meditations. "I would have been proud and
happy to stand by his side in the face of all the
world, even though we two had stood alone,
hand in hand. It must be so sweet to give
everything to one whom we love!"

She started as a recollection pierced her.
This sweetness of self-sacrifice, the joy of this
lavish offering, she had denied to Clement
Charlewood. He had once longed to give up
everything for her sake. He had been ready
and willing to take her hand, and, if need were,
to stand singly by her side before the eyes of all
men. Her pride had repulsed the offer. She could
not stoop to accept everything from his hand.

"Ah! but then I did not—did not—love
him."

Not then? Not then, Mabel?

It is said, sometimes, that the inner life of
the soul is not measured by the progress of time,
as is the outer life of the body; that we may
pass through years of experience in one brief
hour. Is it not, rather, that the results of that
inner life are made apparent to our consciousness
suddenly, and that the process by which
the results are attained escapes us? No human
eye can perceive the growth of the humblest
weed. You may watch, and watch incessantly;
no movement is perceptible. But all the time
the sun shines, the dew falls, the winds breathe,
and, on a sudden, lo! there is the perfect flower!
And we say, "It seems to have arisen by
magic." But there is no magic in the matter.

In the breast of Alfred Trescott, rage,
disappointment, wounded vanity, and bitter burning
jealousy, struggled with some feeling that he
called love, and that made him more than ever
desirous of winning the haughty girl who had
so decisively and, as he thought, contemptuously
rejected him. It mattered not that Mabel's
manner, though cold, had been gentle and
courteous, until her pride and womanhood had
been outraged by his coarse allusion to Clement
Charlewood. It mattered not that he had
allowed his violent temper and ungoverned
egotism to lead him into extravagant
demonstrations of passion calculated to shock and
offend a young girl such as Mabel, past forgiveness.
It mattered not that throughout he had
thought of himself to the exclusion of any manly
consideration for her feelings. She had refused
him; had bade him quit her presence and never
dare to address her more. He was furious. But
his fury was directed less against Mabel than
Clement Charlewood. His malignant pleasure
at the news of the ruin that had befallen the
family at Bramley Manor was dashed by the
thought that Clement, ruined and disgraced,
might yet be lord of that which he, Alfred,
coveted in vain; and a revelation, made to him
by Lady Popham, poured the last drop of gall
into his heart, and filled it, even to overflowing,
with hatred.

Alfred had now reached such a degree of
confidential intimacy with his patroness, that
his love for Mabel was freely discussed between
them.

"She is led away by dreams of ambition,
Lady Popham, but she will not easily find a
more devoted heart than mine," said Alfred,
with well-acted despondency.

"Ambition, indeed!" cried my lady, tossing
her head. "What does the girl dream of?
Does she expect to marry a duke? Besides,
that is not the question. She gave you
encouragement. Strive as you will to shield her,
you can't deny that."

Then my lady in her indignation told Alfred
of Mr. Clement Charlewood's visit to
Cloncoolin; and though she did not repeat the
exact terms in which young Charlewood had
spoken of him, she said enough to reveal the
unfavourable nature of his words.

"I believe the girl has been playing fast and
loose between you," said the angry old lady.
She was raising a demon that she was powerless
to guide or quell. How terrified would the
foolish, kindly, impetuous old woman have been,
could she but have understood for one moment
the real nature of the spirit that glared out at
her from beneath those black silk lashes, as she
told the tale of Clement's visit to Cloncoolin!

CHAPTER X. CORDA CHOOSES.

ALFRED TRESCOTT left Merrion-square with
a tearing passion in his breast, that even his
practised cunning was unable wholly to conceal
from Lady Popham's observation.

"Poor fellow!" thought my lady. " All fire
and feeling! Nothing shall induce me to believe
that he has not southern blood in his veins.
Those eyes and that temperament never
belonged to an Anglo-Saxon pur sang."

The young man hurried through the streets
with a swift foot, and a feeling as though he
were borne along on wings. There was no
familiar demon to buoy up his steps, but the
evil spirit within himself was strong to sustain
him. He scarcely felt the ground as he walked,
and his face looked positively diabolical in its
malignant beauty. The rage that possessed him,
and that made him feel as though filled with an
unnatural force, tore and burnt the body which
it animated. It was literally as though a keen-
edged, deadly blade, were piercing the frail
scabbard that contained it.

He dashed into the little parlour where his
father was sitting at his usual employment, with
a pile of music-paper before him.

"Hallo, Alf!" cried Mr. Trescott, looking
up, on his son's abrupt entrance. "What's the
matter? Bless my soul, you look as if you'd
been committing murder!"

Alfred made no reply; but the face he turned
towards his father certainly justified the startling
exclamation. It was quite livid—Alfred
always grew pale, and never red, in anger—and
he was gnawing his under lip with his sharp
white teeth.

"I want to speak to you, Alf," proceeded
Mr. Trescott.

"I haven't time," snarled his son, savagely.
"I'm going out again directly. Do you
suppose I've nothing to do but to maunder about
all day in this beastly den?"