but she checked herself, and said, " that is really
a very short stay."

The girls, however, had perfect confidence in
their parent's manner. His own friends might
be, for all social purposes, of a worthless sort,
but he never ventured to be the "bringer" ot
useless recruits. One of the girls promptly " fell
out," and laid her charms at the feet of Mr.
Tillotson.

"You came from town, Mr. Tillotson?" she
said, almost sadly. " Oh, how charming! Papa
and mamma used to live in town, and have
promised to take me there next year, if I am good.
We are here for our education. They are
considered to have the best masters in St. Alans.
You will wait for Sunday, I am sure. Oh, you
must—to hear the anthem. Dr. Fugle sings the
tenor divinely. You must stay, and come to our
pew."

Mr. Tillotson said it all depended: if he could
stay, he should be glad. Miss Augusta—that
was her name—was delighted.

"Mamma! mamma!"

"What is it, dear?"

"Mr. Tillotson has promised to stay for
Sunday, to hear Doctor Fugle."

"I am very glad, dear. You must know, Mr.
Tillotson, we all take our stand on the cathedral.
It is our little boast. They say there is no
one at Westminster Abbey comes near to Dr.
Fugle."

It was an antique little room, with the corners
cut off by cupboards. Indeed, the house was
very old, and rather "remarkable," to use Mr.
Tilney's expression. The windows were of the
true rustic pattern, and, only twenty years ago,
had diamond panes. In one window was the
third girl, now standing with her hand to her
face, looking out, in an attitude of surprising
and unconscious grace. As the light fell upon
her, and lighted up her devotional and pensive
features, it almost seemed to the visitor that
she did not belong to the mundane and earthy
company sitting there, but that she was someway
associated with the cathedral opposite, and
that from thence a soft and gorgeous saint from
the florid window, or some gentle angel from
a niche, had come to them, and would
presently return. He almost passed into a dream
as he looked, and did not hear the vapid chatter
that was in his ears. Suddenly she moved, and
went hurriedly out of the room, and in a moment
he saw Ross pass the window. A kind of
coldness and blankness came back on him, and
in a few moments he rose to go.

Mr. Tilney wrung his hand with his most
affectionate brown-sherry manner, and came out
with him to the garden.

'' Gay girls; light-hearted things. They'll go
on there for I don't know how much longer. I
shall start off to bed, Tillotson. Time was when
I would be sitting down to the green cloth, and
beginning to deal. That was in the Dook's day.
I must show you his letter. One of the kindest
and most delicate things, now, you could
conceive, and, for a man in his station—an H.R.H.,
you know—wonderful! Just look at the cathedral
there. No poetry in me, you know, and I
don't set up for it. But I can see. Just look
at it now. Does it or does it not speak to you
here?" he added, touching his waistcoat. "I
always think of the fine line, ' Lifts its tall head
and '—something or other. Come up to-morrow,
and let us see you before you go. You like the
girls? Ah, yes. They are so fond of fun; that
is their only fault. But how can they help it?
Look here, Tillotson," he added, stopping
solemnly, "if my grave was waiting for me,
ready open, over there, I wouldn't say a word
to check their little harmless fun. No, I couldn't
do it. I don't see now why I couldn't go part
of the way with you," Mr. Tilney said, musingly,
as if some one had started an objection to such
a thing. " Why not? I declare I will!" and
Mr. Tilney took Mr. Tillotson's arm, and
walked on.

With some hesitation, Mr. Tillotson asked:
"Mr. Ross, is he any relation?———"

"Oh, Ross—poor Ross—to be sure! A good
well-meaning creature. Never do in the world.
A kind of a cousin of the girls. We have tried
everything to push him on, but can't. A most
self-willed foolish young man, sir. He has got
into this lawsuit, which will make him, he says,
or break him. Absurd, absurd, sir. Every one
of the girls despise him for it."

"But I think," said Mr. Tillotson, doubtingly,
"Miss Ada Millwood is interested in him."

Mr. Tilney shook his head. "A good girl.
Blankets, and all that sort of thing. Play-
fellows from that high, you know, and pity, and
that kind of thing. No, no, no. I suppose if
the man has his full pay to spend, he is well
off."

Mr. Tilney said this as if, under such
circumstances, the idea of any relation of affection was
absurd.

"Yes, he is a strange creature, a very improper
kind of man. He sometimes frightens me,
do you know, Tillotson—breaks out in a
manner that's quite alarming. I do believe that
man—he's only seven-and-twenty his next birthday
—is one mass of bad passions. No influences
will do," added Mr. Tilney, sadly. "No, no.
He has nothing here to call on—no chimes of his
youth. And once you lose that, it's all up!
The man, Tillotson, has no sense of religion.
Nothing that you can put your hand on to
touch;" here Mr. Tilney made a motion of winding
up a musical-box.

"Who is he, then?" asked Mr. Tillotson,
a little interested. " Where does he come
from?"

"His father was an opulent" (he pronounced
this word again in a rich and unctuous way),
"an op-u-lent Indian merchant. He sent this
lad home to one of our great public schools,
where he might learn that manliness and self-
confidence which I say is so specially English.
We all owe that to our great public schools.