reparation of my father's injustice, and that,
in so doing, she will not feel she is conferring
a benefit, but simply doing her duty in
repairing, so far as she can, the wrong which
her birth has done to us all."

But, although Estella knew that these were
the proud and hostile feelings with which the
whole Everett world regarded her, yet, as she
used to say to herself, whom else had she to
love? —whom else to benefit? Her father had
left her his fortune and his name; she must
see the old Hall at Green Grove; she must
some day go down there as mistress, solo and
unaccountable, of all the forms and lands
around; and, do what they would, they could
not keep it secret from the world that Jacob
Everett had left his property and his name
to the child of his unmarried wife. She pitied
them; she would have pitied them more had
she understood the matter more; but she
knew of nothing better to do than to win their
love and conquer their esteem, and so make
them forgive her for her unintentional wrong
towards them.

She, therefore, determined to go to Brighton,
where she knew Mrs. Malahide resided; to
find some means of introduction to her;
and, she said, looking on to the waters of
the Adriatic, force her aunt to respect, to
love, and in the end to acknowledge her.
The scheme was romantic enough; but it did
not promise badly. Estella and Betty Thorne
left beautiful Italy, and went, in the dull
autumn months, to Brighton.

It took a little time before she and her
faithful nurse settled themselves, and then a
little time longer before she discovered
Mrs. Malahide's address. Then she had to
make her plans and determine on her point
of attack; for a thing of such gravity, she
thought, was not to be done in a hurry. She
felt frightened now, that the time had really
come when she was to see and be seen by
her father's family, and she almost wished she
had remained in Italy. She felt strange too
in England. Everything was cold and formal.
The language sounded harsh, spoken all
round her with gruff, rough voices and
ungraceful accents; the houses looked small
and mean after the glorious marble palaces of
Italy; and the people were strangely dressed
in shabby finery—dirty bonnets in place of
the white veil of Genoa, the simple flower of
the Mediterranean coast, and the picturesque
head-dresses of Italy; trailing gowns, with
flounces dragging in the mud, worn by women
who, in her own country, would have been
dressed in peasant's costume, graceful and
distinctive—all was so strange that Estella
felt lost and miserable, and wished herself
back among the orange trees again, far away
from a land with which she had not learnt to
be familiar in its familiar features, and whose
industrial grandeur seemed to diminish as she
approached it. For, ideal admiration does not
go very far in daily life.

At last, Estella took heart and courage,
and one day boldly went to Mrs. Malahide's
house. She knocked at the door, which a
prim, neat-looking servant girl opened. To
her inquiry if "Mrs. Malahide was in her own
house,"—for Estella did not speak English
with a perfect knowledge of its idioms—
the servant, with a broad stare, said "yes,"
a vague belief that she was somebody very
improper crossing her brain.

Estella was ushered into a prim room,
with the chairs, and the sofa, and the curtains,
done up in brown holland; no fire in the
grate, and girl's work all about—Berlin
worsted mats netted, knitted and crocheted,
and embroidered blotting-books of faded
coloured flowers, and other things of the
same kind, all very stiff and formal, and
with no evidence of life or artistic taste
among them. Estella's heart sank when
she looked round this cold lifeless room, so
different to the Italian homes of pictures,
and birds, and living gems of art; but she
resolved to bear up against the chilling
influences pressing on her, and to be brave
and constant to herself; no little merit in a
girl brought up in Italy, where but little
of the moral steadflistness of life is braided
in with its poetry. In a short while a lady
entered, dressed in deep mourning, her face
fixed into a mask of severe grief, but still
with a certain womanly tenderness lurking
behind, like the light through a darkened
window. She bowed; looking suspicious
and a little stern, standing erect by the
door.

"You do not know me, Madam?" said
Estella, her soft voice, with its pretty foreign
accent, trembling.

"I do not," answered Mrs. Malahide,
coldly.

The girl's eyes filled with tears. "And
I am afraid I shall not be welcome when
you do know me," she said timidly. "I am
Estella Everett."

Mrs. Malahide started. "Impudent!
forward! presumptuous! here in my very
house!" she thought this, strongly agitated;
and moved to the fireplace, to ring the
bell.

Estella went nearer to her, and laid her
hand on her arm. "Do not send me away
without hearing me," she said plaintively;
"for, indeed, I have only come in kindliness
and love."

Her pure young voice touched the woman's
heart in spite of herself. She dropped the
hand outstretched, and, pointing to a chair,
said, "What is it you have to say?" in a
voice still cold, yet with a shade less
sharpness in it.

"I have come to you, Madam," began
Estella, "that I might see some one who knew
my father, and some one that he loved and
belonged to. I am very lonely, now that he
has gone, with all of you disowning me; but
I thought that you, who had seen more sorrow
than the others, would have more sympathy