monotony, until the end of the fourth week was at
hand.

On the last day, an event happened; on the
last day, the long-deferred promise of the future
unexpectedly began to dawn. While Magdalen
was spreading the cloth in the dining-room, as
usual, Mrs. Drake looked in, and instructed her
on this occasion, for the first time, to lay the
table for two persons. The admiral had received
a letter from his nephew. Early that evening,
Mr. George Bartram was expected to return to
St. Crux.

CHAPTER III.

AFTER placing the second cover, Magdalen
awaited the ringing of the dinner-bell, with an
interest and impatience, which she found it
no easy task to conceal. The return of Mr.
Bartram would, in all probability, produce a
change in the life of the house—and from change
of any kind, no matter how trifling, something
might be hoped. The nephew might be accessible
to influences which had failed to reach the uncle.
In any case, the two would talk of their affairs,
over their dinner; and through that talk—
proceeding day after day, in her presence—the way
to discovery, now absolutely invisible, might,
sooner or later, show itself.

At last, the bell rang; the door opened; and
the two gentlemen entered the room together.

Magdalen was struck, as her sister had been
struck, by George Bartram' s resemblance to her
father—judging by the portrait at Combe-Raven,
which presented the likeness of Andrew
Vanstone in his younger days. The light hair and
florid complexion, the bright blue eyes and
hardy upright figure, familiar to her in the
picture, were all recalled to her memory, as
the nephew followed the uncle across the room,
and took his place at table. She was not
prepared for this sudden revival of the lost
associations of home. Her attention wandered as
she tried to conceal its effect on her; and she
made a blunder in waiting at table, for the first
time since she had entered the house.

A quaint reprimand from the admiral, half in jest,
half in earnest, gave her time to recover herself.
She ventured another look at George Bartram.
The impression which he produced on her, this
time, roused her curiosity immediately. His face
and manner plainly expressed anxiety and
preoccupation of mind. He looked oftener at his
plate than at his uncle—and at Magdalen herself
(except one passing inspection of the new parlour-
maid, when the admiral spoke to her) he never
looked at all. Some uncertainty was evidently
troubling his thoughts; some oppression was
weighing on his natural freedom of manner.
What uncertainty? what oppression? Would
any personal revelations come out, little by little,
in the course of conversation at the dinner-table?

No. One set of dishes followed another set
of dishes—and nothing in the shape of a personal
revelation took place. The conversation halted
on irregularly, between public affairs on one side
and trifling private topics on the other. Politics,
home and foreign, took their turn with the
small household history of St. Crux: the leaders
of the revolution which expelled Louis Philippe
from the throne of France, marched side by side,
in the dinner-table review, with old Mazey and
the dogs. The dessert was put on the table—the
old sailor came in—drank his loyal toast—paid
his respects to "Master George"—and went out
again. Magdalen followed him, on her way back
to the servants' offices, having heard nothing in
the conversation of the slightest importance to
the furtherance of her own design, from the first
word of it to the last. She struggled hard
not to lose heart and hope on the first day.
They could hardly talk again to-morrow, they
could hardly talk again the next day, of the
French Revolution and the dogs. Time might
do wonders yet; and Time was all her own.

Left together over their wine, the uncle and
nephew drew their easy-chairs on either side of
the fire; and, in Magdalen's absence, began the
very conversation which it was Magdalen's
interest to hear.

"Claret, George?" said the admiral, pushing
the bottle across the table. "You look out of
spirits."

"I am a little anxious, sir," replied George,
leaving his glass empty, and looking straight
into the fire.

"I am glad to hear it," rejoined the admiral.
"I am more than a little anxious myself, I can
tell you. Here we are at the last days of March
—and nothing done! Your time comes to an
end on the third of May; and there you sit, as
if you had years still before you to turn round
in."

George smiled, and resignedly helped himself
to some wine.

"Am I really to understand, sir," he asked,
"that you are serious in what you said to me
last November? Are you actually resolved to
bind me to that incomprehensible condition?"

"I don't call it incomprehensible," said the
admiral, irritably.

"Don't you, sir? I am to inherit your estate,
unconditionally—as you have generously settled
it from the first. But I am not to touch a
farthing of the fortune poor Noel left you, unless
I am married within a certain time. The house
and lands are to be mine (thanks to your kindness),
under any circumstances. But the money
with which I might improve them both, is to
be arbitrarily taken away from me, if I am not a
married man on the third of May. I am sadly
wanting in intelligence, I dare say—but a more
incomprehensible proceeding I never heard of!"

"No snapping and snarling, George! Say
your say out. We don't understand sneering in
Her Majesty's Navy!"

"I mean no offence, sir. But I think it's a
little hard to astonish me by a change of
proceeding on your part, entirely foreign to my
experience of your character—and then, when I
naturally ask for an explanation, to turn round