Ir had been arranged that Morna should seize the opportunity of McKillop's return to Pau to rejoin her family, under his escort; and, about ten days after her first meeting with Bertrand, she received her step-father's summons to meet him in London on the following day.

During these ten days, Bertrand had been as good as his word, and called upon Morna, who had undoubtedly fulfilled her part of the engagement, by being very glad to see him. The experiment, indeed, was found so agreeable by both, that it was repeated; and it became a daily occurrence that they should meet somehow or other, either by appointment, or by that sort of accident which is so apt to bring people together, when they desire to meet. But their meetings were not restricted by the usual limits of a formal call, or a chance greeting in the market-place; their interviews were long, and even fidential. We know that they had

VOL. CX.-NO. DCLXXIII.

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established a confidence on their first meeting; and one confidence begets another. Love is a subject on which every patient desires communion of the sort (most of us have suffered, probably, from the fact), whether it be to laud the object of his passion, or to denounce her perfidy-to dilate on the beauty of the flower, or to mourn over its broken stem and blackened leaves.

Morna very soon became the receiver of Bertrand's tale of wrong.

Her frank sympathy soon thawed his reserve, and even broke down the quasi generous pride which, at first, made him unwilling to paint, in its true colours, the conduct of her who had wronged him. But sympathy is a powerful engine; and it opened up to Morna all the sorrows of Bertrand's lacerated heart; and for hours he would dilate upon them, with that eloquence which egotism lends to all mankind.

Would male sympathy have

2 N

stood the test of such an inflic tion? And, even if it had, would it have been resorted to with equal gusto?

Certainly not. The subject is pre-eminently suited to a female confidante; and, when she is young and pretty, her sympathy has a double action, for while it opens up the wound, it pours into it a subtle and consolatory balsam.

But is a female confidante proof against the boredom of her office? Is the subject of such abstract interest as to rivet her attention and her sympathy, be the confider who and what he may?

Without deciding on the general question, it is quite certain that Morna was not bored at all, that her attention and her sympathy were inexhaustible, and that, in fact, these interviews, at which the conversation grew daily less and less lugubrious, became to her daily more and more delightful.

There is a saying that every woman delights in the dispraise and discredit of every other woman -a dreadful saying, but worthy, it is to be feared, of some little acceptation.

Still, Morna was rather an exceptional woman; and it certainly was not exclusively from this source, that the interviews carried delight to her heart.

There was no doubt that her beautiful Prince had reappeared. She had but two associations connected with him-fairyland and a malign enchantress. But the spells of the latter had been so far broken, and was it therefore wonderful that again around her should begin to loom some gladsome visions of the dazzling realm?

As for the beautiful Prince himself, the relief of talking over all his feelings and experiences unchecked by the dread of male sneers, had a wonderfully beneficial

effect upon his mind and body; and Pigott observed that, by the time Morna's stay came to a close, he was able to forget, not only his illness, but its cause, for hours, if not days, together. The cheerfulness of other times came back to him; he interested himself about the question of his rights, and constantly discussed the subject with his practical friend-totally abandoning the laissez-aller tone of the brokenhearted lover, to whom the smiles and the frowns of Fortune are alike indifferent. Pigott, of course, rejoiced at his friend's restoration, though he took his own view of what was likely to be another result of the treatment which had produced it; and his reflections took some such shape as this-"When a young gentleman, recently recovered from a bad attack of being jilted, sits, hour after hour, in romantic spots by the sea, and pours his griefs into the sympathising ear of a handsome young lady, who, moreover, has lately been the means of his hearing 'something greatly to his advantage,' what should we consider a not unlikely result of their confidential intercourse? Why, a discovery on the part of the gentleman that his griefs have ceased to be griefs at all, when so sweetly shared; and an admission on that of the lady, that she is not unwilling to be installed permanently in the office of consoler. No doubt about it; the ass will be in for another fit, as sure as fate; but, thank heaven! he'll be ashamed to say anything about the subject to me for a long time, and I'm not likely to open it."

Notwithstanding Pigott's prophecy, Bertrand and Morna separated without any catastrophe of the sort. No doubt they parted with mutual regret; and it might have gratified the young lady in many ways, as it flattered the prophet's sense of his own acuteness, to ob

serve what a blank her departure made for Bertrand; how he fretted and chafed, and abused Bournemouth; how he swore he would leave it every hour of the day, and how eventually he did so on the third day, returning to his regiment with a fortnight's leave unexpired.

Mr M'Killop had rather hurried over his business in Scotland, so as to get back at the earliest possible moment to Pau, and bring the grand scheme of the marriage to a conclusion. It may be well to explain that he was entirely ignorant of any hitch in the matter, and as Mrs M'Killop was equally in the dark, her letters could not enlighten him. Eila, as we know, was not likely to supply the information, and Morna had not opened the subject to him, because she supposed the intelligence must have reached him from Pau, and was unwilling to deprive him of the opportunity of taking the initiative as to declaring Bertrand's rights.

Thus it came about that when Mr M'Killop met his step-daughter in London, he was still looking upon the marriage as certain and imminent; and the only trouble on his mind connected with the business, was the necessity of satisfying her, after the marriage, that there was an entente cordiale between uncle and nephew, by which the latter had agreed to suspend his rights in favour of the former, for solid considerations. To do this it would be necessary that Sir Roland should settle an unusually handsome allowance on the young couple; something, in fact, so large as to satisfy Morna that it was given by way of compromise; and the problem was how to induce Sir Roland to do this, without letting him know that the secret was shared by a third person. He was sanguine, however, that this could be arranged somehow, and met Morna with a cheerfulness

that was not altogether assumed. That cheerfulness, it may well be supposed, did not survive their meeting many minutes.

"Well, Morna," cried Mr M'Killop, gaily, "here we are, all hasting to the wedding! Have you got your finery ready?"

"No," said Morna, much puzzled; "it isn't necessary."

"Ah!" M'Killop rattled on, "a great mistake that- a great mistake; although it may be a quiet wedding, and abroad, and so on, still a wedding is a wedding the spinster's opportunity, you know, ha! ha! We must be fine, Morna, we must be fine; and it isn't too late. We've got Paris between us and Pau; and we'll just see if Paris, and you, and I, and my purse, between us, can't turn them out a creditable bridesmaid. We'll astonish your mother. I suppose the happy man is there, by this time?"

"I don't the least understand what you are talking about, Mr M'Killop. It is impossible that you don't know the marriage is broken off?"

"Was broken off, my dear, of course-postponed, at least; but, bless me, didn't you get my letter from Pau?"

"I did." "Well."

"But, since that, surely you know that everything is at an end?" "You're dreaming, girl." "No, indeed, I am not."

"Well, if a marriage is broken off, it seems likely that the bride's father should be aware of it."

"So it does; but if the bridegroom tells you he is not going to be a bridegroom, it seems still more likely that he ought to know."

"What bridegroom? What nonsensical stuff is this you have got hold of?"

"Mr Cameron told me, with his

own lips, that his marriage is broken off."

"When?"

"No later than yesterday."
"But he is at Pau."

"No; he is at Bournemouth; I left him there."

There is no rest for the wicked. Destiny seemed to be forcing Mr M'Killop to act like an honest man, and tell the truth at last. It was desperately hard upon him. "For all his pains, poor man!-for all his pains," the rope by which he was attempting to bind Honesty, Fraud, and Self-interest together seemed for ever to crumble like True Thomas's ropes of "the sifted sand." But it would not do to collapse while there was a chance left; and, after a painful pause, he spoke again.

"Who is to blame?"

Eila," replied Morna, very decidedly.

"What? do you tell me that she jilted him?"

"In a certain way she undoubt edly did. She has treated him ill.” "And he resents it?" "He does."

"The girl must be mad; but I'll bring her to her senses quickly enough. She shall eat humblepie; she shall apologise."

"I don't think your interference can possibly do any good."

"Oh, can't it? wait till you see; I'll stake my reputation that the marriage comes off. her reasons?"

What were

M'Killop did not mention his ultimatum, but as he understood the hitch to be upon his daughter's side, he appeared satisfied that the ultimatum would be effective. "There is another subject I wish to speak about," said Morna. "What is it?"

"I don't wish to be importunate, but, now the marriage is broken off, you will arrange about-about-the rights-the Cameron property, will you not?"

"Good heavens!" roared M'Killop, "the marriage is not broken off. I tell you the marriage will come off within the month. Leave me to do the right thing at the right time"

"But if I am right

"Who are you, to teach me my duty? Hold your tongue."

And Morna did so, in the mean time, resolved to let it loose freely enough, if, after M'Killop had satisfied himself at Pau that the marriage was really off, he did not speak out at once.

The journey, as may be imagined, was tedious and cheerless enough. The silence was almost unbroken between them all the way. They stopped one night in Paris, where M'Killop's gay proposal as to a trousseau was not reverted to-and one night in Bourdeaux, reaching Pau on the third afternoon-M'Killop, full of impatience to clear matters up with his daughter, and Morna with such a prospect of domestic discord and unhappiness before her, as to obscure pretty effectually for her the glories of the grand Pyrenean panorama, which she saw for the first time. When the travellers reached their destination, they found Mrs M'Killop at home, seated alone in her brilliant salon. It was the hour when she had a right to expect that the nobility and gentry might pay their respects, and she was posed for their reception,

with a certain imperial pomp of aspect, and many a glittering circumstance of personal decoration.

Every day developed some new splendour in this costly woman. She believed herself to be a Queen of the fashion, and had so far succeeded in providing herself with a suitable wardrobe and regalia, that, when in grande tenue, her appearance indifferently suggested the ideas of Solomon in all his glory, and of a Christmas-tree in full illumination.

The appointments of her drawingroom were in keeping with her quality of sovereign, and symbolised the character of the subjects over whom she believed herself to reign; for the great red woman wallowed in a higgledy-piggledy litter of gorgeous frippery.

Even her husband, with all his preoccupation, did not fail to note the surprising progress achieved during his short absence; and to Morna, who had known her only in the simpler if more barbaric efflorescence of tartan and cairngorm, the effect was tremendous.

With as much affection as was compatible with lofty station, Mrs M'Killop greeted her daughter, descending, as it were, two steps of the throne, and offering her ruby cheek; restricting her husband, however, to a momentary handlement of two sausage-like fingers.

if you insist, I can disappoint them; I can let the conserge say I am sortee."

"Please do so; we have a good Ideal to talk about."

"Ah! vraimong? Swaw dong;" and she bade him ring the bell, and sentence of exclusion was recorded against the beau monde.

"And where is Eila?" asked her father.

"Aw! don't ask me; I know nothing about her," said the dame, with a toss.

"What do you mean? Is she well?"

"I preshoom she is well, but I protest it is only guess-work — I never see her."

"I don't understand you."

"And I don't understand her; her conduct is peculiar; she avoids me: she is out half the day, and when she is in, she keeps to her own room; and if I speak to her, she either don't answer me at all, or with sauce. I am glad you are come back, M'Killop. The girl is too much for my nervous system. I hope you are going to arrange for the marriage at once. Where is the man? Have you not brought him?"

"No, I am rather puzzled about affairs. Morna has some story that Eila and Bertrand have had a split; do you know anything of it?"

"Mwaw? I neither know nor care anything about her and her affairs."

"Yes, but I insist that you shall both know and care, Mrs M'Killop," retorted her husband, in a dangerous voice; "there is a quarrel between them, and you must know the rights of it; none of your airs, madam; keep them for your cursed Counts, and tell me what you know, at once."

"I tell you, Mr M'Killop, that I know nothing about her affairs," replied the lady, sulkily; "and if there is a quarrel she has not told me of