ground floor. The lights look warm. Good
God, how cold it is out here!" Again he drew
back close to the tall dark stems of the trees, to
let a carriage pass; when it had discharged
its load under the portico, he emerged cautiously
upon the broad carriage sweep by which the company
were arriving.

The house was an old one, and was surrounded
by a narrow fosse or ditch, which
in former days might have been full of water,
and used for defensive purposes, but which
was now drained and dry, and served as a kind
of area, looked into by the windows in the
basement. Above this fosse, and stretching
away on either side of the heavy portico, was a
broad and handsome stone terrace, the left hand
portion of which lay in deep shadow, while the
right hand portion was chequered with
occasional light, which made its way through the
partially closed shutters of the ball-room.
Cautiously crossing the broad drive, and slipping
behind a carriage which was just discharging
its load at the hall door, George Dallas, the
stranger whose fortunes we have so far
followed, crept into a dark angle of the porch
until the crunching of the gravel and the clanging
of the door announced the departure of the
carriage, and then, climbing the balustrade of
the terrace, and carefully avoiding the lines of
light, made his way to the window of the room,
and peered in. At first, he shook so with
the cold, that he could not concentrate his
attention on what was passing before his eyes;
but having groped about and found a small tree
which was carefully protected with a large piece
of matting, and which flanked one end of the
balustrade, he quietly removed the matting, and,
wrapping it round him, returned to his position,
watching and commenting on the scene of which
he was a spectator.

It was an old room on which George Dallas
looked — an old room with panelled walls,
surmounted by a curious carved frieze and stuccoed
roof, and hung round with family portraits,
which gave it a certain grim and stern air, and
made the gay hothouse flowers, with which it
was lavishly decorated, seem out of keeping.
Immediately opposite the window stood the
entrance door, wide open, and flanked by the
usual bevy of young men, who, from laziness or
bashfulness, take some time to screw their
courage up to dancing-point. Close in front
of them was a group which at once arrested
George Dallas's attention.

It consisted of three persons, of whom two
were gentlemen; the third was a young girl,
whose small white-gloved hand rested on the arm
of the older of her companions, who, as George
Dallas caught sight of them, was in the act of
presenting the younger to her. The girl was
tall, slight, very graceful and elegant, and
extremely fair. Her features were not clearly
discernible, as she stood sideways towards the
window; but the pose of the head, the bend of
the neck, the braids of fair hair closely wound
around the well-shaped head, and worn without
any ornament but its own golden gloss, the
sweeping folds of her soft white dress — all bore
a promise of beauty, which, indeed, her face,
had he seen it, would have fully realised. He
saw her bow, in graceful acknowledgment of the
introduction, and then linger for a few minutes
talking with the two gentlemen— to the younger
of whom George Dallas paid no attention whatever;
after which she moved away with him to
join the dancers. The older man stood where
she had left him, and at him George Dallas
looked with the fixed intensity of anger and
hatred.

"There you are," he muttered, "you worthy,
respectable, hard-hearted, unblemished gentleman!
There you are, with your clear complexion
and your iron-grey whiskers, with your
cold blue eyes and your white teeth, with your
thin lips and your long chin, with your head
just a little bald, and your ears just a little
shrivelled, but not much; with your upright
figure, and your nice cool hands, and your nice
cool heart, too, that never knew an ungratified
lust, or a passion which wasn't purely selfish.
There you are, the model of respectability
and wealth, and the essence of tyranny and
pride! There you are—and you married my
beautiful mother when she was poor, and when
her son needed all that she could give him, and
more; and you gave her wealth, and a fine house,
and fine friends, and your not remarkably
illustrious name, and everything she could
possibly desire, except the only thing she
wanted, and the only thing, as I believe, for
which she married you. That's your niece, of
course, the precious heiress, the rich and rare
young lady who has a place in your house,
though the son of its mistress is banished from
it. That's the heiress, who probably does not
know that I exist. I should not be surprised
if he had ordered my mother to conceal the
disgraceful fact. Well, the girl is a nice creature,
I dare say; she looks like it. But where can
my mother be?"

He approached the window still more closely;
he ventured to place his face close to the panes
for a moment, as he peered anxiously into the
room. "Where is my mother?" he thought.
"Good Heaven! if she did but know that I am
shivering here."

The strains of sweet clear music reached his
ears, floods of light streamed out from the ballroom,
a throng of dancers whirled past the
window, he saw the soft fluttering dresses, he
heard the rustle of the robes, the sounds of
the gay voices, and the ring of laughter,
and, ever and anon, as a stray couple fell away
from the dance, and lingered near the window,
a fair young face would meet his gaze, and the
happy light of its youth and pleasure would
shine upon him. He lingered, fascinated, in
spite of the cold, the misery of his situation, and
the imminent risk of detection to which he was
exposed. He lingered, and looked, with the
longing of youth, for gaiety and pleasure; in his
case for a simple gaiety, a more sinless pleasure,
than any he was wont to know. Suddenly he
shrank quickly back and clutched hard at the