had not donned the blue grenadine all in vain. Miss Hawkesby also bowed, smelling at her vinaigrette with a preoccupied air.

"I was quite taken by surprise," then said Mrs. Basil, turning to Anita, "hearing that you and my nephew are acquainted."

"Oh, yes," Anita answered with a winning smile, "I count him as one of my friends, you know."

"Um!" said old Miss Hawkesby, "I think if Mrs. Basil knew the string of gentlemen you honor with that title, she would hardly enjoy the compliment."

"It is better to have friends than enemies," said Anita, sweetly. "And I'm sure Mr. Arthur Hendall is nice, aunt," she added, shyly," for Mrs. Stargold says so."

"Yes," said old Miss Hawkesby, "your nephew is a great favorite with Mrs. Stargold, eh?"

'Oh, I don't know," Mrs. Basil answered, with prudent reserve, but with deep, seoret satisfaction - —a satisfaction, however, not altogether unalloyed; for, between Miss Hawkesby's inscrutable face, and Anita's bewitching ways, she was more uneasy about Arthur than she had ever been on Joanna's account. But people in society don't show this kind of uneasiness if they can help it, and so she smiled most graciously on Anita and Miss Hawkesby all through dinner.

As for Miss Hawkesby, she was in her element; she had discovered the secret of Mrs. Basil's solicitude about Joanna, and she had an opportunity to play Anita off against her. This she could do without risk, for young Hendall was an altogether different man in her estimation, now that Mrs. Stargold had taken him up. Those who did not know Miss Hawkesby well, invariably fell into the mistake of judging her to be an extremely transparent person; she seemed to speak of herself and her affairs with a perfect unreserve; but the old lady prided herself upon masking her secret views under the most daring frankness.

"Well, now," said she, "it is an easy matter for Mrs. Stargold to do something handsome for her young relations; look at her wealth! With me it is different. Anita knows how I must contrive and manage in order to keep up a proper appearance of style."

"That

"Oh, dear, yes," murmured Anita; "if it wasn't for my knack at millinery and such work, aunt, what should we do? Oh, yes," said Miss Hawkesby. girl has a talent that is a fortune to her. A little bit of blond, a trifle of ribbon, a twist and a turn, and there, ma'am, you have the fichu she wears at this moment. I've known her to manufacture a love of a necktie with a piece of black lace and a strip of pink tissue-paper. Think of that!"

"O aunt!" said Anita, "I protest; you ought not to expose the secrets of my toilet."

"There are no gentlemen present, my dear," said Miss Hawkesby. "I never confess petty economies to gentlemen; they can't respect them. But with women it is different. I tell Anita "-turning to Mrs. Basil-" that she ought to marry a poor man -but mind you, Miss Anita, if you do, I'll never speak to you again."

Anita laughed.

"We hear of few judicions marriages now," said Mrs. Basil, feeling that she ought to say something.

"Few indeed!" assented Miss Hawkesby, with energy. A sad state of things in our South at the present day! Our girls rush into matrimony without considering for a moment the all-important question whether a man is substantial, and they call it love! One hears of nothing in these degenerate days but petty economies that narrow the soul."

"Why, aunt, you preach economy incessantly," said Anita.

"Because I must, child," retorted Miss Hawkesby. "You know very well that I am not rich. If it wasn't for your talent I spoke of just now, I don't know where your fichus, and ruffs, and things, would come from.-I hope Joanna has such a talent?" she asked, abruptly, turning to Miss Basil.

Miss Basil colored; it wasn't pleasant to be told that she had neglected her duty; if she were given time to deliver a homily, she could prove the contrary to her own satisfaction, at least; but her voluminous ideas on the subject of duty could not shape themselves in terse and ready repartee; and, before she found words to reply, Miss Hawkesby resumed :

"I've no doubt, my dear madam, that you acted with the best intentions; but you've made a mistake. Of course, I, with my limited means, can't take two girls on my hands at once; but, when Anita marries, as I mean she shall, Joanna shal! have just as good a chance. There's no use making a secret about the main business of life; I never do." (Mrs. Basil and Miss Basil were both opening their eyes.) "Now, my good ladies," continued Miss Hawkesby, beginning to feel inspired by this homage to her originality, "what is there shocking in the statement that I wish to see my nieces marry well? I've no money to leave them; and what is to become of them without a husband apiece? They might teach, it is true; I see girls more ignorant than Anita go out to teach, poor things, but I never saw one make a fortune at it. It is much happier for a woman to marry a fortune, you may say what you please. I am not talking sentiment, but

sense.

66

Ah, my dear aunt, you were never married," sighed Anita, with an innocent air.

"Nor you, miss!" retorted Miss Hawkesby, sharply. "But my observation teaches me that the happiness of married life depends a great deal more upon sense than upon sentiment. Ho! ho! Well, I see by your looks that I am a shocking old woman. I've ruffled Miss Basil's delicate sense of propriety by talking so boldly on the main business of life in the presence of the innocent, unsophisticated Joanna. But, for my part, I be

"JOANNA!" said Anita, abruptly, "if Mrs. Basil will excuse us, take me out into the garden for a walk; I wish to see how much of it I remember I never drink coffee," she added, turning graciously to Mrs. Basil; it is so bad for me."

"Certainly," Mrs. Basil answered, beginning to think that Anita would be as pleasant a niece, all things considered, as she could find. "I'll send some iced tea out to you after a while, if you will have it." One could have thought, from the air with which she spoke, that she had a numerous retinue of servants at command.

"Thank you," said Anita; "I like iced

tea."

The two girls walked through the garden in silence. If Anita remembered any thing there, she did not say so. At last, when they came to the scuppernong-arbor, she stopped. "Let us sit down," she said, with a frown; "I'm tired."

Joanna took out her handkerchief and carefully dusted the rustic seat. Then she put out her hands and shook the bench, to test its strength. "I must see that it is safe," said she, gravely; "things are very dilapidated about here."

"Thank you," said Anita, "how considerate for me, you dear Joanna ! You have dispelled my frown, which is a valuable service. Never frown, Joanna, even when no one is by to see, for frowns leave their trace. Always cultivate a serene expression, it is a great beautifier. You see, my child, I know the effect of every thing. Beauty is a great art."

"Yes, Anita," said Joanna, with the manner of an obedient pupil.

Her sister burst into a laugh. "I've studied under Miss Hawkesby!" said she, with a touch of bitterness. "What did you think of her discourse at dinner to-day?"

Joanna paused; then she said, sedately, "I am too young to understand my aunt, I think."

"O happy Joanna ! O discreet Joanna!" cried Anita, mockingly. "I saw it in your face; you were shocked, you knew not wherefore. I will tell you, it was the general tone. Yet, my aunt-I beg your pardon, our aunt is not a bad woman. In her way she is a good woman. If she had a little more money, she would take you about with her as she does me; she would dress you, she would introduce you to society-the best society-she knows everybody worth know

ing-she would instill into your mind the most valuable worldly wisdom-and then, the chances are ten to one you would disappoint her."

"I think it very likely," said Joanna, with a dejected sigh.

"Don't take an imaginary trouble so much to heart, my honest little soul; I've not answered her hopes, myself."

"You? O Anita!" cried Joanna, incredulously.

"You think it not possible?" said Anita. "Joanna! does the world possess any attractions for you?"

"Yes, certainly," answered Joanna, heartily.

“Would it make you happy, do you think, to go about with our aunt as I do?-to be always dressed, to be always in company, to be always admired?"

"Of course it would!" replied Joanna. "You might know that without asking. Doesn't it make you happy?"

"Do you know," said Anita, without giving any heed to this last question, "that if it were not for me, you might have all these things they call advantages, at my aunt's bands?"

"How?" faltered Joanna.

"If I were to marry," said Anita, "and relieve her of myself, you might step into my shoes."

"I do not understand these matters, Anita," said Joanna, primly, and turning her head away; “but”—with decision-“I would not have you take such a step for my advantage."

"Do you not hate me?" said Anita, with some asperity; "do not turn your head away -whatever your answer-out with it honestly let us have no shams in this unworldly spot-I say, do you not hate me for standing in your way?

Anita laughed shrilly. "You think," she said, "that because I am pretty, and gay, and stylish, and all that, that men fall down and worship me? Don't you, you little goose? I've had my adorers, I own-but I never had one yet that was blind to my faults."

"Have you faults, Anita?" asked Joanna, simply.

"Haven't you found them out?" asked Anita. "But no; remain blind to them, yet a little while. I have seen you but a few hours we have been strangers for yearsand yet, Joanna, I really believe there is not one, among all the people I know, who would so readily sacrifice self for me as you would."

"Believe it, Anita! Believe it!" cried Joanna, ardently.

"And I admire unselfishness, heartily; but I am not sure that I would sacrifice myself for you," said Anita, slowly.

"I hope you never will," answered the generous Joanna, heartily.

"You are a droll child," said Anita, laughing. "If I were not so sure that you are happier now and here, under the care of that deliciously prim dragon, Miss Basil, than you could possibly be in the world you are so eager for, I'd marry a bald old gentleman I know of, and leave you the stage."

66

'Anita, don't do it, unless you like to. I do not wish to leave Pamela just now "(Joanna had not yet given up the hope of being a comfort and a consolation)—" and I think a bald old gentleman is horrid."

"Of course I sha'n't," answered Anita. "I know a young man that is a great deal nicer; and he is not bald. But he is poor; think how horrid that is!"

"But he isn't so very poor, is he?" asked Joanna, anxiously.

Anita laughed. "He is too poor for me, Aunt Hawkesby would say," she answered, shaking her head.

"Anita, Anita," said Joanna, piteously, "don't talk as if life were a delusion and a snare, and utterly devoid of joy; don't! don't! Pamela preaches that enough; but she is old, and has had the rheumatism; and I am so young, I must believe in life. And you are only five years older than I, and so beautiful; say that you are happy, that you enjoy the world, and the people in it-oh, say it, Anita?"

"Look at me!" cried Anita, tragically, "Do I look unhappy? No, no, my child," she added, with smiles breaking over her face. "I see the servant bringing the promised tea. But one cup? Don't you drink it, Joanna? You should learn; it's a worldly accomplishment."

"Pamela thinks it bad for the nerves," said Joanna, primly. "She would never let me drink it."

"Oh, indeed? Then have the lemon, do!" said Anita, holding the slice toward her on the tip of the spoon. "Do take it; I sha'n't enjoy my tea unless you go halves."

So Joanna took the slice of lemon. She could have eaten a whole one at any time, as is the taste of Southern girls.

"Of course I enjoy the world and the people in it, Joanna," said Anita, as she gave the empty cup to the servant, a smart mulatto girl, who had been diligently studying the blue grenadine; "and, more than all, I do enjoy a cup of iced tea. Did I make you believe me a misanthrope? My dear, I've a talent for exciting a sensation. I've told you once before that you need not take au pied de la lettre every thing I say. I love gayety, I love life. Does any thing ever happen here, Joanna?"

"you see the grandmamma gives dinings sometimes; and Mr. Hendall, he is here.”

"Ah!" said Anita, with interest; "and you see a good deal of him, I suppose?" "Not much," answered Joanna; "he has been away."

"But before he went ?"

"I met him here in the garden sometimes," said Joanna, rather unwillingly.

"I suppose you found his conversation improving?" asked Anita, with infantile innocence that completely threw Joanna off her guard.

"Oh, yes," was the reply.

"What did he talk about-Darwinism? Everybody talks about Darwinism now, you know; and it isn't necessary to understand it at all. The moment you understand more about any thing than your neighbor does, you become a bore."

"I don't think he said any thing about that," said Joanna.

Anita smiled.

"Are there any other gentlemen to be seen here? Joanna, I am older than you-you should tell me every thing" (peremp torily).

"Yes, Anita," Joanna answered, hurriedly, with a guilty recollection of the name on the mimosa-tree; "there is that friend of 'Mela's who comes so often-"

"Ah! a beau of Miss Basil's?"

"No, Anita," replied Joanna, very gravely; "that is not applicable to Pamela. He is a kinsman and young, and his name is Basil Redmond."

"Hark!" cried Anita, suddenly catching her sister's arm. "What is that?"

"It is nothing but a whip-poor-will over there in the ravine," said Joanna, laughing. "How white you are, Anita! were you frightened?"

"So it is a whip-poor-will," said Anita, relaxing her grasp of Joanna's arm. "What a charming note! Don't you love to hear them?"

"I would much rather hear the mockingbirds," Joanna answered. "I know where there are two nests; one in the pomegranatebush, at the end of the raspberry-border, and one in the Banksin rose down there at the other corner; you shall have your choice, Anita."

"Thank you; but I interrupted you. What were you going to say?" "I forget."

"About Mr. Romney, was it?" "Mr. Redmond. Oh, I wasn't going to say any thing."

Anita made an impatient movement. "Redmond? Oh, Redmond, I remember. He used to be here when I was a child. A horrid tease he was. I hear a step. I suppose that is he, coming to see Miss Basil? Let me pick my handkerchief up myself, child; you said I was pale just now; stooping will give me a color. I understand effects, you see."

up.

Her face was rosy enough when she looked

Young Hendall, hastening forward in the twilight, had eyes for Anita only. He did not speak to Joanna; he did not see her; he even turned his back upon her.

"This is the young lover that my aunt, Miss Hawkesby, disapproves of," thought she, with a feeling that it was no new discovery; and, after a moment of painful hesitation, she walked away.

It was no aimless wandering that led her now toward the retired little alcove where she had always carried her childish griefs and perplexities.

"Am I envious of Anita?" she asked herself, bitterly. "Of my sister, so sweet and good, reproaching herself for standing in my way? O wicked heart of mine! Did she not say that I would sacrifice myself for her? Am I to shrink at sacrificing my folly? No, no; I will not! I will not! I must be worthy of her."

And with these words, drawing her penknife from her pocket, she, by the glimmer of the stars, effaced her name from the bark, leaving, when all was done, only a blank.

How long she sat there afterward she did not know; but Miss Basil, ever watchful against malaria, found her there with her eyes fixed upon her ruthless work.

Now, Joanna, you'll get your death! How can you?" she began, querulously; and then she stopped abruptly, for there was yet light enough to reveal to her one furtive, jealous glance at the mimosa-tree, the erasure of Joanna's name; and, forgetting all about malaria, she was utterly at a loss what to say. Who had cut the name away, she could not imagine-indeed, that was a question she was not concerned about-but, if Joanna was going to take the cutting out of that foolish bit of work in that stony way, what could she say? But Joanna saved her the trouble of speaking.

"I did it myself, 'Mela," said she, quietly, in response to Miss Basil's mute appeal. "But but," stammered Miss Basil, "what for?" That Joanna herself should have done so sensible a thing was alarming.

"Did you not tell me that it is your tree -your tree that you cherished," said Joanna, her voice rising sharply. Besides, I will not permit liberties to be taken with my name."

"But, child," faltered Miss Basil, sitting down beside her, and not knowing even yet .what she would say.

"'Mela! cried Joanna, passionately, throwing herself on her knees, and burying her face in Miss Basil's lap, "O 'Mela, I am a child no longer!"

Some instinct of comprehension made Miss Basil put her hand on the girl's bowed head; but instinct carried her no further than this.

Joanna had so often disclaimed the estate of childhood that the passionate protest she now made was nothing new to Miss Basil, and, her morality being so much stronger than her sympathy, she began forthwith to preach.

"You must guard your temper, my dear. I hope Anita's finery does not make you envious. You must remember that your posi

to receive such attentions as she receives. Your aunt and sister, between them, will bring about a state of things here, in the way of worldly distraction, in which you, Joanna, cannot expect to share; and you must make it your study to strive for contentment and a quiet mind. And, Mercy guide us, Joanna! you make me forget what I came for. The Griswolds are all down with chills, and here you are, on this damp gravel, as if you never heard of such a thing! Come right away to the house and swallow a dose of ginger. Taken in time, I've known it to forestall and save a dose of quinine."

BASIL'S FAITH:

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

THAT

(From Advance-Sheets.)

CHAPTER I.

HAT excellent life, which many persons live who belong to the higher section of English middle-class life, had been lived by Mr. and Mrs. Bradley-an eminently respectable life, based upon successful commercial operations supported by adequate capital-no trials, either by tension of the money-market, or through unruliness of spirit or flesh, had disturbed the even tenor of their career. Men rose and fell in the chances of city-life; but Mr. Bradley, eschewing the temptations of speculation, persistently trod the safe path of legitimate business. Men and women rose to a high eminence of saintliness - men and women descended to the nether depths-but Mr. and Mrs. Bradley persistently trod the safe and estimable path leading heavenward, of churchwarden mediocrity. They had their reward-they were growing old, and the sere and yellow leaf brought them honor, love, obedience, and troops of friends, modeled in their own moral semblance each and all persistently treading that same safe and estimable path -a daily recurrence of breakfast, luncheon, and dinner-thoroughly adequate and nourishing

sherry of golden suavity, port of fading ruby-a daily recurrence of the same ideas, social and religious-a strange intertwining of these ideas-every thing is sacred to a churchwarden! Life without a battle, but life without a victory.

At last the trumpet sounded and the battle began. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley lived in a very comfortable villa at Twickenham, the garden of which sloped down to the river. Our story commences on the morning of September 1, 1873. As a rule, Mr. Bradley was always the first of the family to enter the breakfast room. Breakfast was laid in a cozy, pleasant room, half library, half ordinary sitting-room, which opened into the garden. Mr. Bradley's mind was ill at ease as

*This story is founded on a drama of the same title. The author gives notice that "in the present inequitable condition of the law of copyright, it is necessary to state that the dramatic rights are secured by two performances of the play at Hull."

rueful countenance, a very perfect breechloader, by Westley Richards, wiping the bar. rel with the most loving care. "Confound my old legs," he murmured, "they won't stand the work! Confound that infernal '34-I laid it down in my youth to floor me in my old age-improvidence of youth! Oh, for one sniff of the turnips-one long, delicious sniff! That crispy green, crunching under the boots-sparkling with dew-quivering with excitement. Oh, hang these breech-loaders! they are very pretty, but they've no mercy on a man's legs or a man's breath; down charge! Well, it was breathing-time-perhaps it was sport."

Mr. Bradley's recollections of old-fashioned sport were interrupted by the entrance of Martha, the confidential maid, and indeed, by virtue of long and faithful service, wellnigh the mistress of Mr. and Mrs. Bradley and of the entire household. Martha placed a traveling-bag on the table close to the gun

case.

"Well, Martha, is the boy ready? Portmanteau packed? Every thing all right, hey?"

"The portmanteau's right enough, sir—I packed it myself. I wouldn't trust any one else to touch it."

"Then, of course, it's all right?"

No, sir, it isn't; it's very far from being all right. The fact is, Master Basil-"

"Martha, do try to say Mister Basil. Remember, he's of age these last three years."

"I do try to say Mister Basil, sir, but I can't quite manage it. I'm sorry to say that Master Basil says he won't go."

"Not go!-the 1st of September!" exclaimed Mr. Bradley, with amazement.

"When I went to call him this morning, there he was, dear young gentleman, sitting up in his dressing-gown, all of a daze like. I know what's what," Martha added, with significant gesture. "I've told missus all about it. I know he ought to go-he's no business to stop another day in this house." "His father's house, Martha ?"

"Not another day, sir, begging your par don-while she remains here, and that's the plain truth."

"Martha," said Mr. Bradley, with severe tone, "never let me hear you utter another wicked word of that sort. Have you women no charity one for another? Understand, once for all, as long as Mrs. Milburn remains in this house no one shall question her conduct."

"It's no business of mine, sir; she won't hurt my character. It's only on Master Basil's account that I care-he's a young man, and she-"

"Martha!"

Martha prudently retired.

"Head of one's own house," thought Mr. Bradley, with a feeling of self-abasement, freeholder, but not head-wage-payer, but not master-husband, but not lord. For the first time in my life I've tried to perform a generous action at a certain cost-tried to stand up against the world on behalf of a defenseless woman, hounded down by lies and calumny, but the world beats me-the world, leagued with wife and servants, and

neighbors, and that grim prude, respectabili ty. Ah, there's nothing left to a man of sixty-five but cowardice. Port wine's about the limit of his free-will, and even there his will mustn't be too free."

Basil Bradley entered the room in shooting-garb-as pleasant a looking young Englishman as might be seen in a day's journey, but serious withal beyond his years, and bearing a stamp of methodical business habit; in point of appearance and bearing, the very sort of son for Mr. and Mrs. Bradley to idolize and worship-the very sort of young man to tread that same safe and estimable path which they had trodden.

"Basil, my boy, how late you are!" "Time enough, sir. Where's the moneyarticle?" he replied, snatching up the Times and scanning it eagerly.

"The money-article! Confound it, Basil -the birds-the birds!"

"Isn't Clara Milburn a noble, pure-hearted woman?"

"I think she is, but I can't prove it." "Prove it? no; but I believe it, faith!" "A man of business," said Mr. Bradley, with a smile, "and he talks of faith."

"Why, father, men walk by faith in the city-golden promises, golden plausibilitiesproofs no proof but faith; the error consists in being gulled by liars. Proof is no proof without an honest man to vouch it. Tom Milburn is a scoundrel, I'll vouch for that."

"Well, I can't tell what a jury will say to your theory," replied Mr. Bradley, with a shrug of the shoulders.

"It will come to that, my boy." "What! all those vile liars arrayed against her in that horrible Divorce Court?" "She shall have the best legal advice money can procure."

"We can give that to criminals, father; but the shame will kill her."

"Hush, Basil! here's your mother." And Mrs. Bradley hurried into the room, full of maternal solicitude for her son.

Making a good breakfast, Basil, I do hope; it will be such a hot, fatiguing day." And Mrs. Bradley seated herself at the breakfast-table. Papa, dear, is he making a good breakfast?"

"Nonsense, Maria! the boy's old enough to know what to eat."

"I don't care about his age-it's his breakfast.-Basil, dear, you must support yourself."

"All right, mother, I am supporting myself."

"You'll give our kindest remembrances to Mr. and Mrs. Woodford ?" said Mrs. Bradley, with marked emphasis; "and mind, Basil, you are to give my best love to Margaret Woodford-she's a great favorite of mine."

"You've often said so, mother."

"A charming, sensible girl, thoroughly well brought up; no fiddle-de-dee sentiment and pack o' nonsense about her. Good, religious parents-excellent examples for a young girl."

"Oh, yes, Margaret Woodford's well enough," replied Basil, calmly.

"She's a great deal better than that," pursued Mrs. Bradley. "I only wish I could induce you to think so. Mind, you're to tell her from me that I've been wanting her to stay with us these last three months, and now I declare the summer's gone."

"Why didn't you ask her before?" inquired Basil.

"How could I ask a young girl to this house?"

"Why not, mother?"

"I can only tell you, Basil-and your own common-sense will tell you the reasonif I had a daughter of my own, nothing should induce me to let her remain in this house."

'No, Basil; I was brought up as a girl ought to be brought up. I trust I have never forgotten my early training. I trust I have always taught you a proper sense of right and wrong."

"Yes, mother, of right and wrong; and I tell you from the bottom of my heart that you did what was quite right when you af forded an honorable asylum under your own roof to a lady who has been shamefully treated."

"I've no word to say in favor of Tom Milburn," persisted Mrs. Bradley, "but, at the same time, there are people who take his part; and you know perfectly well, Basil,

"The greater honor to us, mother, that we receive her here."

"She's infatuated you in her favor," retorted Mrs. Bradley, in acrimonious tone, "I can see that plainly enough."

Mother, dear," answered Basil, with serious and earnest expression, "you can't suppose for a moment that I care for Clara Milburn-Tom Milburn's wife-absurd notion; but I tell you plainly, I do care for the shameful way she has been treated; I do care that she should be the victim of lies and calumny; I do care that her only child, almost a baby, should be wrested from her; I do care, because I believe she is good, and true, and noble, and I mean to stick up for her through thick and thin."

Basil was interrupted for the moment by the entrance from the garden of Captain Seton-a young man, senior to Basil by three or four years the nephew of a neighbor and intimate friend of the Bradleys. Basil laid eager hands on Seton, and drew him forward into the controversy.

"We are talking about Mrs. Milburn, Seton. I want to assure mother of your faith in her honorable conduct. They know you were engaged to Mrs. Milburn long before this miserable marriage with my cousin. Tell them your confidence in Mrs. Milburn's conduct."

"Mrs. Milburn has been shamefully wronged by her husband," replied Seton. "I'm fully convinced of her entire innocence."

"Bravo! Teli them that Clara Milburn is not the woman to whom a man would dare to utter a dishonorable word."

Seton replied, with some slight hesitation, "Certainly, certainly;" and, turning to Mrs. Bradley, remarked, with a smile, that Basil was a doughty champion.

'So are you, Seton," retorted Basil, half in jest and half in earnest. "By Heaven! if ordeal by battle wasn't over, there would be two lances in the field; and I know a third, if it were needful. You'd couch a lance, father, wouldn't you, even if you had to do battle in your slippers and dressinggown? By Heaven! a fellow could fight for his faith in those days, and lay about him, and leave the verdict to Heaven!"

"Dark ages of superstition!" exclaimed Mr. Bradley; we leave it now to twelve jurymen selected by blind chance. Well, suiting my chivalry to the practice of the age, I've placed the whole matter in the hands of our neighbor, the eminent ecclesiastical lawyer, Dr. Manley; he's an old schoolfellow of mine, and will advise me as a friend. I shall be greatly governed by his opinion." "I sha'n't!" exclaimed Basil. "Why?" inquired Mr. Bradley.

"Because his opinion, I'll bet fifty to one, will be adverse. I know the proofs are against her."

"Basil, I declare it's perfectly distressing to hear you talk in this absurd strain," said Mrs. Bradley, with evident vexation.

"He must think as he likes," replied Mr. Bradley; "it's no use arguing with him on

"I wish you could give him a couple of minutes as you drive past," said Seton; "he always listens to you."

"The mare's so fresh she won't stand a moment. Here, I'll run across the gardensit won't take ten minutes."

"Shall I order the dog-cart to be ready for you when you return?" inquired Mrs. Bradley, as Basil rose to leave.

"When I come back, mother, will be time enough. I can't be sure of going till I get the telegram." And Basil hurried off to save Mr. Seton from entering upon his rash speculation.

"I can assure you," said Seton, "that my uncle is always praising Basil; he says he's the best man of business in the world-hardheaded, practical."

"So he is," replied Mrs. Bradley; "all but that crotchet about this unfortunate af fair." At this moment the servant entered with a card on a salver for Mr. Bradley. "Well, my love," said Mr. Bradley, glancing at the card, "we shall soon know the best or the worst of it. Dr. Manley is good enough to call upon me-not seeing me at church yesterday, I suppose."

"I only beg one thing," said Mrs. Bradley. "Promise me that Dr. Manley's advice shall govern our course for the future."

"Certainly, my dear," replied Mr. Bradley, with an assumption of firmness; and he left the room.

"I wish you clearly to understand, Captain Seton," observed Mrs. Bradley, "that thoroughly sympathize with Mrs. Milburn in her very unfortunate position; and, of course, if I were not thoroughly convinced in my own mind of the perfect rectitude of her conduct, I should not allow her to remain in this house another moment."

"Quite so, Mrs. Bradley," replied Seton. "It's in vain to deny the prejudice of the world in such cases," continued Mrs. Bradley, "and I'm old-fashioned enough to say that it is a very wholesome prejudice. Mothers will not bring their daughters to this house, and I don't blame them."

"I know the strong social feeling on the point," observed Seton, "for I'm always fighting it."

"It really is very unpleasant," continued Mrs. Bradley," to see one's neighbors looking askance at one. I declare, sometimes I can't. bear to go to church, and I was always brought up from a child to a strict perform

Martha approached her mistress, and said a few words, which were inaudible to Captain Seton.

"Oh, yes, Martha, she can come now," replied Mrs. Bradley, in a tone of irritation.

Martha left the room; and Captain Seton readily surmised that mistress and maid were in league to prevent, as far as possible, Basil Bradley from being in the company of Clara Milburn.

"Of course, Captain Seton," continued Mrs. Bradley, "I say all this in confidence; but it's no use blinding one's eyes to the fact that this is a most unfortunate affair both for Mrs. Milburn and ourselves, and all the more so on Basil's account."

Clara Milburn entered the room-quietly, very quietly, as if with the purpose to shroud herself away. She was about three-andtwenty; elegant, lithe figure; sweet, interesting face, but darkened with sad expression. Mrs. Bradley received her with marked ceremony and distance of manner.

Good-morning, Mrs. Milburn. Captain Seton, an old friend of yours, I know."

Clara's face flushed when she perceived the presence of Captain Seton; and, bowing coldly, she bent her eyes to the ground.

"May I offer some tea? I'm afraid it's rather cold."

"It will be very nice, thank you, Mrs. Bradley; and Clara took her seat at the table. "A lovely day for the 1st of September," she remarked, forcing herself to talk; "I hope Basil will have good sport."

"My son isn't certain even now whether he can get away from business."

"What a pity!"

"Basil is devoted to his duty, Mrs. Milburn; no shooting or any thing else can divert him from that."

Martha entered the room, and spoke to Mrs. Bradley.

"Oh, your master wishes to see me in the study, does he?-I must ask you to excuse my leaving the breakfast - table, Mrs. Milburn; Mr. Bradley desires to see me on business."

And, with a stately inclination of the head, Mrs. Bradley left the room, followed by Martha. Clara Milburn and Captain Seton were alone.

The flush again mantled her face; she started up, and glanced at him for a moment with scornful expression.

"So, Captain Seton-"
"Clara!"

"Not Clara!-Mrs. Milburn. You have dared to come here for my answer to the letter you gave me last night. It's burned! I have suffered very much," she continued, in agitated voice, "suffered the horrible anguish of unjust accusation-accusation supported by diabolical ingenuity-but that letter of yours has dealt me the hardest blow. We were younger than we are now when you asked me to be your wife-younger, but I think you knew the meaning of your offer."

"You knew I did!" he exclaimed, passionately.

"You meant it as the highest honor you could pay to the girl you loved-you felt she was worthy of the highest honor." "I did!"

"And now-oh, she has sunk so low in your estimation that you dare write to her that shameful letter-fly with you to India !'"

"Listen to me!"

"To me first," she answered, with vehemence. 'Oh, you must have greatly changed, or your hand would have paused ere it penned those words!-oh, worse than insult, a dry. ing up of all source of faith and hope! What faith or hope is left, if those who should believe in me have turned faithless? if one who has known me from girlhood— one who has loved me-believes me worthy of this shameful offer? Is this that beau idéal I worshiped at seventeen?" she added, in a tone of bitter contempt.

"By Heaven, I love you now as then!"

"Not now as then!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "Oh! think what you could have done for me had that love been a true, noble, enduring love! you, coming back from India, fresh to our circle, you could have said to me, 'Clara Milburn, I know these vile stories are base lies; have confidence, I be. lieve in your innocence. I knew you as a girl, as a playmate; the whole thing is monstrous, impossible.' Oh, think what strength those words would have given me to face the world-to defy those accursed lies!" "I have said all this to the world," he answered.

"But not to me," she rejoined, scornfully. "No, Mark Seton. In your own heart you have condemned me, joined my enemies in secret, using empty mouthings of confidence before the world."

"These are bitter words, Mrs. Milburn; nevertheless I shall be true when all the world has turned aside."

"Oh, let it turn, I care not; I have a safe refuge here. My own husband's relations have declared their perfect faith in my innocence, and they have proved their faith by giving me an honorable asylum in their house."

"They have, certainly," answered Seton, in a doubtful tone.

"Would Mrs. Bradley have any thing to do with a person in whose character she had not entire confidence?"