eating a Christmas-dinner; I jeered at myself for aiming at such a despicable pass, and yet I know now that there was something stirring at the bottom of my muddy selfishness-a bubble of natural, fresh, human feeling, which was trying to clear the springs of my soul.

and in whose time the whole land seems to have been measured out, for, in my walks out of town, I have found every mile marked off with a stout stone and "P. B. 17-" on it. The first one I saw when a lad I took to be P. B.'s gravestone, a view which my elder brother at once confirmed and embellished; but each additional mile-stone called so loudly for some other Paul Bodley, unless I would believe the poor man to have been dismembered before burial, that I was forced to take refuge in absolute skepticism, and to doubt whether our Paul Bodley ever lived to be buried. As I grew older and my grandfather's signature seemed to have produced no effect, and Mr. Tyrel was too busy probably to report progress; and as I read discouragaccounts in fiction of processes of law, I began to see the humorous side, and would have given a fresh signature of my own with as hearty a laugh as my grandfather himself uttered.

I was standing now with my back to the National Gallery buildings, leaning moodily on the stone balustrade, and I saw the lion that stood pointing defiance with his tail over the entrance to Northumberland House; the exceedingly-domesticated look of the wild beast, as if he had been hired by the family to frighten away plebeians, and had struck his most alarming attitude, made me wonder if that great front really was impenetrable. It occurred to me that I had heard or reading that the Bodley family and the Percy were in some way connected, and I queried whether I could not challenge the duke in the name of English Christmas hospitality to let me dine at his table. My mother was a Bodley, and the Bodley estate in England was a household jest with us, for when I was a little boy there was a good deal of talk, half serious, half in fun, about a vast estate in England belonging to the Bodley family which was begging for heirs, and so much in need of them to divide its wealth that an agent had come to America in search of all who bore the name of Bodley, or who were fortunate, like my father, in marrying a Bodley. It was a serious matter then with me, for the estate was said to be very great, and in our family our more ambitious requests were to be satisfied, not upon the discharge of the cargo from some shadowy ship, but upon our coming into possession of this estate, a real earth estate, not to be blown away as a ship could be.

When the agent came, there was considerable talk as to what steps should be taken in defense of our claims; and there were some papers to be signed, for I went with grandfather Bodley and saw him write his name, which was to make me rich, with a hearty laugh, as if the whole affair were an excellent joke, and he had certified to the same. For my part, I was rather shocked at his levity. It was suggested, too, that if we only had a ring with the Bodley crest on it, such a testimony to our blood relationship would be unquestionable. I thought so too, and urged it most strongly, quoting instances in Oriental tales where the ring was every thing. One of our relations had such a ring, and intrusted it to this Tyrel the agent, and I felt alarm lest our own claim was thus weakened, and wondered if a substitute might not be accepted in our favor in the shape of a venerable spoon, which fell to my lot as the youngest, and upon the broad expanse of its thin handle bore the initials L. T. B., letters often explained to me as representing Lydia and Thomas Bodley, though whether they held the spoon in joint partnership or not I was not told. It was from its monumental shape like a gravestone set up to the memory of that worthy couple, whose ancestry and descent I strove in vain to remember. They alone, hand-in-hand as it were, sat upon the upper branches of our genealogical tree; no, not quite alone, for there was old Paul Bodley, who had been governor of our State,

Recalling these things there in Trafalgar Square, I became quite merry all at once, and amused myself with fanciful encounters with disaffected heirs of the estate, who, like myself, might be angrily demanding of the existing head of the Bodley family to give them a Christmas-dinner. It would be a very waste of time to recount these absurdities. Yet, even with my added years of wisdom, I do believe that my mind was better occupied thus than when girding at myself and the world, as just before. I began to feel ready, under these home-recollections, for the world which I had been insolently thrusting aside; and there came over me a consciousness that a way of escape from the solitary life I had been leading was open, if only I were wise enough to enter it. At this point I turned, and saw standing near me an old gentleman with white beard and gentle face, who I perceived at once had been watching me, and now looked uneasy, as if I had detected him in an impertinence; there was a sort of wistful glance that he shyly stole at me which must have invited my advance, else why should I have turned to him as I did and asked, in the most matter-of-fact way, nodding toward the Lion:

Sir, can you tell me if there is any connection between the great families of Bodley and Percy?

Never shall I forget the affectionate yet wearied smile with which he replied:

"My good friend, there is a very distant connection between the two families; but I should not have to ask that face of yours if it belonged to the Bodley family."

me.

"Why?" said I, astonished, and yet grasping at the rope which he had thrown to "I am proud of being a member of the family, but I had not supposed that the patent of nobility was so stamped on the Bodley features that it could not be effaced in three or four generations, or washed out by the waters of the Atlantic, which my ancestors crossed."

"Ah!" said he, "I thought I was right. You are one of the American Bodleys, descended from Governor Bodley."

Yes," said I, "he was an ancestor of mine, but on my mother's side. My own name is Penhallow."

"And you are Winthrop Penhallow-are you not?" he asked, smiling at his own familiarity with my name and lineage.

"Within one!" I cried. "Winthrop is my elder brother."

"Then you are Eustace Penhallow."

"That is my name," said I, not now to be astonished at any revelation he might make. "Can you also tell me how old I am?"

The old gentleman looked at me, and must have seen that I was not offended, but very much amused and interested. He reflected a moment, and then replied, correctly, "Twenty-two last October."

"Will you let me ask you," said I, respectfully, "how it is that you know so well who I am? You must yourself be a Bodley."

He stood but a step from me, and I looked in his face.

No wonder the passers-by turned and looked with me. He had been bending a little, but now he stood erect with the dignity of noble old age, and with a strange expression of pride, of compassion, too, and yet I thought also of timidity, upon his face, he swept his right arm gently from him, bowed with knightly courtesy, and said:

"Mr. Penhallow, I am the sole heir to the Bodley estate; the name descends through me. I am Paul Bodley."

It was not so much the discovery which he made to me of his position as the lordly and perfectly gentle demeanor which he wore, that made me instinctively take off my hat and bow in recognition of the presence of the great family head. Then, unwilling to leave, I said:

"I have heard since my childhood of the Bodley estate. In our family I think some slight effort was made to obtain a share of it, not knowing," I added, half apologetically, "that there was one exclusively entitled to it."

"Then why," said he, with a little embarrassment in his voice, "did you not answer the advertisement in this morning's paper along with others?"

And, upon my saying that I had seen no advertisement, he drew a journal from his pocket and showed me, posted in the “personal" column, the following:

"All persons laying claim to a share in the Bodley estate are advised to call this day before three o'clock in the afternoon on Paul Bodley, Esq., No. 18 Northumberland Court, where they will hear of something to their advantage."

“I fear," said my companion, when I had read it, "that it was hardly quite honest on my part, but I was told that the phrase, something to their advantage,' was one in common use, and meant only that no harm should be done to them; and, indeed, sir," he added, eagerly, "I meant their good every way, and, if you had come with the rest, I should have explained to you, with them, what I could not say in the advertisement. But it is growing cold; will you not walk with me toward my present home while I explain?"

"Most willingly," I said, and felt even more strongly, as I offered Mr. Bodley my arm. He took it, and clung to me as we

walked, seeming to feel a dim sort of relief and shelter after the uneasy, restless state he had been displaying. For myself, I had begun to understand that I was with one whom I could not leave alone in the growing dark of a London December day, nor was my reverence for his nobility of face and manner the less that I saw myself in some strange way his guardian for the moment. Yet I have often thought since of us two walking slowly toward the Strand, and wondered which of us really was the weaker. I am not sure now, but certain it is that, if my venerable friend clung to me as if he saw I could help him, I also was leaning upon the companionship which had been thus offered to me in the hour of need; and so we went on, like the famous blind and lame couple, I personating the legs and he the eyes.

It is not far from where we had been standing to Northumberland Court, leading out of Charing Cross, and under the protecting vigilance of the Percy lion, in so obscure a way that thousands of Londoners passing it daily probably never saw it with its lowentrance archway; but we walked slowly, and, by the time we had reached the court, I had learned as much of Mr. Bodley's story as it concerned me to know. He had been for many years engaged in maintaining his claim to the estate, but it was only within a very short time that his lawyer had assured him that the triumphant close was at hand. A few weeks more and he would come into possession of the property. The other claimants had generally resigned their supposed rights, and a few forms of law only stood between him and the estate.

"When I heard this," said Mr. Bodley, with compassion in his voice, "I thought of the many who had hopes like mine, but are now disappointed. It is a sad thing, Mr. Penhallow, to pursue fond hopes for many years and find them crumble in the end. I longed to tell my poor kinsmen that I meant no evil to them, that I was not merely seeking my own selfish ends, and so I bethought me of inviting such as I knew to be near relations and most likely to be disappointed, to keep Christmas with me. I hope that next Christmas will see me in the old hall, surrounded by my kinsfolk; and when it shall please God to take me to my fathers, I shall leave it to those who follow me to remember the less fortunate members of the Bodley family in like manner."

He said this last with his hand on the door, hesitating as if not liking to send me away, and yet not certain whether to ask me in. Just then, however, the door was opened from within, and I saw the figure of a girl standing in the entrance, shading a candle which flickered in her face, and showed a look of concern, which deepened as I stepped forward by the side of the old man.

"Ah, father," said she, "I am glad to see you home again;" and, as if her concern had passed away with the safe return of the old man, and she saw the errand on which I had come, she gave me a frank look of gratitude.

"Stop a moment, Fear," said Mr. Bodley, as she took his hand to lead him in, and I stood uncovered, waiting, apparently, to take my leave, but really, I am not ashamed to

confess, anxiously hoping for a special invitation to join Mr. Bodley's other miserable relations on the morrow; "this young man," he went on," is Mr. Eustace Penhallow, from America. His mother was a Bodley. She was Patience-"

"Perhaps Mr. Penhallow will come in out of the cold," said his daughter, and then, looking at me, her face said, "and thus you will induce an old man to come in to a warm fireside."

"Yes, yes; come in!" said Mr. Bodley, his hesitation vanishing suddenly. I knew afterward, what I suspected then, that the chivalrous old man only waited for his daughter to invite me. It was my turn to hesitate now, half from a rusty shyness after long disuse of society; half, too, from a foolish fancy which I had taken up with, that pleasure was keenest when one sip only of the cup had been taken. But, somehow, the daughter's request was not one of repelling politeness, but of frank courtesy, which made it natural and right to accept. I entered, the door was shut behind me, and, following the couple, I was ushered into a little room, warm and light, and showing preparations for a simple meal.

"I had set the table for an early tea," said the young hostess, "and was only waiting for my father. I will place another cup for you, Mr. Penhallow, if you will let me."

"And I," said Mr. Bodley, bustling about, "will show Mr. Penhallow the papers which will explain to him how he comes into the Bodley family." I had been standing and bowing, and, I dare say, blushing all this time, confused enough between my embarrassment at the novelty of the situation and my anxiety to show that I had not forced myself upon the scene. But the quiet naturalness and self-possession of the girl, and the gentle simplicity of the old man, did for me what I could not do for myself: they put me at ease and I sat down, forgot as a bad dream what had been, and opened old springs of delight, which I had suffered to become choked with the cares and vexations of the world in which I had been living. Indeed, it must have been a more hardened nature than mine that could resist the influences that were about me. There was a something in the very atmosphere of the room which seemed to suggest purity of life. The white of the curtains, the white cloth that covered the table, and on which rested the white china and a few gleaming, demure little spoons, the white rose that drooped in its vase in the centre all this whiteness was not merely the symbol of purity, it was the unconscious expression of a pure nature, wont, in some inexplicable way, to make all inanimate objects about partake of its own whiteness. I looked at old Paul Bodley, at his secretary searching for papers, and my eye told me that this white-haired, white-bearded old man, with the pleased, guileless look on his face, was in his fitting home here; and then my eye turned to Miss Bodley, and I watched her as she moved quietly about, making her further preparations for tea, lifting the lid of the tea-kettle to see how the water was getting on, shaking the tea out of a little white canister, and cutting the slices of

bread for buttering. There always was a charm to me in the very sight of an orderly house-keeper-how much more when she was a maiden just putting on womanly ways, and wearing them with so girlish a grace as to impart to the most commonplace duties a new beauty! Perhaps, after all, the perfection of the picture lay in Fear Bodley herself, her face, her form, her dress, and movements. It was her brownness-not, I mean, of face, but of general appearance--that harmonized so well with all about her: her hair was brown, her eyes were of a soft brown shade, and her dress of the same general color, while over it she wore a dainty little white apron, which, to my old-fashioned eyes, is the very insignia of modest maidenhood.

It chanced that Fear, being engaged in some little duty-I think she was spreading bread with butter-stood so as to present her profile to me, the head being bent forward. I had been looking at her shyly, but now indulged in a downright, steadfast gaze. I was surprised at a recognition, for the attitude and profile at once recalled a girl whom I had noticed a week or so before bending over a drawing in the print-room at the museum. The face had attracted my attention, but so absorbed was she then in her occupation, that I got no other view, and presently, forgetting her in my own study, she left without my notice. I felt quite sure now that it was Fear Bodley, and I meant to ask her as soon as I properly could.

Mr. Bodley had by this time found the papers he wished, and, sitting down beside me, he began to explain, with the help of his tables, what connection existed between me and himself. I had nothing to do but to listen, and I own that genealogical tables never sounded so much like poetry as when they were recited and illustrated by him. It was like listening to a summer evening's distant hum to hear his gentle voice chanting, in low tones, the names and ages of my ancestors. Lydia and Thomas were linked with their predecessors and successors, and the respected governor was buried in a single grave; Bodley crossed and recrossed the Atlantic as if it were a mere ferry, and some disreputable members, hungering after seventh wives, turned upon their own kith and kin, thereby reducing uncles to the grade of cousins, and making one poor fellow, I recollect, nephew to his own nephew; so, by degrees, keeping the cis- and transatlantic lines in parallel, Mr. Bodley came at last to myself and brother and to Fear. I heard his age and my age and Fear's age (she was eighteen), and then, as if waiting for Time to give us another race, the old gentleman was obliged to stop.

It must not be supposed that all this recital was accomplished before tea. That was taken in the mean while, and hardly interrupted the narrative, for Mr. Bodley used the time to tell me stories of the different great men in the family. They were not very brilliant stories, though they all gathered about some true, honest actions, and I glanced at Fear, who must have heard them many a time before, but she was a better listener than I, with all my studious politeness. And when tea was over she put away the table,

and, bringing some simple work, sat down to hear the rest. I liked it all; I liked the drowsy hum of the old man's voice, the regu lar movement of Fear's hand as she stitched and stitched. It was such a sudden transformation from less genial surroundings that I found it hard to keep back the smile that was imperiling my face even when Mr. Bodley was announcing the melancholy end of a disreputable rake of a Bodley whose sins the grave and time had long since covered from men's notice, but who was pitilessly exhumed by this genealogical resurrectionist. I could not fail to notice, however, with what charity he spoke of him and of all whom truth unwillingly compelled him to name in our family, though they might justly have been disowned in their lifetime.

Anita had already withdrawn. She had little doubt that Mrs. Ruffner had come to discuss her escapade, and she didn't care to stay. But Joanna, for the same reason, had decided to remain: somebody must fight Anita's battles; but, in the excitement, she escaped notice.

"Is-is Mrs. Stargold, our dear cousin, then, no more?" asked Mrs. Basil, in faltering accents.

"Dead? La, no, my dear!" said Mrs. Ruffner, with that imperturbable good-nature nothing could damp. "Why should we be here, you know, if she were dead?"

"True, true," murmured Mrs. Basil. "I forgot."

No, she is not dead," said Miss Ruffner, snappishly, "nor likely to die. I always knew that there was nothing serious the matter with her. But, O my poor cousin Rowena" -with a doleful shake of the head-"how I

do feel for you! To think what a deceiver you've cherished in your bosom!"

Strong language," said old Miss Hawkesby, with some vague idea that Miss Ruffner referred to Anita.

"I do not understand," said Mrs. Basil, tremulously, raising her hand to her head as she sank into her chair. "Won't you be seated, and explain?"

"Yes, Miss Hawkesby," said Miss Ruffner, throwing herself upon the sofa, "I use strong language, for my feelings on this subject are strong."

"La, yes; and our cousin here won't object, I'm sure," said Mrs. Ruffner, "when she-"

No, mother; I stipulated when we decided to come that I was to state the case," said Miss Ruffner.-"I feel for you, Cousin Rowena. I knew you counted so upon the inheritance for Arthur, as it was natural that you should, though you must acknowledge that none of us ever encouraged your expectations. I never heard Mrs. Stargold speak of doing any thing for Arthur, beyond giving him a piece of plate with an appropriate inscription; but, of course, as her relatives, we all felt that we had a claim upon her; and now to think that, after all these years of oblivion, Francis Hendall's widow should arise to set up her claim!"

"Francis Hendall's widow!" cried Mrs. Basil, with energy, starting up. "Where? how?" she asked, helplessly, sinking back again.

"Francis Hendall's widow?" repeated Miss Hawkesby, interrogatively. "I remember that, long ago, Elizabeth said something about her brother having a wife. He was really married, then?

"We never believed that he was married," said Mrs. Basil, in her old, positive

manner.

"But we may believe it now!" cried Mrs. Ruffner, as triumphantly as though she herself had never joined vehemently in the denial. "Francis Hendall's widow EXISTS!"

"O my poor cousin!" said Miss Ruffner, again, "you have my sympathies. Francis Hendall's widow-his lawful widow-exists. Compose yourself—”

"I am perfectly composed, thank you," said Mrs. Basil, haughtily; but she trembled, and Miss Ruffner saw that she trembled. "Nerve yourself to bear it," she continued, in the same tone. "We came to prepare you. It is a great blow; but it would be mistaken kindness to withhold the knowledge from you. Francis Hendall's widow is none other than the woman you have known and sheltered as the judge's cousin, Miss Basil."

"Mela's secret!" cried Joanna, wildly. The room seemed to go round and round with her.

Mrs. Basil, who had risen under this tantalizing exordium, staggered as though she had indeed received a blow; but she rallied immediately. "I do not believe it!" she said. "If it were so, why has it remained buried so long? I'm sorry for Pamela; but all of us know that Francis Hendall was wild-"

accumulate and arrange the facts in the case," interrupted Miss Ruffner. "They say there isn't a flaw in the evidence. If she hadn't been so mortally secret about it, we might have interfered. Things were well enough as they stood; what's the good of making a matter of conscience of a dead and buried secret to stir up such startling changes?"

"Conscience is strong point," said Miss Hawkesby.

Elizabeth Stargold's

"Her weak point, I say!" Miss Ruffner retorted, snappishly. "But we've Arthur to thank for it all; it is he that is at the bottom of this piece of work, with that awkward pistol of his bursting open that old escritoire of Francis Hendall's, where his letters and other mementos were kept."

Well," said Mrs. Basil, peevishly, "what had that to do with it? Did Mrs. Stargold find the proofs among the old letters ? "

"No, indeed, nothing of the kind," said Miss Ruffner. "But reading over those old letters set her to thinking about her brother's last illness, when he spoke of his marriage as recent, and of his wife as still living."

"I remember," said Mrs. Basil, coldly. "His statements were confused, and the physicians said that his mind was wandering. None of us believed that he had a wife."

"Yes; and now Mrs. Stargold reproaches us all for having dissuaded her from making any attempt to find her brother's widow years ago. We had a prudent dread of impostors; but she didn't wish our advice, and for that reason, among others, she has kept the matter so close. But it is all right now, you may be sure. She has verified every date; she instituted strict inquiries, and now she talks of nothing but reparation, and Francis's memory, and all that. This morning she sent for her brother's widow, and such a scene as we had! Good Heaven!"

"And why," said Mrs. Basil, querulously -"why have I been kept all this time in the dark? Pamela might have confided in me; indeed, she should have done so."

"But," said Sam, speaking for the first time, "the mischief of it, for her, was just this she could bring no proof of her marriage. The clergyman that performed the ceremony died, and the only witness disappeared. Francis Hendall had the marriage certificate and all, and there she was, you see-ha! ha! Besides, she knew and married him under his middle name of Harmer,

Lucky

you know. I don't suppose he meant to abandon her when he left her. He probably wished to reconcile his family to the match before he acknowledged his marriage; but he died, you see-and there she was. thing for her that Mrs. Stargold's emissaries stumbled upon that only witness. Basil Redmond happened to hear an old man in a hospital tell a story that tallied with this, and he followed him up."

"Pamela is an excellent creature; ob, yes, an excellent creature," said Mrs. Basil, tremulously. "I am very glad to see justice done her. But she can't expect to inherit the whole of Francis Hendall's property: she's only his widow," she added, in a tone

"I hope Pamela will provide for her, now that she has means. But I never put any faith in Lydia Crane's visions-Lydia Crane's vis-"

She stared round the room with an imbecile smile, and the next instant fell back,

"Basil Redmond is the son of Warren Redmond, whose wife was a Basil; I know all about him," said Mrs. Basil, with a posi-rigid. tive air. "The judge, my husband-"

"So the young man himself believed until this morning," interrupted Miss Ruffner, ruthlessly. "Oh, there is no mistake about it. Miss Basil-for my part I can't call her any thing else had letters and papers from the Redmonds to prove it. Such a scene as we had! The young man fainted. Of course Cousin Elizabeth must know that it is a losing game for her-but I suppose she finds comfort in the approval of her conscience. I must do her the justice to say that she did attempt to prepare us yesterday. She wished to send for Miss Basil then, but the storm was raging, and Dr. Garnet persuaded her to wait until this morning. But this son was a revelation none of us looked for."

"Hem! hem!" said Miss Hawkesby, with thoughts too big for utterance. "I congratulate Mrs. Francis Hendall. I have a great esteem for her, and am glad to see justice done her, though it comes so late in the day. As for her son-"

"Oh! oh!-the grandmamma!" screamed Joanna, springing to her side, but instantly shrinking away, appalled at the ghastly distortion of the poor woman's once comely feat

ures.

"It is a stroke!" cried Mrs. Ruffner. "Heaven preserve us, I say!"

"Run for the doctor, Sam!" said Miss Ruffner.

"Go for Miss Basil, Joanna," said Miss Hawkesby, forgetting that she whom the world had hitherto known as Miss Basil, bore a different name; yet remembering, the next moment, that that indispensable woman had not yet returned to Basilwood.-" But where is she?" she added, appealing to Miss Ruff

ner.

"She is with Mrs. Stargold, I fancy, swearing eternal devotion," said Miss Ruffner, peevishly. “At least we left her there."

Miss Hawkesby seemed to stay her with a look.

"Mrs. Basil's case is serious, I fear," said "A clever fellow enough, and in for she, ringing the bell. "We must have ber luck," said Sam. taken to her room. What to do for her, I don't know. I wish in my heart that good and sensible woman were here."

"Pamela is highly deserving-highly," said Mrs. Basil, slowly. Words seemed to fail her.

"Well, for my part," said Miss Ruffner, with spiteful emphasis, "I cannot so readily reconcile myself to it. I always looked upon that woman as occupying a very different sphere from ourselves. And to think of the endless talk to which it must all give rise!"

66

Oh, indeed, it will make a great stir," said Mrs. Ruffner, with unction. "Such a piece of news! La, don't you remember about Miss Crane's dream? Extraordinary! But it does take eight letters to spell Stargold, and seven to spell Basil; no, I don't mean Basil, but Hendall.-La, Jane, what time is it? The flowers on my bonnet were perfectly ruined yesterday by the rain; I ought to go to Lebrun's for fresh ones."

"It is one o'clock," said Miss Ruffner, snapping her watch viciously. "You may be sure the news is all over Middleborough by this time. Wasn't Dr. Garnet present yesterday afternoon? And didn't he return this morning to learn the sequel?"

"I've always had a regard for Pamela," babbled Mrs. Basil, unconscious that she was interrupting; "but she was always very reticent with me-very reticent. And JoannaJoanna is my husband's granddaughter; I never forget that."

"La, yes," cried Mrs. Ruffner; "that child, now-but this makes no difference to her; she's just as much nobody as ever she was."

"I beg your pardon," growled old Miss Hawkesby; "she's my niece."

"Oh, la; to be sure! I beg your par don," said Mrs. Ruffner, whom nothing could abash; "but I forgot that."

"Oh, Dr. Garnet, he'll know, when he comes," said Mrs. Ruffner, cheerfully. She had pulled off Mrs. Basil's shoes, and was rubbing her feet with vigor, but to little purpose.

"It will be some time before he can be here, though, I fear," said Miss Hawkesby, anxiously. "The bridge, you know, was carried away by the storm, and-"

"You don't tell me so!" cried Mrs. Ruffner, in dismay. "Then one couldn't get to Lebrun's? What a misfortune!"

"We must call the servants," said Miss Ruffner, "and take her to her room. Poor Cousin Rowena! See what it is to have one's

heart set upon riches. A great shock-a great shock. I hope it may not terminate fatally."

Mrs. Basil was carried to her room, where she remained for the rest of her days, a helpless prisoner. Dr. Garnet, when he came, shook his head gravely, saying that he feared the worst: but when he had exhausted his skill and gone away, the Ruffners returned home to decide upon their plans; Miss Hawkesby and Anita lay down to rest; and only Joanna remained, sitting sobbing by the stricken woman's bedside.

"The grandmamma was good to me," she thought, remembering with simple gratitude the occasional funereal rides in the rickety carriage, the unrestricted access to the old garden, the polonaise, the lace handkerchief, the Roman sash, and the invitation to the dinner-party.

Worn out, at last, with excitement, fatigue, and exhaustion, she fell asleep in her

old-fashioned bedstead. It was an uneasy slumber, from which she was awakened by the grim Myra, saying in an awesome whisper:

"Miss J'anna! Miss J'anna! Miss Pamela has come and sont for you."

Joanna roused herself with a start. It was late. The sun had long gone down, and the twilight gloom now hung about the silent house, investing the dark and heavy furniture with an uncanny aspect.

"You go, and I'll stay," said Myra, still in that blood-chilling whisper, and nodding her turban with a ghoul-like air at Mrs. Basil, lying in a sort of stupor. "She ought not to be left."

Joanna rose with a shudder and left the room. All that she had heard that morning had startled and bewildered her painfully. She felt, now, so far and so strangely removed from her whom she had known hitherto as the plain, hard-working manager of the affairs of Basilwood, and the strict, uncomfortable guardian of her own early years, that she seemed to herself like one in a dream, traversing vast spaces, as she wearily dragged her way through the dusky gloom of the long hall, to that familiar little nook, known as Miss Basil's room. She felt as though years had passed since yesterday, when she saw her prim cousin go forth in water-proof and over-shoes to carry comfort to the Griswolds: so true it is, we live in feelings, not in figures on a dial." Poor Joanna trembled as she reflected that the prim cousin, who had gone out in the storm on her errand of mercy, could never more return; but that in ber place had come a new woman, with a new name and a new life; and, trembling thus, she entered the familiar, yet unfamiliar presence.

CHAPTER XXXII.

66

LIVING FOR SOMETHING

THE "late" Miss Basil was seated by the window, looking, except for a certain subdued excitement, much the same as usual; but, in the pale light, Joanna saw, with a pang of mingled dismay and indignation, that the bed was strewed with the treasures that had always been in the jealous keeping of the little brass-studded bureau in the corner-old-fashioned ornaments, fans, buckles, bead-bags-how keenly had Joanna, in her childish days, enjoyed the occasional glimpses chance had afforded of these hoarded relics of a day gone by! But to see them now, spread out to the light in this way, filled her with pain and resentment; it seemed to her as though Mrs. Hendall was about to administer upon Miss Basil's effects, and the old spirit of antagonism quickly took possession of Joanna's heart.

dient, and I've suffered enough for it. I promised you that I would not leave the house, and I went into the town through the storm and was caught there. It was all for Anita's sake."

“Well, child,” said the Pamela of old, "it's no uncommon thing for you to be wise in your own conceit. Miss Hawkesby and your sister have told me all about it. I hope it will be an everlasting lesson to you. My son" and it was Mrs. Hendall that spoke now-but she paused, and looked at Joanna, half in pride, and half in embarrassment; whereupon, Joanna, assuming a stony bearing, only said

"It is unnecessary, then, for me to go over it again," said Pamela, nervously. "Your aunt, Miss Hawkesby, is a woman of character, Joanna, a woman of sterling character. I didn't rightly appreciate her at first -owing to circumstances-but she's uncom monly sensible. Not one in a hundred could understand so readily my position - my changed position. She has met me at once on equal ground, and has advised me most sensibly. She agrees with all my views. She thinks the details of my-story should be known; and I don't intend to be secret in this matter. Some day, I shall tell you all about my life before I came here; but it is enough, now, to say that when I was young and foolish, like you, Joanna, I allowed myself to be persuaded into a clandestine marriage."

"But I wouldn't have done that ever, 'Mela," said Joanna, not without a conscious superiority.

Joauna," said Pamela, with asperity, don't assume to sit in judgment upon those that have seen more of life than you have." "No, 'Mela," said Joanna, meekly.

"I am well aware," continued Mrs. Hendall, with an access of dignity, "that those Ruffners have not spared comment; but I am prepared for envy, hatred, and malice; and Heaven forbid that I should cast any reflections upon any one! No, Joanna; I trust that I appreciate my position. I've had a long period of trial in God's providence to prepare me for this, no doubt."

"Yes, I know, 'Mela," said Joanna, sadly. "Every thing is changed.”

"Yes; and I trust that I shall accept the change in a proper spirit," said Mrs. Hendall, with a rising flush, and a very perceptible flutter. "I shall feel it my duty to study whatever is becoming to my changed position in every respect. I've been looking over my possessions. Many of these things have come into fashion again, I find, and can well be used. They will save unnecessary expenditure, which in all cases it is a duty to

avoid. But my son has told me that he likes dress; and your aunt, Miss Hawkesby, a very sensible woman, advises me to adopt a different style. Still, I shall dress from a sense of duty and fitness, and not for vainglory. For, Joanna, let me warn you: when riches increase, set not your heart upon them. I've been quite exercised as to the effect this change might have upon you."

"I have no riches, 'Mela," said Joanna, quietly.

"As if it were not all the same!" said Pamela, tartly. "You don't seem the least glad, Joanna; you don't seem to care at all for the good fortune that has befallen me, after all these years, too! I was up all last night; and yet I couldn't sleep now a wink, if I tried, for thinking of all these things that have happened so strangely, and contriving how to have my clothes altered so as to save expense, and yet dress to please my son-my son that was taken away from me so long! He is mine now, before the world. Yet you don't appear to be the least glad!"

"O 'Mela!" cried Joanna, bursting into tears. "Forgive me! I am glad for you, very glad for you; but oh, so sorry for myself!"

"I wish you wouldn't, Joanna," said Pamela, querulously. "The judge, your grandfather, left you to me. One might think I've threatened to abandon you. You reflect upon me, really. Of course you are just the same to me as ever. My sister-in-law, Mrs. Stargold, has acted in a most praiseworthy manner. The greater part of her property came from-from my son's father, and she voluntarily surrenders it to us-to Basil and me, that is; and we shall all live together; we couldn't refuse her that; and, of course, this will be the better for you."

"Live here at Basilwood?" asked Joanna, innocently.

"Of course not, Joanna. What are you thinking of?"

"Mela," said Joanna, solemnly, "I am thinking of the grandmamma."

"Mrs. Basil. Yes," said Pamela, with sudden recollection. "Dr. Garnet says it's serious. But her relations must see to her." "You are one of her relations," said Joanna, sturdily.

"Not by her permission, as I very well know," said Mrs. Hendall, with an angry flush. "And she has nearer relations than I."

"She has no one-no one!" cried Joanna, passionately. "She is like myself, she has nobody. You have found a fortune and a son. Anita and my aunt-they are reconciled to each other. But the poor grandmamma is alone. Mr. Arthur Hendall must be away, you know. The poor grandmamma, I cannot forsake her!"

"Do you owe so much to her?" said Pamela, bitterly.

know how your heart is set upon dress, Joanna, notwithstanding all my diligence to inculcate a proper indifference to such vanities, and I'm quite prepared to hear you say that you must have all the new fashions; and, indeed, to a certain extent—”

"No, 'Mela," interrupted Joanna, gravely, "I do like the pomps and vanities, as you say; but my heart is not set on them. I am not caring now about the new fashions; I am caring about living for something-"

"Mercy guide us! What has come over the child?" cried Pamela, uneasily.

"A great change, 'Mela," said Joanna, with a sigh. "I know that I have been a trouble and a care to you all my days, that I can never repay all you have done for me; but, just now, you do not need me"and here poor Joanna's voice almost forsook her-" and the grandmamma does."

"I am to give you up to her, then?" cried Pamela, stormily. "And what do I owe her, that I should make such a sacrifice? It was her fault entirely that my boy went away, and was lost to me all these years."

"He was not lost to you," said Joanna, with gentle reproach. "Is he not restored to you now?"

"Nothing can ever restore the years that are goue," said Pamela, bitterly.

"O'Mela!" said Joanna, "you pray about every thing; did you not pray when all this good fortune befell you unawares ! As for me, I know this, that God has put it into my heart to stay with the grandmamma in her extremity; and, when she needs me no more, then-O 'Mela! my 'Mela! I cannot give you up forever!-then may I come to you, and find you, for all your new name, and your new-estate, unchanged to me?"

And, with these words, Joanna, in a wild outburst of weeping, threw herself into her cousin's arms, and was comforted. She was comforted, because Pamela, too much overcome to preach, could only clasp her and weep with her.

Indeed, this new Pamela, who was henceforth to be known as Mrs. Hendall, was already beginning to resign faith in her own judgment in favor of the son whom she was now entitled to acknowledge before the world. She loved Joanna better, because he had praised her; and she admired this child, even while she disapproved, for the earnestness with which she persisted in a course that promised nothing but hardship and difficulty. Nothing! Had this long-suffering Pamela then learned so little from the lesson of her life? "The child does not know what she would undertake," she said to herself; "just when she might have all she wants, too; for is she not as much mine now as ever? my son shall reason with her."

But

And, soothed by this reflection, Pamela, by silence, seemed to acquiesce in all Joanna's wishes.

But Joanna was not to be dissuaded from her purpose. When Pamela's son came to tell her about his mother's plans, in which be insisted that Joanna was entitled to be considered, he found her firm in her determination to remain with Mrs. Basil.

"I live, and therefore I must live for something," she said, simply. "I am very