Disappointment too often bears the bitter fruits of envy, malice, and all uncharitableness; happiness produces a golden harvest of charity, gentleness, and love. The one withers in the shade, and brings forth no fruit to perfection, save the bitter apples of Sodom; the other rejoices in the light of the summer-heaven, and bursts forth in flower and fruit-in plain language, in works of love and peace.

Florence was wholly ignorant of the gloomier phase of the female mind-moreover, she was ignorant of Mrs. Herbert's true position in the Castle. That jealousy had dictated the bitter words from which she was smarting did not enter into her head; she implicitly believed that her father and herself were regarded in the light in which Mrs. Herbert had remorselessly held them up. Ungrateful Florence! she forgot Lord Wentworth's steady friendship; she wilfully ignored Lady Wentworth's graceful courtesy-Cecilia's sunny welcome. She would go to her father, and implore him not to leave her at the Castle. This resolution once formed, she grew calm, and proceeded to rise and dress.

Florence frequently spent an hour with her father, reading or conversing, before they descended to the breakfast-room. Mr. Dudley's dressing-room was a delightful snuggery, and possessed greater charms for both father and daughter than the private or state apartments in the Castle. The oriel window commanded an extensive view over the park and forest, which, even in January, were not without beauty of outline and colouring.

Florence entered the room, on hostile thoughts intent; -she walked straight up to the window (her favourite resort), and asked Mr. Dudley, in a tone of unusual determination, when he purposed leaving the Castle.

"The day after to-morrow," was the reply. "I must go up to town upon business of importance, and cannot delay my departure beyond that time.”

Florence approached her father; she laid her hand upon his arm, and looked up wistfully into his face.

"Dear papa, take me with you. Indeed I cannot stop here without you."

Mr. Dudley looked surprised and annoyed. "Florence," he said, gravely, "you are no longer a child; do not behave like one. I have accepted Lord and Lady Wentworth's kind invitation for you. I cannot retract. Such capricious conduct would be both impolitic and ungrateful."

"Impolitic! ungrateful!" Florence's eyes flashed. "I cannot, I will not stop!" she cried, passionately. She stamped her small foot vehemently as she spoke.

Mr. Dudley was astounded at these symptoms of insubordination-the first he had ever witnessed. He was a wise man, however, and preferred having recourse to reason, rather than to any exercise of authority. "Something has occurred to ruffle you, Florence," he said, gravely. "Tell me the truth, the whole truth."

Thus urged, Florence confessed everything, and dwelt with kindling indignation upon the base calumnies, as she called them, of Mrs. Gerald Herbert. To her astonishment, her father burst into a fit of hearty, genuine laughter. She stood by, amazed, indignant.

"From your grandiose preface, Florence, I expected a lion, and out creeps a mouse! When a few more years have passed over your head, you will learn to despise the vain babbling of idle women. Nor is your own conduct less reprehensible than that of Mrs. Herbert. I pass over the witless mauvaise honte which induced you to stoop to the pitiful meanness of eavesdropping."

Florence winced. The blood rushed up to the very roots of her hair. She felt all the anguish of "pene

trative shame."

"But what shall I say to your egotistical pride-to your ingratitude? For the idle word of a woman you despise, you would reject the kind friendship of Lord Wentworth; you would refuse the gracious hospitality of Lady Wentworth; you would repel the genial companionship of Cecilia

Florence burst into tears. "Oh, say no more," she cried. "I see it all now. I was weak, wicked

"You were thoughtless and wilful. In future you will be wiser. Dry your eyes, and we will adjourn to. the breakfast-room."

Florence speedily obliterated the trace of outward emotion; but she treasured up her father's words. They were severe, but they were just; dictated by reason, not by passion, they worked conviction. Florence was humbled in her own eyes; ashamed of her petulance, repentant of her ingratitude. She made no second protest against her visit at the Castle, but submitted to her father's decision without a murmur.

136

CHAPTER XIV.

THE immortal line in sure succession reigns,
The fortune of the family remains,
And grandsires' grandsons the long list contains.

DRYDEN'S Virgil.

From Norman blood their lofty line they trace,
Their lion courage proves their gen'rous race.

BISHOP HEBER.

THE carriage drove from the door-Mr. Dudley was gone, and Florence turned away to conceal the tears which, spite of her utmost efforts, would force themselves down her cheeks. She was stealing away to her own chamber, there to give free vent to her grief, when she was overtaken and detained by Lady Cecilia.

"Dear Florence," said the kind-hearted girl, as she stole an arm round our heroine's waist, "do not run away; I can sympathize with your sorrow, for I too love my father."

Florence dried her eyes and tried to smile; her conscience smote her when she remembered how lightly she had prized the friendship of Lady Cecilia a few days before.

Her ladyship continued: "Suppose we visit the north wing of the castle; I think the old rooms will please you better than the gilded domes in the more modern part of the building. Shall we go?"

Florence's eyes brightened as she gratefully accepted the offer.

"I will be your cicerone," said Cecilia, laughing. "Arm yourself with patience; I am as perfect in my lesson as the housekeeper is imperfect. Heavens! what

a garbled version she gives of the prowess of the Percivals in the good old times."

Lady Cecilia seemed transformed into the goddess of mirth

"In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne,"

as soon as she set foot in the older part of the castle. She laughed, she talked, she danced, she sang, in such merry mood, that Florence caught the infectious spirit of mirth before she was aware. Lady Cecilia frequently repaired to the north wing of the castle, to give vent to the exuberant spirits, so studiously repressed in the polished halls, over which her lady-mother reigned with so much stately grace.

In this deserted suite, she was under no restraint; she was far away from her mother's apartments; from the schoolroom (for there was a schoolroom, and there were younger children, of whom more anon); and here she would carol for hours the old ballads she dearly loved; her rich full voice ringing sweet and clear through the lofty apartments.

"Tell me the history of every room, and the story of every portrait!" cried Florence, eagerly, as her eyes glanced onward through the lengthening vista.

"You assign me a comprehensive task, Miss Dudley!" cried Lady Cecilia, with mock indignation. "All our sons were brave, all our daughters virtuous! With Conquering William we planted our feet upon the patrimony of the royal Saxon, upon

"This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of kings,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This precious-stone-set in the silver sea,

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.'

We took root, we spread our branches over the fat of the land! Our sons were in the ranks of the brave crusaders-they scaled the walls of Acre, led on by him of the Lion-Heart-they were found among the "gentlemen of England," who won undying glory at Cressy and