of sorrow and sadness, and said there was no
more happiness for her on earth, there being
something she could never forget; though
nobody knew what. Violet Tudor, her
bosom friend, laughed at all sentiment, and
expressed a shy contempt for lovers. She
vowed also that she would never marry a
less man than a lion king or a general who
had seen severe service and been wounded
badly; and then she did not know—perhaps
she might. For Violet rode blood horses,
and once pronounced an Indian officer a
"muff," because he had never seen a tiger
hunt. An expression that caused that gentleman
to blush and to feel that kind of anger
which is, among his own sex, usually assuaged
in a duel.

It may be imagined, therefore, that Mrs.
Chumley did not place Miss Violet Tudor
very high in her scale of feminine graces;
although she certainly did not know one half
of that curly-headed gipsy's escapades.
Consequently she was passed over at once.  Ella
was, on the contrary, all that Mrs. Chumley
wished; young, pretty, mild, manageable; with
gold, a stainless pedigree, and unexceptionable
manners. What more could any mother
demand for her son? Mrs. Chumley sent
by that day's post an affectionate invitation
asking Ella to pass a week with her, much
to Ella's surprise and pleasure. For cousin
Launcelot had long been a kind of heroic
myth in that young lady's imagination; and
she was glad to be asked to meet him.
"Though dearest Vi knows that nothing
could make me forget poor dear Henry, all
alone in those terrible East Indies!" she
mentioned in the letter which communicated
the circumstance to her bosom friend. Out
of curiosity then she accepted the invitation,
and in less than a week's time she found
herself at High Ashgrove, with all her prettiest
dresses and her last new bonnet.

Ella's correspondence with Violet Tudor
increased overwhelmingly during the visit.
The early letters were gay, for her; but soon
they deepened into a nameless melancholy;
and were rife with mysterious hints.
Occasionally there burst forth in them the most
terrific self-accusings that English words could
frame. If she had become the head of a
society of coiners, or the high priestess of a
heresy, she could not have used stronger
expressions of guilt. Violet was frightened at
first; but she remembered that it was Ella's
habit to indulge in all sorts of exaggerated
self-accusations. At last came a letter, which
unveiled the mystery; reducing the terrible
sphynx which devoured men's bones to a
tame dog that stole his neighbour's cream—
the usual ending of most young ladies'
mysteries. "I do not know what my dearest Violet
will think of her Ella—but if it is to be the
death-blow of that long and tender love which
has supported my sad heart through so many
bitter trials, I must tell her the truth.
Violet, I have broken my vows, and am
deserving of the fate of Imogen in that
dreadful ballad. Poor dear Henry!

"Violet, love, I am engaged to my cousin
Launcelot.

"My aunt made me the offer so supplicatingly,
and Launcelot said so sweetly: "I
think you will make me a very nice wife, Miss
Limple,' that I could not resist. Besides,
cousin Launcelot is very handsome; and that
goes a great way. You know I always found
fault with poor dear Henry's figure; he
was inclined to be too stout. Launcelot's
figure is perfect. He is tall —six feet I should
think —and with the most graceful manners
possible. He is like a picture—has very
bright brown hair, all in thick curls, not
short and close like poor dear Henry's. He
wears them very long, like the portraits of
Raphael. Henry's hair, poor darling, was
inclined to be red. His eyes are large and
dark gray, with such a beautiful expression of
melancholy in them. They are poems in
themselves, Violet. Now Henry's, you know,
were hazel; and hazel eyes are unpleasant
—they are so quick and fiery. I like such
eyes as Launcelot's—melancholy, poetic eyes,
that seem to feel and think as well as to see.
Hazel eyes only see. Don't you know the
difference? He is very quiet, lies all day
under the trees smoking out of the most
exquisite hookah, and reading Shelley. I dote
on Shelley, and hate Shakespeare. How fond
Henry was of Shakespeare!—that wearisome
Hamlet! And now her own Ella is going
to beg and pray of her dearest Violet to come
here as soon as possible. I enclose a note
from Aunt Chumley, asking you; and, darling
Vi, I will never forgive you if you don't come
directly. For no lover in the world could ever
separate me from my own Violet. If you don't
come I shall think you are angry with me
for my bad conduct to poor Henry; and
indeed I feel how guilty I am. I had such a
terrible dream of him last night. I thought
he looked so pale and reproachful, just like
his favourite Hamlet. Good bye. I can't
write another word; for aunt wants me to
go with her to the village. Do come, dearest
Violet, and come immediately."

This letter delighted Ella's friend. She
had never liked the flirtation with Cornet
Henry Dampier; which she had thought
very silly and sentimental; while this seemed
to offer a real future. She wrote to her aunt
—of whom she was considerably afraid;
and, in a few days, arrived at High
Ashgrove. She was received by Ella with a
burst of enthusiasm; which, coming from
one so calm, quite electrified Launcelot;
by Aunt Chumley with no superfluity of
kindness; and, by Launcelot himself, with
a cold bow. Yet she was pretty enough.
The thick raven hair, which it was her will
and pleasure to wear crowding over her face
in wide curly bands; her great black eyes that
never rested for a moment; her tiny hand;
her fabulous waist; her light fairy figure; her