"Yes, aunt; you have spoken of your brother, of my uncle Vincent, as still living, and of his possible return. You know something of his after-history, therefore, and of his present retreat?"

Prissy shook her head mournfully. "We have never heard of him since, Harry; and yet, oh how earnestly we have wished for it, and prayed for it, if so it might be! No," she repeated, “we have never heard of poor Vincent. As soon as we had recovered (for God was merciful to us all, and especially to dear Melly), as soon as we had a little recovered from the dreadful shock, we took measures for finding out where poor Vincent was. We employed agents abroad, through our lawyer in London, who entered very heartily into our anxieties (may he be rewarded for all his kindness), but it was in vain. No, Harry, since that dreadful letter was put into our hands, we never heard more of poor Vincent."

"I will tell you of your father, Harry. Six months after we received that letter he returned to The Hurlocks.' By that time the repairs he had ordered were finished, and the house was prepared for his reception. He was changed, very much changed, Harry."

"Spare my father's memory, aunt, as far as you can," said the young man. "I know that his marriage with my poor mother was distasteful to you, dear aunts; and I know now that it must have been distressing. Please to pass over that: I do not want to know how he could have prevailed on your sister to become his wife after that—that event of which you have been speaking. But did he bring no tidings of your brother?"

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None, Harry. After their acquittal, Vincent had suddenly disappeared from the house where they had occupied apartments together; and all your father's researches had failed to discover the place of his retreat."

"You are sure that he-my uncle-did not return to Oxford, aunt Prissy?"

“We are sure of this. Think, Harry, how well he was known there."

"True; and yet you believe he still lives?"

"We do believe this. Do not shake our faith in this, and so add new sorrow to our abiding grief, Harry," said the lady, passionately. "The hope has been our companion so long, that we dread to lose it, frail as it is," she added.

"It shall not be lost through me, dear aunt," said Harry, gently; "and now I think I can understand why you have told me this history. But the world is very wide, aunt Prissy; and even if though there are millions of chances against it, almost as many chances as there are people in the world-but even if I should meet with the poor wanderer, eat at the same table and drink from the same cup, we might meet and part unknown to each other; his name

"You will retain yours, Harry," said his aunt, hurriedly; "and it may be that Providence will be so good-yes, it may be, Harry."

They sat in silence for a little time, while Prissy busied herself nervously in re-tying the black ribbon round the preserved papers. Then Harry spoke again.

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"I have only one more question to ask, aunt. I am curious to know how and why Crickett came to be your servant."

"He himself made the offer. He pledged himself to silence respecting all that had gone before; and it was a comfort to us, when we reduced our establishment, to have some one near us who could understand the cause of our sorrow, and yet be silent. Besides, he seemed to be a kind of connecting-link between Vincent and ourselves; and we had a hope-a faint hopethat by his means, in some way, our brother might be recovered. This hope has failed; but William Crickett has been

faithful to his promise. You don't like William, I know, Harry; but

"I never said that I do not like him, aunt."

"No, but he knows it. He has been telling us so, only to-day."

"Perhaps he is right," said Harry; "but I shall like him better now that I have your assurance of his fidelity. I shall be glad to believe, when I think of you, that you have a friend, however humble, near you, on whose attachment and judgment you can rely. And be assured thatthat”

The assurance was lost to Prissy's ear; for as Harry was speaking the door opened and the latest subject of conversation appeared, candlestick in hand.

"If you don't mean to sit up all night, ladies——” he began. "True, it is getting very late, I am afraid," said the younger sister.

Harry took the hint. He rose and bade his aunts good-night, raising their hands to his lips, with a kind of chivalric courtesy which well became him. And he noticed, as he did this, that Melly's hand was very cold. She smiled on him, however.

"So they have told you all about it, have they, Master Harry?" said William Crickett, as he attended on the guest to his chamber across the court-yard.

"They have."

"I thought so-ah!" said Mr. Crickett.

Harry met his aunts at the breakfast-table early on the following morning. They were calm and composed. In another hour he had bidden them farewell. The next day he was in London, commencing preparations for his voyage.

CHAPTER XX.

FIVE MONTHS AFTER.

Ir was in the last week of February, and one of those mild, softblowing, and sunny days which sometimes enliven that generally dreary month, and give promise of better, brighter days to come The sun shone upon the old Priory, with its ruins, and lighted up the gloomy parlour where Melly and Prissy sat, silently and tearfully reading a letter which lay between them on the table-a letter from Henry Rivers, to inform them that after many unexpected delays he was really on the eve of sailing to his distant destination, and to bid them a long farewell, with a promise that he would write to them again, and write often when that destination was reached. It was upon the whole a cheerful letter, full of manly aspirations, though it did cause the two maiden ladies to shed tears.

The sun shone on Hurlock Chase, casting its bright beams aslant over brake and brier, woodland and waste, enticing hares from their snug forms, and rabbits from their holes, and causing a ceaseless flutter among the small birds overhead as they trilled to each other their simple belief that the winter was past, and the rain was over and gone. It shone on the grey walls of "The Hurlocks," and was reflected back again from its many casements, and from the broad, glossy ivy-leaves which clung around them. The sunlight entered the large library unbidden, and discovered the cobwebs that festooned the rows of old folios which had found their resting-place there.

It shone, too, upon the deep, still water of the furnace-pond, and glistened and sparkled in the foam of the waterfall; it glimmered in the hot mist floating above the iron furnace, and deadened the

fierce red fires of the iron forge, where the forgemen were wielding their ponderous hammers, and making rough-ringing music upon the broad anvils. Once a few notes were raised from human throats to the metallic accompaniment, but they ceased at the commanding voice of Will Carter, the foreman.

"Ware that, Bob Phillips; we'll have no singing to-day."

"And why not to-day, Will?" demanded Phillips, sullenly, and suddenly pulling up.

"You know why, Bob, or ought to. Isn't Sam Austin's girl dying, if she isn't laying dead? and isn't Tom Carey in trouble about the poor wench? We'll have no singing when a comrade is sorrering, mind ye," said the foreman.

"You are mighty tender about Tom Carey," said the forgeman, discontentedly; "but have it your own way, Will: I don't want to sing;" and then the work went on; but there was no singing in the forge that day, nor the next.

That wintry sun shone also upon the prim red and white fronted mansion of Fairbourne Court, and, glancing on Roger Gilbert's ruddy countenance, as he stood at the drawing-room window with a newspaper in his hand, gave it for the moment quite a fiery glow. And yet his countenance bore an anxious look too, as he glanced up and down the columns of that dumpy quarto sheet of scant intelligence, till, apparently finding what he had sought, a flash of satisfaction gleamed from his eyes, while he tortured his commercial lips into a smile.

"Good, good," he said, turning round to his lady, who sat by the blazing fire, winding wool off a delicate fairy reel; "this is very good. The Three Sisters is off at last. She sails to-day, wind and weather permitting."

"The Three Sisters, Mr. Gilbert?" responded the lady, interrogatively, not at all suspending her occupation.

"The ship, the ship, my love; the ship in which, according