face and monotonous voice, in an indescribable
way. " Yes, sure; an' the cure 'll be
a lastin' an' a blessed un. Once we gits
through the valley o' the shadow, there'll be
joyful meetin's t'other side. An' no more
partin's. That's the blessedest, sir, bain't it?
No more partin's."

"Margaret," said my uncle suddenly, when
the old man had withdrawn, and I was packing
the fruit in an open basket, " who are those
nectarines for?" I trembled, but I had made
this opportunity, and would not let it slip. So
I took courage to answer in as steady a voice as
I could command: " Dear uncle, I hope you
will not be angry. I thought I might have
them. They are to send to my sister Anna."

He still held the Gazette before him, so that
I could not see his face; but I heard the paper
rustle and shake in the dead silence that ensued.
I was very much frightened. At length my
uncle rose from his chair and walked slowly
towards the door; but before he reached it, he
held out his hand, and I ran into his arms.
"God bless thee, my bairn!" he said very softly,
and I felt a tear drop on my forehead. His
hand was on the lock, but he paused in the act
of opening the door, and said, without turning
or looking at me: " I'm going into the garden,
my lass. There's a vast of fruit and flowers
almost spoiling there. Take whatever you want,
and do as you like with them. You—-you
need never tell me anything about it."

In this way, I obtained an indirect permission
to send many little gifts from the Gable House to
my sister, and they were accepted. It was a long
time before I could bring myself to visit her
again, but I did so at last, having heard from
one of the servants that the child was ailing
sadly. After that, I constantly went to see
her. I always chose those hours for going,
when Horace would probably be absent; and
during several months I did not see him half
a dozen times. Anna's manner to me fluctuated;
but though she was often fretful, irritable, and
unreasonable, there was no repetition of the
outburst to which she gave way on the occasion
of our first meeting. Little Lily was fading and
pining, and our anxiety and love for the dear
child was a common ground of sympathy
between us.

I had had several letters from Madame de
Beauguet, giving pleasant accounts of herself
and her husband. I had kept her informed, as
well as I could, of all that had befallen at
the Gable House; of my aunt's death, and of
Anna's marriage. My letters, as you may
suppose, were but dreary exchanges for her
bright cheerful epistles. But she wished for
them, and was glad to hear all about myself that
I could make up my mind to tell her. I know
she was glad to get my letters, because she said
so. Anna would often ask to have news of the
De Beauguets. Their life in Canada, and the
kind of people who surrounded them, seemed to
have an inexhaustible interest for her.
Gradually I discovered that she was eagerly
endeavouring to persuade Horace to leave
England altogether, and try his fortunes abroad.
He was restless and unhappy here, she said.
Things were not going well with him. There,
in America, he would have a wide field for
his talents, and would work with energy.
But I believe there was a secret unacknowledged
feeling at the bottom of her heart that
he would belong to her, more entirely and
exclusively, when once he should be divided from
the familiar scenes and friends that still claimed
any regard from him at home. Be that as
it might, Anna had set her heart upon this
scheme, and pursued it with headlong vehemence.
How Horace thought of it, I could not tell;
he never spoke to me on the subject. And,
besides, as I have said, we very, very seldom met.
But an unforeseen and painful circumstance
unexpectedly occurred to make him think seriously
of the project. Old Mr. Lee was in the habit of
receiving large sums of money for the baronet,
his employer, and, Sir Robert being seldom at
the Hall, had very nearly absolute control of
the property. There was no appeal from Mr.
Lee's decision for any tenant on the estate.
Notwithstanding an arrogant pomposity of
manner, and an implicit belief in the infallibility
of his own wisdom, he was considered, on
the whole, to deal fairly between landlord and
tenant. Even those who most disliked him—-
I am sorry to say they were rather numerous
—-had to restrict their animadversions to the
offensive "stuck-up-ishness of his manner."
"Our old gander 'minds me always of Mr.
Lee," said Farmer Gibson once. " When he
swims under the stone arch of the bridge on the
river, he ducks his head down every time, just
as though he was high enough and strong
enough to carry away bridge and all, if he
wasn't precious careful. Now, the arch is a
good six foot over him, let him crane his
neck up as he will; but the silly bird can't see
that. It's just the same with the steward.
Why, when he comes into our place, he stoops
down, so condescending, for fear he should do us
a mischief like. Lord, we're a mile above his
head all the time! Only, ye see, he don't know it,
no more 'n the gander."

Unfortunately, this blind pride was destined to
have a fall which crushed other people in its ruins.
I dare say my uncle had heard rumours of the
impending crash, in Willborough, before it came.
Disaster seldom comes unheralded by a warning
atmosphere of its own. But I lived so entirely
out of even our little world, that the evil tidings
took me quite unprepared. It seems that Mr.
Lee, relying solely on his own judgment, and taking
no counsel of those whose experience might
have guided him, had embarked all he possessed
in a ruinous speculation, which burst, leaving
him, and many others, nearly penniless. But this
was not the worst. The worst was overwhelmingly
bad. It was hinted that Mr. Lee had not
risked and lost his own, merely. For the error in
judgment, of losing his own, perhaps more pity
than indignation might have been bestowed on
him: though, in truth, the world is generally
very angry with people who lose their money, and