the quasi-virtuous," as Mr. Dacres called them,
who would not give themselves such trouble—
had gone privately to Mr. Wilkinson and
warned him. Every one was talking, they said;
and such a pity! Mr. Wilkinson coloured;
grew hot. It came on him like a revelation;
he had never seen it in that light before,
though he might have noticed what they now
called his attention to. He had considered it
rather evidence of his popularity, a compliment
to his important position in the colony. He had
presently lashed himself into a sort of fury, and
had gone pompously to his wife to require an
instant change of conduct. He would not have
himself spoken of in that way. He was not a
person to be made free with. But the lady,
untrained as she was, had already learned a few
arts, useful, as being inflammatory on such
occasions. These she could fix lightly in her
husband's neck, as the chulos do their arrows at a
bull-fight. And she at once galled him by the
cold inquiring stare of angry surprise, as who
should say, " This is all a joke."

"It is not," said he, answering the look,
"and I won't have it. I'm not going to be
talked about here. And I tell you what,
unless I have a distinct engagement that you
do not speak a word to that man at this ball, I
shall not allow you to go."

The lady gave a forced and mocking laugh,
another of the bandillero's arrows in his neck.

"I shall speak to Mr. Ernest Beaufort,
and walk about with him as usual. I am not
going to make myself ridiculous for any one,
and—  I shall go."

"We shall see," said he, trembling with rage.

This was the first cannon-shot, and before
evening everybody knew there had been a
tremendous battle royal, with a defiance and
challenge, and all were naturally looking forward to
see how it would end. " Was there ever such
a poor old donkey?" Captain Filby said. She
had rushed to her friend.

"He will beat me, I suppose, the next thing,"
said Mrs. Wilkinson. " He treats me as if I were
some wretched Turkish slave, and would sell me
if he could—so Mr. Beaufort says."

Lucy was a little startled at this name. " It is
very unkind of him. But he will see he has done
wrong, and I am sure he is good at heart. But
it is very improper of him to speak to you in
that way. Still, dear, I wouldn't encourage
Mr. Beaufort to say such things."

"Oh, Mr. Beaufort understands him perfectly.
He knows men, and women too, as he says. In
London no man dare speak so to a lady who
was his wife. He would be horsewhipped by any
gentleman standing by."

Lucy was a little confounded at these new
views. But how could she confute them?
But of this she had a natural instinct, that it
was wrong and dangerous to be making a
confidant of a gentleman like Mr. Beaufort. She
was glad of the opportunity it gave her, and
now spoke seriously to her friend.

"We must hope for the best, and things will
come right by patience and waiting. But I think
it would be a pity you should say anything more
about it to Mr. Beaufort. This is such a strange
wicked place, and they say such things."

"I don't mind them," said she. "When a
husband ceases to be a friend, we must look for
others. Mr. Beaufort is my true friend. He
has advised me all through, and will do so. I
trust in him; and if, as he says, a husband
proves unworthy of you, and behaves brutally,
you are not bound to keep measures with such
a savage."

"Oh," said Lucy, shocked, " he could not
have said that."

Misunderstanding her, the other took a letter
from her bosom. " He did indeed. See here: I
got this just before I came out. I am guided
by him in everything, and he says, if I only trust
him, he will bring me through everything. For he
feels like me in everything, he says. We have
the same thoughts and the same wishes—that I
was made to adorn the most brilliant scenes
of fashion and court. Ah, what a contrast! he
so gentle, and soft, and devoted, and that——"

"Hush!" said Lucy, greatly scared; " you
must not think or talk of these things. It is
not right, and will lead to mischief. You
should not see so much of that man."

"Why?" said the other; " why not, pray?
He wants me to go and meet him now, down
beyond the lighthouse—what he calls our
"favourite tryst," where he goes himself alone,
and thinks of all sorts of things," she added,
with a little confusion. The foolish lady could
not conceal her pride at this conquest. " I am
going there now."

"No, no, you must not, for my sake! It is
mischievous, dangerous. Here is pen and
paper; write a line and say you can't go, and
drop him gradually."

"How absurd you are, dear!" said she,
laughing in a forced manner. " You don't quite
understand these things; you are not married
yet. Oh no; I can quite take care of myself.
What, drop Mr. Beaufort, my kind friend?
Besides, I want him to advise me. What do
you think? I did not tell you. But he said
something of my not going to the ball. Did
you ever hear of such tyranny? As Mr. Beaufort
says, that ought to bring it to a crisis. We
shall see; we shall see."

Lucy was helpless, and, beyond mere
entreaty, could do nothing with this lady. She
was frightened by the whole. It gave a sudden
proof of the dreadful nature of the place. And
on this earth there is no more startling embodiment
of the power of evil than a change of a
character from being good. Her own troubles
and anxieties, now gathering, added to her
depression. Her father came in, as he said
himself, " gay as a dozen o' larks." He sang, as
he came up-stairs, his favourite chant:

"The light in her eye,
That mirrors the sky,
And kindles a flame in my own—-
               My own!
And kindles a flame in my own.

Well, Lulu, my sweet, dear girl, I've been