she observed somewhat complainingly, "Lucy was the only person who could do anything with that child ;" but then Lucy " went on quite ridiculously. Only a little beggar boy ! and there was Lucy washing and dressing him, and feeding him with jelly, singing hymns to him, and saving his prayers with him ; not but what that was all very proper, of course," the Vicar's fairest daughter added, virtuously. Lydia Hilton was the fairest- of the sisters ; she was indeed the family beauty, her chiselled features and blooming complexion threw Lucy's modest good looks into the shade — though Lucy had the sweetest smile and the softest eyes, and there were those who even preferred her pale gentle face to that of her lonely sister. ♦ ■ . The Vicar made inquiries with a view to tracing the family connections — if there were any — of these waifs and strays, the living and the dead— -poor storm-tossed fragments, weeds of the world's wreckage — whom the tide of Fate or Chance had thus washed up at his doors. He could hear of no village in the neighbourhood called Eose Vale ; it must be the name of some house or farm. The name of " Dorimer " at first suggested no to him ; but later an idea came into his mind that somewhere or somehow he had heard it before. " Dorinier," said the village doctor, whom he consulted on the question. "Why, to be sure, Dorimer is the Cranstowne's family name. I fancy it is Lord Cranstowne's name— John Dorimer. Let us look in the peerage, and see if there is John Edward." "I haven't got a peerage," said the Vicar, whose interests were unworldly. "I have," rejoined the Doctor, whose interests were mundane. The peerage was consulted, and under the heading "Cranstowne" they found "John Edward Dorimer, 6th Baron." His age corresponded to that mentioned on the certificate of marriage ; but the date of hi 3 succession to the peerage, on the death of Ms elder brother was some three years later. There was no mention of his marriage, the heir-presump-tive was stated to be his cousin, Herbert Dorimer. "It must be a relative or namesake," said Mr Hilton, doubtfully. "H'm !" demurred the Doctor, musingly. "Stranger things have happened than a young fellow's making a fool of himself by a secret marriage with a low-born girl. But," he added, suddenly, after a moment's reflection, " this man is dead. I remember now quite well. He died of typhoid fever a few months ago. This peerage is last year's. Herbert Dorimer," referring to the important volume, "is Lord Cranstone now." They sat long discussing the matter. It was strange that the deceased woman, if she had any claim at all upon the Cranstowne family, should have been reduced to such a pass ; ao strange that they ended by being inclined to think that the correspondence of name and age must be a mere coincidence. Still they agreed that the first tiling to be done was to write to the present Lord Cranstowne, explaining the circumstances, not omitting to mention that, pending the receipt of any instructions from him, arrangements would be made for the interment to take place in simple and modest form.

At the Vicarage there was much interest felt and expressed in this new development of the position. Lucy was sure from the beginning that little JaoMe was of gentle birth: he was so nice-mannered and welltaught for his years, and had such pretty ways. Lydia thought it was very unlikely that a man of Cranstowne's rank would get entangled with " a poor girl of that sort," and suggested that perhaps some impostor had taken his name. Meanwhile, as no letter was received from Lord Cranstowne, the unhappy woman whose sorrowful life had drifted in darkness and mystery to its close was laid to rest in the little churchyard under the only name they could put | upon the coffin-plate — "Emma Dorimer." I One afternoon the Vicar and his family were sitting at tea, when they heard the sound of light wheels rolling swiftly up the carriage-drive and a peal at the halldoor bell. | "Visitors!" said Lydia, hastily putting up her hand to her head and craning her neck to steal a glance at the mirror and assure her that her hair was in order. "Lucy," with an accent of slight irritation, " why-do you have that child in to tea ?" "Why not?" replied Lucy with a reassuring smile at little Jackie, who was seated on. her lap with a large piece of cake in his hand. ' . " Your dress will be all over crumbs, and I believe it is Lady Manville," said Lydia, warningly, lowering her voice, however, as Sarah waß by this time heard opening the hall door. . < " I don't drop crumbs," averred Jackie, stoutly, lifting his cake to his mouth, and taking a resolute but careful bite. The voice now heard in the hall in parley with Sarah was not Lady Manvjlle's, however, and Sarah threw open the parlour door with somewhat more of a flourish than usual as she announced— "Lord Cranstowne." A young man entered, tall, good-looking, with a lithe, well-knit figure, and what Lydia immediately tabulated as a "thoroughbred air." The>, Vicar rose and went forward to meet the visitor. "Mr Hilton 9" the latter 3aid, in*courteous interrogation. The Vicar bowed assent. "I have called," Lord Cranstowne continued, going directly to the point, "to inquire into the matter of which you wrote to me. I have been afctoad, and only received your letter yesterday." He looked round the room, acknowledging the presence of the Vicar's daughters with a salutation not lacking in deference, although his expression' was serious and unsmiling. "Is that the child ?" he added. "Year replied Lucy, "this is little Jackie, Woa'i yovv go and epeak to the

gentlemau. dear ? " she added, setting the boy dovn -from hey ii:p. Br.v Jackie"hung back, clinging to her dre3s, and cra^in^' doubtfully and critically at the stranger with his grave blue eyeß. Lucy rose and took him by. the hand, and led him forward, saying coaxingly, "Come, darling, tell the gentleman your name ! "

"Yes, tell me what your name ia, my little roan ! "

The child found Ms tongue when he was reassured as to the intentions of the stranger who addressed him so kindly.

"My name's JaoMe Dormer," he said looking up bravely in the visitor's face. It was a nice face, Lucy thought, as she glanced \ip at it too. • It wore a somewhat troubled and thoughtful expression just now, but the eyes were frank and kindly. Itstruck her like a flash that there was a resemblance in them to little Jackie's. This thought may have struck Lord Cranstowne too, he looked so earnestly and searchingly at the child. ' ; i ' •" ' '•'

"This is a curious '-affair,' my lord,'' said the Vicar ;' "perhaps yon can throw some light upon it ?" "I am very much in the dark myself, but we| must get to the rights of it somehow," Lord Cranstowne replied. ' His tone was as Srin and resolute as it was frank, and it occurred to both Lucy and her father, as they looked at the young man's face, that it would be a very dark" place through which he would not find or force a way. The Vicar suggested . that they should "step into his study" to talk the matter over; and, accordingly, Lydia, and Lucy were left alone to discuss this new and interesting advance in the position, Lydia insisting, with a proverbial quotation anent "little pitchers," that Master Jackie should be banished to the kitchen. Mr Hilton and the visitor remained shut -up in the seclusion of the study for an hotir, which seemed a very long hour to the. girls ; and when they returned to the parlour, Lord Cranstowne immediately looked round and asked for the boy. Lucy jumped up and ran to fetch him, "in a very undignified way," thought Lydia, and Jackie soon made his reappearance, clasping Liicy's hand tight in Ms small chubby fingers. "

"My daughteiflhas taken a great fancy to the child," the Vicar observed. 'Lord Cranstowne smiled, and they all noticed what a pleasant smile he had, as he looked at the little boy nestling up to Ms protectress's side and burrowing into her skirts. He had the bad taste to seem more interested in that tiresome child than in Lydia's charms.. ■ Evidently the boy was the magnet that attracted his attention to Lucy.

"Come here, Jackie dear," said Lydia, ingratiatingly, " come and have this nice piece of cake ! "

The bribe of cake brought Jack to her aide.' ,

" Do you remember your father, Jackie ?" Lord Cranstowno inquired.

" Yes. Dada bought me a wockinghorse, so big ! "

" What was he like ? " Jackie opened Ms large blue eyes wide, as if piizzled, in a vacant stare.

"Do you remember, dear, what your father looked like?" Lucy urged him encouragingly. Jackie brightened. " Luce the gentleman," he replied with an indicative nod.

"My cousin and I were not generally supposed to be much alike," observed Lord Cranstowne; "but I suppose there was a certain family resemblance."

The young man soon rose up to take Ms leave.

" I will write and tell you how this matter progresses," he said, as he shook hands with the Vicar. " Meanwhile, as you are so kind as to offer to look after the child for the present, I will leave Mm in your charge. I hope Miss Hilton," turning to Lucy, "will not find him too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," Lucy answered warmly.

"We love cMldren," protested Lydia, promptly taking her cue.

But Lord Cranstowne's eyes were dwelling on her sister's face. "Thank you for your goodness to the boy," he said; more softly. " Perhaps some day Jackie will be able to thank, you better Mmself."

" That is a fine fellow," Mr Hilton said when tho visitor had departed.

"He has no hesitation about, doing the right tMng, and it is not every man in Ms place who would be so ready to see it and to do it. Of course, tMs is a very serious matted for him. He recognised Ms cousin's handwriting in the letter — a very important point. If those certificates are genuine — and I must say there seems no reason to doubt their genuineness — of course he is no more Lord Cranstowne than I am. It is tMs boy," laying his hand on little Jackie's curly yellow head, "who succeeds to the title and such property as goes with it."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lydia, in fervent sympathy with the young man whom she had already set upon a pedestal as her latest hero of romance.

"It would indeed be very hard on Lord Cranstowne," said Lucy, thoughfully. "But he does not look like a man who would even wish to defraud an orphan cMld of his birthright !"

The Vicar did not encourage the girls to dwell on the subjeot, but although they talked little of it in family conclave, they all thought of it a great deal — the father perhaps as much as the daughters. He had gathered from his conversation with the present Lord Cranstowne — if such indeed he were — that his predecessor in the title had, during his minority, caused much trouble and anxiety to his guardians, and that, later on, there had been rumours of some "entanglement;" but John Dorimer had not been of a temper to brook interference or questioning, and had gone his own way — a way on which but little light was shed, none knowing by what -possibly crooked paths it might wind. Hie cousin and successor now felt it his duty to, institute searching investigations into this matter, and ascertain whether he had indeed been married and left an heir.

The family at the Vicarage waited eagerly to hear the upshot of his' inquiries, but day after day passed and no letter from Lord Cranstowne arrived. When a little more than a -week elapsed, however, he came again, but came this time not alone j he brought with him a tall, spare, elderly man, with iron-grey hair, and keen eyes glancing shrewdly through his goldrimmed spectacles, whom he introduced as Mr Sharpe, who had been the trusted legal adviser of the family for many years, and who had — though, as it appeared, not too willingly — assisted Lord Cranstowne in prosecuting his researches into this question of the late peer's marriage. "Helping him to cut his own throat," as the old lawyer grimly observed. They had discovered the surviving relatives of Emma Bolton, who had disappeared from her home about seven years ago, and had afterwards written to her family, telling them she was married to a , gentleman, whose name, however, she was not at' liberty then to disclose.

They had further found the church where the marriage was performed, the clergyman who officiated, and the house to which John Dorimer had taken his bride. There were, of course,, still many gaps and lost inks in the story of this secret union ; what seemed clear was that the late Lord Cranstowne had married beneath him in haste and repented at leisure. It was at least possible that Emma Dorimer had not been aware of her husband's true position in life, nor of his succession to the title ; or it might be that, knowing it, she had acted on some impulse of outraged feeling and wounded pride in accepting the separation, and refraining, even on her child's behalf, from pressing her claim to acknowledgment as his wife. Or, again, it was possible that her mind had been worked upon to doubt the validity of her marriage, or that Dorimer, whose character came out but badly from the investigation, had desired to take the boy from her, and that she had fled and hidden herself from him in motherlonging to keep her child all her own.

Whatever the details of this sad story of a mesalliance might be, the truth of the marriage at least was clear.

"So," said Lord Cranstowne — or, as we must now call him, Herbert Dorimer — "there is no room for doubt that I have unknowingly stepped into this child's rightful place and usurped his rights. But now ihe boy cornea into his own again, He is

Lord Cranstov.-ne, and tho property is his. The ma:;.:;;- v.-ll! ?o:>ri bo arranged; Mr Sharpo will represent the little lad's interests."

" I would rather ha.ye represented yours,' rejoined the old lawyer, with a dissatisfied air. "It was against my advice that inquiries wevo pressed into this matter. No man is bound to criminate himself, nor to put himself of the way to seel: a cine to invalidate Mb own title. There v.-as no one who would have troubled to dig up this old affair, and push inquiries into the grave of this buried secret.

" That wag just why I had to do it," said Herbert Dorimer, frankly, "because there was no one else ! The child was an orphan, and hjul no other relatives to protect his interests."

"It was Quixotic, sir j" said Mr Sharpe, sternly. But his eyes dwelt on thte younger man's face" with" a' veiy friendly look, and their shrewd glance was "hot qxxite as keen as usual. His spectacles were rather dim ; he took' them off, and. wip'dd the glasses, and blew his nose. 'as he repeated, "It was a Quizotic thingfor a man to do ■"

"It wa3 a noble thing ?" said the Vicar, warmly. " Allow me to shake hands with you, Lord Cranstowne — excusn my calling you so once more ! And let say, and I am sure Mr Sharpe will agive with me, that however long a line of descendants of the family there may be, there will never be a wortMer one to bear the name !"

Mr Herbert Dorimer seemed rather embarrassed by his own praises, and hastily made a diversion by inquiring for "his young kinsman.". Murmurs outside the door presently indicated that Jackie strenuously objected to' enter the room without being protected by the company of Lucy, who accordingly came in with him. On the strength ,of his new position she had got Mm a little black velvet suit which he was weaving for the first time, and in wliich, '.vifch ' ■•":■! yollow curls neatly combed, Jackie loc!-.. ;i very pretty little gentlerman, ancias I'lj. I ' Sharpe was betrayed into observing, albeit reluctantly, as he looked upon the innocent instrument of .Herbert Dorimer's downfall, " a Dorimer every inch of Mm!"

".Well, Jackie, how shall you like to be Lord Cranstowne?" inquired he who, was yielding up that title. ; Jackie apparently set no great store by Ms" new dignity, for after 9ome hesitation he announced that he would rather have a box of soldiers.

" You shall have a box of soldiers, too," promised the kinsman, whereon Jackie, evidently thinking it would be a pity to waste his opportunities, now that fortune had sent him so generous a friend, added that he "should like a little horse and cart, too."

Herbert Dorimer smiled ; and, looking up from the boy to Lucy, he met her eyes unawares, and read in them an expression which, although he was not a coxcomb, he eoiald not but recognise as flattering — the nature of which, however, because he was not a coxcomb, he c6uld not mistake. The girl's eyes revealed as . honestly and simply as her father's words had done, a frank appreciation of Ms conduct in laying down the honours to wMch he had discovered he had no rightful claim.

•" Poor world !" thought the young man to Mmself, " to think one should be admired, and complimented for merely not being a rogue !"

But, all the same, he was gratified by that momentarily betraying glance in Lucy's soft brown eyes in the moment before they turned quickly from Ms, and the colour rose in her usually pale cheek, and the rose of her blush lent her new bloom and charm. Lucy was not beaxitiful like her sister, but he thought he had never seen a sweeter face nor a more graceful and winning air. Before the visitors left the Vicarage that day, Mr Dorimer inquired whether Mr Hilton would care to be troubled with so young a pupil as Jackie? for if he were willing to undertake such a charge, the boy could have no happier home, nor could Ms education and training be in better hands. The terms proposed were most liberal, and at the Vicarage ways and means had sometimes to be strained to make both ends meet; so it is probable that even if the; charge had been a more troublesome one, and if the family had not already conceived an interest in the boy, that the proposal would have been readily accepted.

So little Jackie became an inmate of the Vicarage. Mr Dorimer soon came down "to see how the boy was getting on," and came again, and yet again, and quickly fell into the habit of coming often and regularly. And Lydia always said that Jackie was "a sweet boy," and gave him toys and candy ; but the sweet boy kept steadily to Ms original preference for Lucy.

One summer day it happened that Mr Dorimer and Lucy were left alone in.the parlour, wMch did not so very often occur, as Lydia generally favoured them with her company. They were sitting by the very window to wMch the hungry sMvering child had crept in the darkness of the winter evening. The snow drifts had lain deep in the hollows, and spread like a wMte shroud over the gardens then. Now the August sunshine blazed upon borders ablopm with flowers, and the little Lord Cranstowne's joyous shouts came to their ears, as he raced and romped up and down the lawn with his favourite dog. The remembrance of that winter evening crossed Lucy's mind ; she thought of the hapless mother and the forlorn child, and spoke of these reminiscences to Herbert Dorimer.

"It is like a dream," she said. " And to think that it was only last winter ! It seems years and years since that day. I fancy poor little Jack remembers it sometimes still, although he is very happy now, ItMnk."

"He ought to be," Herbert Dorimer replied. "It was a lucky day for him. I wonder was it a lucky or an unlucky day forme?"

" Unlucky for you/ said Lucy, her soft eyes betraying the sympathy her lips did not utter. "For if Jackie's poor mother had gone to any of the poor cottages, and died there, they might not have noticed the torn papers, nor realised their importance, and so the writer of the letter might not have been traced. Tes, it was your unlucky day ; it was gain for Jackie, but all loss to you."

"All 1056," he repeated. "That is what I want to find out now. True, I have lost much — lost more than you think, unless you have guessed. Lucy, have you guessed — that I have lost my heart ?"

Lucy looked up startled, her own heart fluttering like a frightened bird. Was it Lydia, her beautiful sister, the power of whose all-conquering charms she was so well accustomed to hear acknowledged? But she met Herbert Dorimer's eyes, and before them her own sank shyly, while a swift blush mantled in her cheek, as something she read in his look revealed to her that it was not Lydia.

" Is it all loss ?" he added, softly. " Lucy, you are the one woman in the world for me. Must I lose — here too? — must I lose the hope I have been bold enough to cherish lately, that you might some day come to care for me a little ? Tell me, Lucy, have I been too bold ?" But he knew, as he held her little trembling hand fast in his own strong clasp, that he might be bolder still.

" Dearest," he said, with tender possessivenes3 a little later, when doubt and hope were merged in happy confidence, " it was the luckiest day of my life that brought me here. I lost the title and the estate, but the loss is nothing compared to the treasure I have won."

Sweet Lucy has been Mrs Dorimer for some time now ; the orange blossoms have withered from the bridal wreath; but Herbert Dorimer still thinks, and says, that his lucky star was in the ascendant the day that took him to the vicarage, to lose a fortune and find a bride.

Little Jackie grows a fine, tall, handsome boy, and promises, in spite of the inauspicious beginning qf his career, to be a credit to the family. He spends his holidays with the Dorimers, and is still devoted to bis couain Herbert's wife.

"How you are growing, Cranstowne !" said an old friend of the family one day, playfully rallying the boy. "Why; you are quite a man now; and when, pray, are you going to get married ?" "When I find a woman like Cousin Luoy," young Lord Oranßtowne replied, sturdily. "You'll have to wait some time, Jaok K

find look a long way. before you find that/ .■•-.■• ; .<t Hovuei'i ljwi.u'.r-:-. ;->ii - :!in<; - us the ivii'e who was " far nbove rubioi " in his eyes.