face, just as invisible writing ink comes out
before a fire. "I won't take you any further,"
she said; " indeed, no. It is very kind of you
to come so far. Please leave me here. Do. I
must go by myself."

Hanbury was left gasping in the road, with
his heart all filled with grief. Still there was
consolation, something to turn over and think
of in that incomprehensible change of manner.

Later in the day the maid came back, after
being detained rather longer than her mission
required. She brought good news, however;
for the major had gone straight to Brown's
terrace, no doubt charged with news.

Joyfully our Violet flew up-stairs, began to
smoothe her hair and work at personal decoration.
The excitement had given a brilliancy to
her face. Ribbons, lace, dress, ornaments, all
of the best, were got out, for it was now certain
that Fermor, having quaffed the elixir, would
come—come in excitement and with all speed.

Her sister saw the change with delight and
wonder, but forebore to ask a single question,
even to put out a hint. She ran up to her
mother with some good news, and to enjoin
caution.

"Violet has a little mystery of her own, poor
child. It is going well again, I can see. Mr.
Fermor has been writing, and, I suspect, will be
here in a moment. I knew it was some mistake.
Don't let us notice anything, mother dear, and
I shall watch for Louis and warn him against
any of his blunt speeches."

Mrs. Manuel, whose face was arid and worn
with old private sorrows, where tears seemed
to have worn for themselves water-sheds and
gullies, smiled with some pleasure. Such news
was lighting up her darkness.

"I was thinking, Pauline," said Violet, from
the window, with her face to the garden,
"of a little plan, a little scheme of my own;"
an announcement received with genuine delight
by her sister.

"To be sure, dear," she said; "let us hear it.
Mamma will be delighted."

"I want," said Violet, still at the window,
"to—to—give a little party. You know we
have been here so long and never—"

Pauline answered with genuine wonder. "A
party, dear! Good gracious! No, why should
we do that?"

"O, we must!" said Violet, turning round,
and hastily crowding a number of reasons
together. "It is expected. We ought to have
done it long ago. I am sure they say so. O,
Pauline, indeed, indeed we must; and—and—I
should so like it."

Sisterly instinct had now at last divined that
something more was asked for than a mere
party, and Pauline was presently as eager as
Violet.

CHAPTER XXXIII. A FAREWELL.

"WILL you ever come back again?" said Fermor
to Miss Carlay. "Scarcely, I should say.
Chance rarely brings friends again together at
a place of this sort at the same time. No; you
will be at the west when I shall be at the east.
It is always the way."

"We are to go to the south of France," she
said, speaking this to the corner of her dress.
"Papa likes quiet and retirement. We shall
become regular rustics, and live among the vines
and honest peasants. You, we are told, are to
have a different sort of life, out among the
Eastern tribes, conquering and ruling.
Something splendid and exciting."

"No," said Fermor, with some embarrassment,
"nothing is settled as yet. Of course I
might, if I chose."

"And you will choose," said she, timidly, but
looking at him. "I am sure of it; I told papa
so this morning."

Fermor smiled. There was a refreshing
naturalness about this girl that was always
piquant. A new view at every turn of the road.
"That would suit my nature, I suppose," he
said, inquiringly, "ruling and conquering?"

She dropped her eyes again. Then, after a
moment, looked at him. "I—I think so," she
said.

"Quite right," he said, approvingly. (He
held always a sort of paternal manner to her.)
"Well answered! I should like being captain
over slaves, in opening their brute intellects."

"You should go," she said, eagerly. "We
should so like to hear of you."

"You are anxious," he said, "to get me
away."

"No, indeed," she said; "you misjudge me.
If you do not go, surely the south of France is
as far removed from England—at least to all
intents and purposes—as India. You will never
come that way."

(This "nature" is really charming, thought
he, because she makes no pretence to anything
else.)

"We never know how things may turn out,"
he said. "I could no more tell where I shall
be in three months' time than I could the age of
the moon. It may be England, India,—perhaps
the south of France," he added, smiling. "It
is all on the cards."

She smiled too. "You don't mean that?'
she said.

"I can mean nothing," said he, importing one
of his mysterious aphorisms, "where I know
nothing. I confess you have read me right in
one point. I feel a call towards the East.
It is the country for me; and but for the absurd
forms and formulas of our diplomatic service—
no matter. People someway seem to expect me
to go there. Remember, the south of France
is on the road to India."

"O, how charming it would be," said she, in
one of her unconventional little bursts of delight.
"Some morning, perhaps, we should hear of a
strange gentleman at the gate, and we should
be wondering, and then it would turn out to be
you. Though, indeed, I should know for certain
that it was you as soon as I heard there was a
stranger."

"And do you mean to say," said Fermor,
"that a morning call from a mere conventional