have a headache, and I am going for a walk on the hills."

"Then let Mrs. Allen accompany you. It is too far for you to walk alone."

I smiled to myself as I thought this anxiety was at least as much for his own future secretary as for Miss Heathcott, his daughter's friend, But perhaps I did him injustice.

Effie seemed rather amused when she heard what I had undertaken, but feared it would tire me very much, and that I should leave Lismore all the sooner for having had such an uninteresting task imposed upon me.

Richard, however, saw it in a different light; he thought I was growing low spirited from being so much alone, and since I refused to be with them (I am sure in his heart he thanked me for this) it was as well that I should be with Mr. Seymour, who at any rate would not bore me with unprofitable conversation.

"He will never speak to her at all," said Effie, "unless it is to give some directions about the copying. Poor dear Dora! I really did not bring you to Lismore for this."

"Don't be uneasy," I replied, "for I promise you that when I grow very weary, I will give it up, but I have been idle so long, that a little labour will be a beneficial change."

"And if it will be any consolation to you to know it," added Effie with a smile, “papa pays you a higher compliment than he has ever paid anybody before. If he were not an old

man

66

Hush, Effie," said Richard, laying his hand on the speaker's mouth, "you have no right to deprive your father of an amanuensis by frightening Miss Heathcott from the task she has so kindly consented to perform."

I was not frightened, for although I under

stood Effie's unfinished speech, I thought there was as much chance of the moon coming down to woo, as of Mr. Seymour appearing in the character of a lover.

And the next day my work began.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. SEYMOUR'S STUDY.

THERE are many times and circumstances connected with the far off past, round which my memory lingers oftener, and with keener emotions, but few that stand out more distinctly or that I can more readily bring back than the quiet, dreamy days spent in Mr. Seymour's study.

At this moment I have it all vividly before me; the book-littered room, lighted only by a

stained glass window, which, when the sun shone, reflected its brilliant colours on the white paper I was using, and when the sun did not shine, gave a dim, mysterious look to the apartment and all within it; the large pot of mignionette on a little round table by itself, diffusing throughout the room a delicate fragrance, that nearly dissipated the less agreeable one of the musty old volumes that Mr. Seymour delighted in; the dark leather covered desk where he, the master, sat, his head generally supported on one hand, and his face partially concealed while he wrote or read with an absorption that proved his whole soul, for the time being, devoted to his work; and then, at a respectful distance, my own table, that on which his meals were usually placed, its green baize cover strewed with the papers from which I was copying, and those which I had completed, and I myself bending with resolute will over my task, sometimes