"Not at all! I couldn't think of such a thing," returned the young widow." And, in any case, I should only have been able to stay a few minutes. My sister Annie-the one from Westmoreland, you know—is coming this afternoon to spend a week with me, and I must get home to receive her."

"Ah? That will be a comfort to you," observed Mrs. Ashmead. "And I am glad to see you are looking much better than when I saw you last."

I was

"I don't know that I am feeling much better, thank you. But the fact is that I am excited just now, and angry, very angry. coming to tell you about the cause of it."

Her companions uttered simultaneously some interrogative

exclamation.

"What do you think, what do you think, is the reason why my brother-in-law has put off his return to England so long? You would never guess! You would never believe that any one could be so unfeeling, so heartless!"

"Douglas-Captain Awdry, I mean-is neither unfeeling nor heartless," protested Olivia, with a sudden heightening of colour.

"I think you will admit that he is both," rejoined Mrs. Awdry, "when you know what he has done, when I tell you that he has actually married since his brother's death! That in a few days, now, he will bring his bride to Clavermere Chase. A bride just after a funeral! My poor Julius! Don't you consider it shocking, Mrs. Ashmead?"

Mrs. Ashmead looked at her daughter; but Olivia had stooped to pick up the driving-whip which she had let fall, and her face was hidden from view.

"I-I am very much surprised," stammered the elder lady. "You are sure it is true? We had not heard of any engagement."

"Neither had I. But there is no question about its being true. He has written to the house about having rooms prepared, and he has written to me to Maylands. Of course he offers some sort of excuse, or apology-but nothing can excuse the action in my opinion. My poor boys dead-and my husband scarcely cold in his coffin-and his own brother to choose such a moment for getting married!"

"They were half-brothers only, Mrs. Awdry," corrected Olivia, looking up after recovering her whip-her complexion of a curious grey shade, her whole frame quivering with sudden mental anguish— but her first impulse that of defending the man she loved. "And Mr. Awdry has been dead two months, and more. Besides, you

must remember, they were never upon very affectionate terms; and ... and I have no doubt that, if we understood all the circumstances, we should see that the haste-though it comes with a little shock to us-has not been so great as we think, and that . . . that it is pardonable-justifiable."

"I shall not pardon it, at any rate," broke in Mrs. Awdry. . . . "Oh, I had quite forgotten!"

What she had forgotten the lady did not say-but she sat gazing, for some seconds, at Miss Ashmead's changed countenance with an air of wonder and curiosity in her own. That look and her exclamation brought the colour back in a rush to Olivia's cheeks. She bent forward smiling. "Do you know the bride's name, Mrs. Awdry?" she asked, "or any particulars about her? This news has taken us quite by surprise; but, you see, we have known Douglas Awdry ever since he was a boy of ten, so that, naturally, we are very much interested in it—are we not, mother?"

Mrs. Awdry blinked her eyes. Had the sun dazzled her, she wondered, that she had thought Miss Ashmead looking so strange and ghastly? It must have been so. . . . Why, yes, now that she recollected that story correctly, it had been she who had given him up, not he her! "Well, I do know her name, but not very much else about her," she replied, her somewhat stupid astonishment giving place again to petulant irritation. "She was a Miss Estcourt; and as one excuse for the hurried marriage, he declares that he has loved her for four years-ever since he went out there to Canada. But to marry directly he had stepped into his poor brother's shoes! To rejoice, as I am sure he did, over my losses which have brought his good fortune, that's what enrages me so I don't think I will have anything to do with either of them when they come."

"Oh, yes, my dear, you will," put in Mrs. Ashmead. "Family quarrels look so bad, you know. I can understand your feelings; and I think, myself, that Douglas ought to have waited longer. But we must all keep friends. It would never do to have a disruption in the family," she added, with that assumption of relationship which so often drew a smile to the lips of her acquaintances. "Oh! Olivia, what are you doing with the reins? Brownie is growing quite restive. I never knew him do such a thing before!" The over-fed pony, which emulated the "fat boy" in "Pickwick" in its capacity for dropping off to sleep at every opportunity-in harness or out of it-had absolutely kicked out with both its hinder heels.

Olivia laughed-a laugh which sounded strangely hollow in her own ears. "Perhaps we had better move on then, since he is so

impatient? Mrs. Awdry, Brownie cannot be curbed in any longerthe fiery little animal! We must say good-bye, or he will run away with us."

Only five minutes-less than five minutes-that conversation had lasted. Yet for Olivia Ashmead what a lifetime of emotion had been compressed within this brief space! If time is to be measured by sensation, as philosophers have declared, years had rolled over her head. And, indeed, the poor woman felt years older. Five minutes ago-despite her twenty-eight summers-she had been a girl, full of juvenile spirits and happy anticipations. Now, age had fallen upon her, and with it all the blankness of life and hope which failing years bring.

The world, too, as she looked round on it with wide-open, paindulled eyes, had suddenly withered and aged-had grown centuries nearer to its final decay and death. It is a trite saying, that we put into Nature our own feelings--but who does not know the truth of it? Who has not experienced the effect of adverse things in drawing a veil of gloom over the divine beauty that at other times seems to be spread so lavishly over the face of Nature, and of quenching the gladness which that beauty should bring? To Olivia Ashmead, at any rate, the fairness had gone out of all things-the world of matter had become a dead body without a soul. In five minutes such "rancours" had been poured into the "vessel of her peace," as for ever, she felt, had destroyed all hope of earthly happiness.

Alas! in this fateful world who is safe from such sudden crosses and shocks of chance? Who can tell what tempest of wretchedness may not sweep over his sunniest sky at an hour's, at a moment's, notice?

But why should Olivia Ashmead have felt so utterly crushed--so whelmed and outraged by cruel fortune in that Douglas Awdry had done now only what she had herself once designed to do? She had meant to marry another, and he had done so. But, oh, there was a world of difference in the cases! Olivia knew that she had loved her one love all the time. She had given him up because, like a heroine of romance (though she found little satisfaction in the comparison), she had felt called upon to sacrifice self to others. But he he had not married to save a brother from death, or dishonour, or a family from ruin.

In his case there could have only been one inducement to the act, and that inducement he had owned to. He loved again-No, not again! Here was the sting of the matter-the sword that had pierced her to the heart. He had told Mrs. Awdry that he had

loved another for "four years." Then he never could have loved her! Olivia knew the truth at last! knew it as well as Douglas had known it all along. He had never loved her! In fancying that he had, she had been laying a flattering, but false, false unction to her soul; she had been blinding herself with mad folly. The bandage, however, had been torn from her eyes at length, and she saw the truth. But with this new vision had vanished, as she thought, all the sweetness and joy of existence.

Nevertheless, in the midst of her torture, Olivia found some support. It came to her from a proud determination to hide the fact that she was suffering such torture, a strong resolve to allow no sound or sigh of anguish to escape her. Chatting cheerfully the while with her mother, she drove on to Marleythorpe, executed all her commissions for Rose, and on her return home was the first to communicate Mrs. Awdry's tidings to her sisters. And both mother and sisters were completely deceived by her manner. Olivia, they felt sure, regretted neither the marriage of her old lover, nor the lost chance of becoming mistress of Clavermere Chase. Rose was disappointed for her-so disappointed that she even shed a few tears in private. But how could they be bitter tears, when Olivia had been all the evening so unusually merry--a convincing proof that she was suffering no disappointment, that she had been indulging in no such foolish castle-building in reference to the home-coming of the new squire, as Rose herself had been guilty of in her regard. If only the affectionate younger sister could have seen poor Olivia in the retirement of her chamber! If only she could have watched with her through the dark hours of that first night after the blow had fallen and the fond illusion that cnce, at any rate, Douglas had loved her, had melted into thin air-what would she have thought then about her bright cheerfulness throughout the evening? It takes a brave spirit to smile when hollowness seems to be at the heart of everything.

CHAPTER XVI.

WEDDING-CALLERS.

"WHAT a delightful room this is, Douglas! I like it better than any other in the house."

"Do you, darling? Well, so do I, at this moment, because you are in it!" Captain Awdry looked down, as he spoke, at his young wife. At present, he had eyes for very little else than her fair sweet

face. The pair had just finished luncheon, and had come into the room in question in a caressing, familiar fashion, his arm through hers. "Yes, just now, it is a charming room!" he added, stooping to kiss her.

Claudia laughed happily and coloured a little. She had scarcely yet given up blushing at her husband's caresses. Then her gaze wandered again round the apartment, which certainly was a charming It was a drawing-room, longer than broad, and opening at one end upon a long vista of conservatories.

The furniture was modern for that date, light and elegant, and there was plenty of pretty colour to delight the eye and please the unperverted taste of the period, which had not yet begun to rejoice in bilious-looking greens and faded, unwholesome tints, miscalled æsthetic.

Three windows, coming down to the ground, were shaded by a verandah which ran outside-beneath which seats, and statues, and large flower-pots, with exotic, palm-like shrubs in them, were arranged at intervals.

Beyond the verandah stretched a broad expanse of park-land, with a carriage-road winding through it, and clusters of noble trees making patches of dark shadow in the sun-lighted landscape. Inside, the room was cool and pleasant, even on this hot summer day, and a fragrant odour of flowers pervaded it, delicate and not overpowering.

"Your preference does not incline towards the antique, then, Claudia," asked her husband, as they promenaded the room together -his arm through hers, "since this is the only room with modern appointments? It was furnished for my brother's wife, you know. For my part, I must confess, I like the crimson drawing-room better."

"Well, of course, it is handsomer," admitted Claudia; "but the black oak, and those old cabinets, and the dark velvet are all a little sombre. I should say it would look better in winter, with a fire.”

"You are quite right. Fire-light and lamp-light bring out the rich shade of the velvet upholstery and curtains splendidly. But those cabinets, my darling-if you only knew how old and valuable they are, you would speak of them with more respect!"

"I don't think I need. The house, and everything in it, overwhelms me with respect, I can assure you," she answered. "If I had known what a great man you were, and what a palace you were going to bring me to. I believe I should have been afraid to marry you. But you won't feel ashamed of your wife, will you, Douglas?" As a matter of course, this question brought about a conjugal love-passage. When it was at an end, Douglas observed

VOL. CCLVIII. NO. 1852.

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