brown woollen stuff; and the left hand, which grasped the folds of the cloak, and so kept it in its place, was protected from the cold by a coarse tan-leather glove. So much was noticed by Mr. Gilbert as the unknown passed beneath the breakfast-room window, and ascended the terrace steps which conducted to the grand entrance of his mansion.

Then the great bell rung, and there was a shuffling of feet in the hall; and then the footman Robert entered the breakfast

room.

"Who is it, Robert? and what do you stand grinning at?” demanded the angry master.

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"I beg pardon, sir; I am sure I was not grinning. There's a lady in the hall, sir-Miss Fleming of the Priory-to call on Miss Gilbert."

"Miss Fleming!"

The expression on Mr. Gilbert's face turned to blank surprise. Miss Fleming, who for years had never stirred beyond the precincts of her gloomy home, to have come tramping through the snow three miles and more to pay a morning visit! In that strange disguise, too! And to a young lady whom she had never seen! What could it mean?

It was not a very pleasant surprise. There was a time when Roger Gilbert would have felt himself honoured by the notice of the ladies at the Priory, and when he had, in truth, done homage at the shrine of their beauty and fashion. But that was so long, long ago as to be almost forgotten; and for twenty years no intercourse had been maintained between the two houses. And what could Miss Fleming want? There must be some treachery on foot. Was not Harry Rivers her nephew?

Roger Gilbert was not a very rapid thinker. It took some time, therefore, for these ideas to percolate through his brain. Meanwhile, a silent nod from his wife had dismissed Robert with a message; and before Robert's master was quite clear in his own

mind that he wasn't dreaming, the servant returned ushering in the visitor.

To do Mr. Gilbert justice, he was not lacking in common politeness; so, devoutly as he might have wished that Miss Fleming had remained at the Priory, he roused himself to play the agreeable host. He claimed the liberty of an old acquaintance, he said, and shook hands with Melly, with an appearance of cordiality at least, as he introduced her to Mrs. Gilbert, who had never before had the pleasure, he believed, of meeting with Miss Fleming. He drew a chair for her near to the fire, insisting that she must be perishing with cold. He deplored that, owing to circumstances over which he was sure he had had no control, his former familiarity with his visitor and her amiable sister had passed into oblivion: indeed, he had understood that it was the wish of Miss Fleming and her sister that

Here Melly interrupted the rapid flow of her host's compliments. She had taken a seat and quietly drawn off her gloves; and now she as quietly apologised for her intrusion, "which doubtless must appear strange to you, madam," she added, addressing the lady of the house.

The lady of the house smiled graciously, almost kindly; for there was a pensive sweetness in the visitor's voice which won her sympathy. She was sure, she said, that she must feel indebted to any circumstance which had procured her the pleasure of a friendly visit from Miss Fleming, unless (and here she hesitated)—unless, indeed, those circumstances were of a painful nature, as she almost feared might be the case.

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My visit is not one of mere compliment or ceremony. I have long taken leave of society, as you know, madam," returned Melly.

"For which your old friends are sorry, I can assure you, Miss Fleming," said Mr. Gilbert, gallantly. "Let us hope that you are wearying of your long seclusion, my dear lady. It would

give us great pleasure," he added, "to welcome you and your accomplished sister back into the world, of which you were such distinguished ornaments.”

The visitor's lip slightly curled. "Empty compliments,” she said, almost bitterly. "You forget, Mr. Gilbert, that I ought to be able to estimate their value." And then she added, more softly and sorrowfully, "No: we have no intention, no wish to forsake the retirement which has become to us a second nature; and it is no light thing which has drawn me from it to-day. Madam," she said, with unexpected abruptness, "may I be permitted a few words-a short interview with your daughter?”

CHAPTER XXIX.

CLARA.

CLARA GILBERT was said to have been from infancy a petted, if not a spoiled child—not a very uncommon case, we believe, with an only daughter or son. How much or how little is included in the word "petted" we must leave grandmammas and maiden aunts to settle between them; it is enough for us to know that the young lady had been accustomed to having her own way, in small matters at least, and to ruling somewhat despotically the numerous household at Fairbourne Court, her own parents included. Whether this liberty would have extended to affairs of more serious moment is perhaps a question; for Roger Gilbert was not a man to be easily thwarted in his designs. His obstinacy, or determination, or firmness, had not, however, been put to the test, as the young lady had generally (as in her exchange of lovers) shown herself sufficiently amenable to paternal argument. It was not without a sharp struggle that the transfer just hinted

at had been made. Clara had a heart, though it was crusted over with self-love; and, to say nothing of early attachment, all things else being equal, she preferred the young and ardent Harry Rivers to Mr. Brooke. But Clara had always been as much in love with "The Hurlocks" and Hurlock Chase, and when the shock came which severed the lover from the estate, half her love was gone. It may be that she half suspected this herself; that she fought against the suspicion; that her eager and earnest, if not quite sincere protestations of unaltered and undying love, and of her contempt for riches, proved that she had detected her weakness, and half-wished to subdue it; that, if she had but had firm and worthy principle to back up her faltering resolution, or even if she had had surrounding influences to strengthen it, she would not have yielded.

No, it was not without a sharp struggle, and a touch, at least, of anguish, that Clara Gilbert had cast off her old love; and the shock of his sudden and unexpected re-appearance on that eventful morning of which we have told, was painful enough to produce a serious effect on her health, and to excite rather anxious solicitude on the part of her parents. But this was over; Clara's health was almost re-established, and she had learned to laugh at her weakness. As it pleased Mrs. Gilbert, however, to declare that her daughter was very delicate, and to insist on her taking a continued course of steel drops, with other tonics and restoratives, and as the young lady herself was nothing loth to receive the extra attentions which are supposed of right to belong to interesting invalids, her perfect recovery was indefinitely postponed.

Of course it was considered necessary that Clara should be pretty closely kept to her own room—not her bed-chamber, you understand, but a pretty, light, cheerful, snug bower, closely adjoining, on which no adornments, in the way of rich draperies, warm carpets, and elegant furniture, had been spared. Here she amused herself as she best might, with her drawing-pencils, her

wool-work, her harpsichord, her pug-dog, and her thousand-andone other expedients which the young ladies of her day had resort to for time-killing (a sport in which, let who will say to the contrary, they were as expert as their modern successors of this present year of grace); while she wearied out her maid by the incessant demands she made upon the girl's services. Here she received her visitors; and here, on the morning of Miss Fleming's visit, she was reclining on a soft downy sofa, drawn up to the bright fire, when a gentle tap at the door roused her from her reverie. In another moment her father was by her side.

"There's a visitor downstairs, Clara-a visitor to you. Who do you suppose it to be ?"

"I am sure I can't guess, papa. Not Mr. Brooke, is it? I can't see him yet if it is he. I don't look nicely this morning, I know, and I am not properly dressed." The young lady pouted languidly, as she drew round her a delicate morning-robe of white cashmere, trimmed with the purest, softest swansdown. "You must tell him that, if he wants to see me very much, he must wait two hours at least, till I am presentable."

"You would not surely be so cruel, Clara ?" said the gentleman. "Indeed I would, papa, and will," returned the young lady. "He ought to be punished for his inattention. I am very much offended with Mr. Brooke," Clara added, pouting again. "He has not been near me I don't know when. A pretty sort of lover. There, papa, I know what you are going to say; you needn't make any excuses for him.”

"My dear, I am not going to make any excuses for Mr. Brooke. I shall leave that for him to do for himself if any are needed. And, only that I know you are joking, my pet, I should be halfdisposed to be vexed with you. And indeed I think you do not always treat your lover quite so-quite so-what shall I say, my child ?"

"I would not say anything if I were you, papa. Pray don't.