"Doesn't Mabel look nice, then?" asked
Mr. Earnshaw.

"She always looks nice," pronounced Janet,
decisively, as her cousin closed the door behind
her.

Mabel paused with her hand on ihe banisters,
feeling her limbs tremble beneath her. "Why
am I such a coward?" she asked herself, almost
fiercely; and the next moment she had opened
the parlour door and stood in the presence of
her visitor.

Geraldine O'Brien, with her bright cheek
flushed with exercise, her blue eyes beaming
with health, and the chesnut gloss of her hair,
heightened by contrast with the black feather
that drooped from her riding-hat, seemed to
Mabel's eyes a very lovely creature, as she
stood in the full flood of the morning sunshine
that poured in from the window. Geraldine, on
her part, observed every detail of the slight
graceful figure and pale face that remained for
one instant framed in the open doorway before
her, with the rapidity of true womanly perception.
"She is not handsome," was the Irish
girl's first thought; but as she advanced and
held out her hand, a delicate flush came into
Mabel's pale cheek, her lips parted in a faint
sweet smile, and the liquid grey eyes were
raised candidly. "Yes, she is, though," was the
contrary verdict formed in the second that
sufficed to make those changes in the face she was
looking upon. "This is a pleasure I have long
been wishing for, Miss — Miss Earnshaw. I
hope you don't consider it a liberty my not
calling you by the name you assume at present."

"I prefer my own name under all
circumstances," said Mabel, "and it was not by my
own wish that I assumed another."

"I hope Signor Bensa was kind enough to
explain to you, Miss Earnshaw, that it was he
who, in a measure, gave me leave to call upon
you at this unusual hour?"

"Thank you; Carlo knows that my occupations
are so constant and engrossing that I
cannot be sure of any but the early morning
hours."

Struggle as she would to maintain her self-
possession, Mabel was conscious of an unusual
flutter in her manner, and of a wandering
attention. She, who was naturally and habitually
simple and straightforward, could not regard
Miss O'Brien with unalloyed simplicity and
straightforwardness. In truth, she was not
looking at her or speaking to her for herself,
but with a constant reference to Clement Charlewood.
That was the voice, those were the eyes,
the smiles, the ways, the words that had pleased
him!

"My godmother, Lady Popham, desired me
to say for her, that she would have been so glad
to come with me and to make your acquaintance,
but she is so busy at this moment that it
was impossible."

Mabel bowed silently.

"If you knew Lady Popham, Miss Earnshaw,
you would understand how wonderfully she gives
herself up to anything that interests her. And
just now she is so busy and so occupied about
this concert."

"Oh yes; the concert," said Mabel, absently.
She was recalling the tone of voice in which
Clement had whispered to her, "I love you,
Mabel," on that night in the Eastfield inn, and
wondering vaguely whether he had spoken so
to the brilliant, lively girl before her.

"It takes place to-night, you know," Geraldine
proceeded: "my lady will have it in her own
drawing-rooms at Merrion-square. At first they
thought of taking some public hall for the
purpose, but there were so many difficulties, that —
but why am I saying all this to you, who, of
course, know all the particulars!"

"I? No, truly. I did not know. I am so
constantly employed myself. But I wish Mr.
Alfred Trescott all success: he is very fortunate
in having such kind friends."

Geraldine O'Brien opened her blue eyes widely
for an instant, and stared at Mabel. This was
an odd tone for one whom young Trescott had
spoken of as almost his affianced bride! "Either
the lady or the gentleman is a most amazing
humbug, that's all I have to say!" thought the
frank-hearted Irish girl; "and I'd lay odds it's
that handsome, snaky-eyed Alfredo that fairy
godmother is coiffée with at this minute."

But Mabel made it apparent that, from whatever
motive, she did not speak willingly about
Mr. Alfred Trescott, and Miss O'Brien was too
well bred to persist in a topic that was evidently
distasteful.

"There is an old friend of yours here now,
Miss Earnshaw," she said, changing the
subject.

"An old friend of mine?"

"Yes; Walter Charlewood. You know, of
course, that he is half a cousin of mine now."

"I was glad to hear of Augusta's marriage."

"Malachi Dawson, her husband, is a very
good sort of fellow, and I think they will get
on very well together. As his cousin, I may be
allowed to say that I look upon it as a very
good match for him. They are in Italy for the
winter, have you heard?"

"Miss O'Brien, I never hear from any of the
family now. Not that I complain of that in the
least," added Mabel, proudly; "I chose for
myself a path that naturally carries me further
and further away from any chance of communication
with people like the Charlewoods. And
I wanted to say — I scarcely know whether you
will understand me — but I wanted to tell you
that, without anger or fault on either side,
circumstances have sundered the course of my life
from theirs completely. I wished you to know
this clearly, because — because — you might,
perhaps, suppose that you were showing kindness
towards your friends at Bramley Manor in
visiting me, and I should not like to accept
your courtesy upon false pretences."

So slight, so young, so tender as she looked,
with the colour fluttering in her face and a
nervous tremor in the clear sweet voice, and
yet with such an indomitable spirit, so strong a
resolution animating her girlish frame!