been toiling as a miserable curate on sixty
pounds a year, until a relative died and left
him well off. He would have gone on with his
curacy, but the place did not agree with his
wife, and he could not bring himself to what he
thought the licensed simony of purchasing an
advowson. But he had been promised the
reversion of the village rectory—not on the death
of the old incumbent, whom they all liked, but
on his retirement, which was not far off. Here
now was the day close at hand, and a pleasant
night, the last but one though, yet still a little
festival. When the passengers on the up-coach,
going by about eight o'clock, saw the little
"box" blazing cheerfully away like a bright
lantern, to them it looked more than ever
"snug," the very essence of snugness and
warmth. If they could have drawn up the
yellow blinds and peeped in, they would have
seen two pictures of warmth, colour, happiness,
and comfort. One was in the dining-room, with
its sea-green walls, and where Mr. Trail, the
grey-haired vicar, and Doctor Legge, the village
doctor—who, it was said, knew more of the
moon and stars than of physic—and Captain
Hallam, and a chosen friend and brother-officer,
Hillier, who was to be his "best man," and the
host, were sitting round the fire taking claret.

The ladies had just gone, had crossed the
hall, and were drawing in to their fire, which
makes up the other picture of warmth and
comfort. Mrs. Trail and her daughter, a
darling friend of Lucy's, were staying in the
house. They were all drawing in closer to the
fire, to continue a little subject more
confidentially, which had been just touched on as
they left the dining-room.

"Oh, mamma," said Lucy," he is certain to
come. He promised."

"I am sure he will, dear," said her mamma,
"and for a reason that I know."

"But what an interesting character," said
Mrs. Trail. "The world is not so bad as my
dear Trail preaches, when there are men with
such deep feeling as that."

"My dear," said Mrs. Winter, "I could not
describe it. I assure you it haunted me like a
nightmare for months after. It was really
terrible, his rage and grief mixed together.
At times I thought his reason would go, or had
gone. Men can love their wives, you see."

Lucy, all white muslin, and like a blooming
flower, from some instinct glanced over at the
glass, and perhaps coloured. Was she thinking
how this affection was as nothing to that of her
Captain Hallam?

"You know," went on Mrs. Winter, "I being
Colonel Howard's cousin, and the only woman
relative (and knowing each other as children),
could do this, which I think no one
could have courage to do. It was a dreadful
business altogether, from beginning to end, and
in fact, only for me—poor Edward, his brother,
who really was innocent in the matter——"

"He had a brother, then?" asked Mrs. Trail,
getting interested.

"A dear fellow," broke in Lucy, impetuously;
"a dear good fellow. Do you remember how
he ran and stopped my horse, mamma?"

"Yes, indeed, dear. But for him I don't
know what would have happened."

"That was the worst part. He talked of
Edward as a criminal, and of pursuing him, and
bringing him to justice; and this idea of
vengeance took possession of him. So you
may imagine what a duty I had. I never went
through so much. But I soothed him at last."

"I still say," said Mrs. Trail, "there is something
most interesting about him. It seems all
so natural, even that fury and grief——"

"Ah, but if you knew it all," said Mrs.
Winter, stirring the fire, and drawing her low–
cushioned chair closer. "It is no family
secret——"

"You never told me, mamma," Lucy said,
standing up and looking in the glass.

"Because you were a child, dearest," said
her mother, smiling; "now you are to be a
lady, and are entitled to hear everything."

The answer to this compliment was Lucy's
going over impetuously, and putting her arms
about her mother's neck, and covering her with
kisses. Her mass of hair all came tumbling
down over both their faces like a mass of ivy
that has been blown from its support. "Tell
us," she whispered, "about Howard."

CHAPTER II. COLONEL HOWARD.

"THEY will be ten minutes at their wine yet,"
said Mrs. Winter, "and Howard's story won't
take five. You know that my uncle Sir Philip
and his wife were proud—in fact, were called
'the proud Howards'—and as their estate was
a little encumbered, they made up their minds
that William, our colonel, should make a
splendid marriage—good blood and good money
—and retire. When be was with his regiment
in Ireland they had actually arranged it all—
found out a rich plain girl, of the very highest
family—I won't tell her name now, as it is all
past and gone—and negotiated the marriage.
They even got him six months' leave of absence,
and wrote to him at Dublin to come over at
once. What do you suppose was the answer
they got?"

"I can guess, mamma," said Lucy, already
absorbed, her fine eyes beginning to enlarge.

"So can I," said Mrs. Trail. "He was
engaged to some one else."

"Not only engaged, but married; married to
a handsome Irish girl who came out at Dublin
Castle and the balls, and whose father was
descended from a chieftain, I think: which, of
course," added Mrs. Winter, without any sarcasm,
"was all well in its way; but I believe
the poor Mahoneys—that was the name—had
nothing to support the family but their daughter's
face and flirting. His estate, such as it was,
was in the Encumbered Estates Court at the
time. He had been married some months.
You may conceive all that took place. Sir
Philip got a stroke of apoplexy from fury, and
was near dying. It was not unnatural that they