"My theory," pursued Geraldine, in a low
voice, "is that Walter took the money for
some temporary need, intending to return it;
that he was unable to do so; that Clement
suspected the truth, and, at the cost of a hard
struggle and sacrifice, himself replaced——
What's that?"

"What?"

"A rustling noise amongst the flowers there
by the door. Did you not hear it ?"

They listened. All was still until the opening
of a door up-stairs let forth a gust of sound:
voices talking and laughing, and the crisp notes
of a pianoforte.

"Come," said Geraldine, "I shall be scolded
for having detained you so long. I return
to Ireland at the end of this month. I may
come and see you before I go away, may I
not?"

As the two girls left the conservatory and
advanced to the staircase, they found Alfred
Trescott on the lowest step, having apparently
just descended. He bowed, and stood aside in
silence to make way for them. Mabel, mindful
of Corda's visit, spoke to him.

"We were so glad to have your sister, Mr.
Trescott," she said. "You must let her come
again soon."

Then the ladies passed up the stairs. Geraldine
pressed Mabel's arm to her side
impulsively.

"Forgive me," she whispered, "for speaking
of it, but I cannot refrain from saying how
rejoiced I was to hear that you were not engaged
to that young man."

"I engaged to him? What in Heaven's
name do you mean?"

"No, no; godmamma said that you had
refused him. She was a little angry at first, but
I suppose he has talked her over."

"It is due to him, Miss O'Brien, to say
(since you have heard so much) that Mr.Trescott
has behaved well since—since making that
unfortunate mistake. I believe he now regrets
it as much as I."

"That's well," replied Geraldine. "But
yet—don't trust him, don't believe in him.
don't be off your guard with him. I cannot
tell you why, but I have a shrinking horror of
him. Did you ever catch a snake's eye? I did
once. Don't laugh. I am perfectly serious. It
was in some exhibition or other that I saw the
brute coiled up quite motionless in a glass
cage. The people with me were lost in
admiration. It was a richly marked reptile, covered
with bright waves and bands of colour, with
lines of fine black tracery running through
them. My friends were holding forth on the
beauty of its speckled skin. My attention was
caught and bound fast by the creature's glittering
eyes that were fixed upon me. Cold, bright,
venomous, cruel. There was such a pitiless
wickedness in their fixed gaze that I understood
for the first time the stories of little
birds giving up all hope and fluttering
helplessly into the jaws of a serpent. Ugh! I
was cold with horror. Well—I never look
at Alfred Trescott's beautiful eyes without a
sensation of dread. They are so exactly like
that snake's!"

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

CULLODEN.

EVERY one who admires the works of Hogarth,
will remember his inimitable March to Finchley.
That picture represents the rabble rear of King
George the Second's Guards staggering past the
Adam and Eve public-house at the north-west
corner of Tottenham-court-road, on their way to
meet the Pretender at Culloden. They are encumbered
with Moll Flaggons of the most disreputable
character. Their costume is garish, clumsy, and
ungainly; yet the tight and cumbrous uniform,
with hideous white spatterdashes, those conical
fool's-caps with brass plates in front, have been
under fire at Dettingen and Fontenoy. Before
they taste the Adam and Eve gin and ale again,
they will have let the breath out of many a bagpipe,
in spite of the greed of the Campbells, the
ire of the Drummonds, the pride of the Grahams,
and the fierceness of the Murrays. Even that
smart, pretty boy, the fifer, will march straight
at the gleaming claymores and the fluttering
tartans, as cool as if he were going to troop
the colours in Palace-yard on a quiet Sunday
morning.

It was a cold February day in 1746 that
Hogarth went slyly to watch the Guards march
north; for the Duke of Cumberland, recalled
by the news of the defeat of Hawley's veteran
cavalry by the rough rush of Charles Stuart's
Highlanders, reached Edinburgh on the 30th of
January, after four days' hot posting. There
was quite a scene at a military levee in St.
James's Palace the day before the gallant but
rather tipsy Guards started to Scotland by way of
Finchley. King George had called together his
officers, wishing to send on reinforcements; but
was unwilling to order the Guards because they
had only recently returned from a harassing
campaign against the French. The king was a "dull
little man of low tastes" (Thackeray)—a little,
dapper, choleric fellow, with a red face, white
eyebrows, and goggling eyes; he was a bad
husband, an un-English king, and a cruel father;
he swore at his subjects; he smuggled away
his father's will; he would kick his coat and
wig about in his indecorous passions; he even
injured Dr. Ward's shins; yet it must be
confessed he was a high-spirited, bold little
soldier, for he had fought stoutly at Oudenarde
under those great captains, Eugène and
Marlborough; and at Dettingen he had advanced on
foot, and, amid a "feu d'enfer," shaken his
sword at the combined horse and foot of France.
He was in earnest now, fully resolved to die
king of England, and, if his son, the duke, was
repulsed, to head Ligonier's and Pulteney's
men, and have a last grapple for the crown.
The Duke of Newcastle—fussy, false, and
shambling; ridiculed by Smollett as the butt, yet the
master, of England—was of course at the levee.