varying aspects of external nature— innocently
joyous, or unaccountably sad;— when, I say, such
a being comes across your experience, inform me;
and the chances are that the true Pythoness is
found."

I had listened with vague terror, and with
more than one exclamation of amazement, to
descriptions which brought Lilian Ashleigh before
me ; and I now sat mute, bewildered, breathless,
gazing upon Margrave, and rejoicing that at
least Lilian he had never seen.

He returned my own gaze steadily, searchingly,
and then, breaking into a slight laugh, resumed:

"You call my word 'Pythoness' affected. I
know of no other. My recollections of classic
anecdote and history are confused and dim;
but somewhere I have read or heard that the
priests of Delphi were accustomed to travel
chiefly into Thrace or Thessaly, in search of the
virgins who might fitly administer their oracles,
and that the oracles gradually ceased in repute
as the priests became unable to discover the
organisation requisite in the priestesses, and
supplied by craft and imposture, or by such
imperfect fragmentary developments as belong now
to professional clairvoyants, the gifts which
Nature failed to afford. Indeed, the demand was
one that must have rapidly exhausted so limited
a supply. The constant strain upon faculties so
wearing to the vital functions in their relentless
exercise, under the artful stimulants by which the
priests heightened their power, was mortal, and
no Pythoness ever retained her life more than
three years from the time that her gift was
elaborately trained and developed."

"Pooh! I know of no classical authority for
the details you so confidently cite. Perhaps
some such legends may be found in the Alexandrian
Platonists, but those mystics are no authority
on such a subject. After all," I added,
recovering from my first surprise, or awe, "the
Delphic oracles were proverbially ambiguous,
and their responses might be read either way; a
proof that the priests dictated the verses, though
their arts on the unhappy priestess might throw
her into real convulsions, and the real convulsions,
not the false gift, might shorten her life.
Enough of such idle subjects! Yet no! one
question more. If you found your Pythoness,
what then?"

"What then? Why, through her aid I might
discover the process of an experiment which
your practical science would assist me to
complete."

"Tell me of what kind is your experiment;
and precisely because such little science as I
possess is exclusively practical, I may assist you
without the help of the Pythoness."

Margrave was silent for some minutes, passing
his hand several times across his forehead, which
was a frequent gesture of his, and then rising, he
answered, in listless accents:

"I cannot say more now, my brain is fatigued;
and you are not yet in the right mood to hear me.
By the way, how close and reserved you are with
me."

"How so?"

"You never told me that you were engaged to
be married. You leave me, who thought to have
won your friendship, to hear what concerns you
so intimately from a comparative stranger"

"Who told you?"

"That woman with eyes that pry and lips that
scheme, to whose house you took me."

"Mrs. Poyntz! is it possible? When?"

"This afternoon. I met her in the street— she
stopped me, and, after some unmeaning talk,
asked 'if I had seen you lately; if I did not find
you very absent and distracted; no wonder—
you were in love. The young lady was away on
a visit, and wooed by a dangerous rival.'"

"Wooed by a dangerous rival!"

"Very rich, good-looking, young. Do you fear
him? You turn pale."

"I do not fear, except so far as he who loves
truly, loves humbly, and fears not that another may
be preferred, but that another may be worthier
of preference than himself. But that Mrs. Poyntz
should tell you all this does amaze me. Did
she mention the name of the young lady?"

"Yes: Lilian Ashleigh. Henceforth be more
frank with me. Who knows? I may help you.
Adieu!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

WHEN Margrave had gone, I glanced at the
clock— not yet nine. I resolved to go at once to
Mrs. Poyntz. It was not an evening on which
she received, but doubtless she would see me.
She owed me an explanation. How thus
carelessly divulge a secret she had been enjoined to
keep? and this rival, of whom I was ignorant?
It was no longer a matter of wonder that
Margrave should have described Lilian's peculiar
idiosyncrasies in his sketch of his fabulous
Pythoness. Doubtless, Mrs. Poyntz had, with
unpardonable levity of indiscretion, revealed all
of which she disapproved in my choice. But for
what object? Was this her boasted friendship for
me? Was it consistent with the regard she
professed for Mrs. Ashleigh and Lilian? Occupied
by these perplexed and indignant thoughts, I
arrived at Mrs. Poyntz's house, and was
admitted to her presence. She was fortunately
alone; her daughter and the Colonel had gone
to some party on the Hill. I would not take the
hand she held out to me on entrance; seated
myself in stern displeasure, and proceeded at
once to inquire if she had really betrayed to Mr.
Margrave the secret of my engagement to Lilian.

"Yes, Allen Fenwick; I have this day told,
not only Mr. Margrave, but every person I met
who is likely to tell it to some one else, the secret
of your engagement to Lilian Ashleigh. I never
promised to conceal it; on the contrary, I wrote
word to Anne Ashleigh that I would therein act
as my own judgment counselled me. I think
my words to you were that ' public gossip was
sometimes the best security for the fulfilment of
private engagements.'"