and the gentleman never heeded. She was
'awsome' too, sometimes, in her tempers, and she"
(the landlady) "was sorry for baith." It would
seem that Major Middleton soon wearied of his
wedded life, for the next time he was traced
—there were now no footprints of his wife—
he reappeared at Baden. It was evident that
he had left the lady he had married, and that he
had conceived a violent hatred towards her.
One of the major's brother officers, hearing of
the investigation, called on Mr. Cathcart, and
suggested that perhaps she might be discovered
in a lunatic asylum, for the major once, and
once only, had mentioned to him what he called
his " miserable marriage" (they had been close
comrades as brothers during the Crimean war),
and had distinctly stated that she was insane.
"But surely," Cecil said, "if that were the
case, there would have been some trace of the
fact—she must have been paid for in some
asylum. And the child! Her brother could
not have left his own child without provision."

Instead of enlightening, this communication
perplexed, even the keen-witted lawyer. So
confident did Cecil become that both mother
and child were alive, that she prepared for her
intended emigration, making all necessary
arrangements for the well-doing of Middleton Lea
—as though she were its agent, not its owner.
Gradually her friendly advisers dropped into
mere acquaintances—hardly that. She had cast
herself from her high estate by her own act,
and out of the established mode and circle
of her race. She was monstrously eccentric.
Some whose advice had failed to make an
impression on her, considered her conduct as an
unmarried lady highly indelicate.

Then Mr. Chester's friends gradually cooled
down to nodding and " how-d'ye-doing," and
in course of time became near-sighted when they
met him. Some declared they thought a man
little better than " a fool" who could not manage
to make a woman who loved him, do anything
he pleased; others sneered at the poor-spirited
idea of giving up such a place as Middleton
Lea! when any fellow with common sense could
have "turned the wind." A few above the
common herd understood and appreciated Cecil's
justice, and respected Chester for the freedom of
heart and conduct he awarded to his betrothed.
His independent spirit yearned to be the architect
of its own fortune, and he would have
accepted hers, only because he could not have
had her without it. There are some such nobly
loving hearts still in the world, thank God!

Mr. Cathcart at length declared that everything
had been done that could be done, that
every stone had been turned that could be
turned, except one: an advertisement for the
missing ones might be inserted in the
newspapers; but Cecil shrank from that, it was such
an exposure of her brother's vices, such a
reflection on her brother's memory. She dwelt
with intense pain on what she felt to be a thousand
times worse than the suffering her brother's
selfishness and caprices had obliged her to
endure—the heartlessness and cruelty of thus
abandoning his wife and child. His hardness,
his tyranny, his bitter taunts, were all buried
with him; but this living proof of a thoroughly
heartless nature wounded her beyond endurance,
and ate into her heart.

                   CHAPTER VIII

WINTER was
             "Lingering in the lap of May."

Cecil believed as firmly as ever that her brother's
wife and child would be discovered, and as
firmly as ever refused to assume a position to
which she had no claim. Time was passing, and
Ronald Chester must either go abroad or
relinquish the prospect that promised brightly for the
future.

It was noon, the noon of what would be a
long sunless day, calling but faint odours from
the early flowers; the wind wavering between
east and west; little grey clouds drifting beneath
a hazy sky.

Cecil's first act when she entered the library
was to shut down the window, and, though the
room was due south, to draw up the blind.
There was no sun to exclude. The fatal ebony
desk stood in its old place. She drew a chair
to the table, arranged paper and envelopes, and
sat, pen in hand, not writing, but looking
upward as if awaiting help to arrange and express
her thoughts.

Suddenly her reverie was broken by a knock
at the door. South, her old faithful servant,
in answer to his mistress's " Come in,"
entered, and, white and trembling, advanced to
the table and grasped the back of a chair with
both hands, looking earnestly at her.

"What is it, South? Why do you not
speak?"

"In a minute, Miss Cecil. Just one minute
to get my breath and set how to begin. I don't
see how to believe my eyes or ears. I
wish Mr. Chester was on the spot, and Mr.
Cathcart says to me, as if I did not know it,
' Miss Middleton is an angel,' he says; ' only
she shouldn't go against the nature of things,
South, he says——'"

"Never mind what Mr. Cathcart said,
South; that cannot have agitated you."

"No, Miss Cecil; but he's below; he is in
my pantry this blessed minute. I know he is;
for he has as many turns in him as an eel; so, to
make sure, I lock't him in, and there's the key,"
added South, triumphantly: " the scamp!"

"Are you in your senses, South? Are you
speaking of Mr. Cathcart?"

"No, ma'am; but my brain is moydered, and
no wonder. It's that scamp of the world,
Charles, Miss Cecil—Charles—Charley Dacre,
that dared to say I was jealous of him—Charles,
that knew all the ins and outs, the bads and
goods, of him that's gone, that I told you was
sent to America the poor Master's pad-groom
—and sure, if he had a mind to come from the
bottom of the sea, where so many honest
boys are drowned, he might have done it
at once, and spared us all the trouble and
bother we've had not to count the expense,