nor loss of mother, dear as she was to
Mr. Thornton, could have poisoned the remembrance
of the weeks, the days, the hours,
when a walk of two miles, every step of
which was pleasant, as it brought him nearer
and nearer to her, took him to her sweet presence
- every step of which was rich, as
each recurring moment that bore him away
from her, made him recal some fresh grace in
her demeanour, or pleasant pungency in her
character. Yes! whatever had happened to
him, external to his relation to her, he could
never have spoken of that time, when he
could have seen her every day- when he had
her within his grasp, as it were- as a time of
suffering. It had been a royal time of luxury
to him, with all its stings and contumelies,
compared to the poverty that crept round
and clipped the anticipation of the future
down to sordid fact, and life without an
atmosphere of either hope or fear.

Mrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the
dining-room; the latter in a flutter of small
exultation, as the maid held up one glossy
material after another, to try the effect of
the wedding-dresses by candlelight. Her
mother really tried to sympathise with her,
but could not. Neither taste nor dress were
in her line of subjects, and she heartily
wished that Fanny had accepted her brother's
offer of having the wedding clothes provided
by some first-rate London dressmaker, without
the endless troublesome discussions, and
unsettled wavering, that arose out of Fanny's
desire to choose and superintend everything
herself. Mr. Thornton was only too glad to
mark his grateful approbation of any sensible
man, who could be captivated by Fanny's
second-rate airs and graces, by giving her
ample means for providing herself with the
finery, which certainly rivalled, if it did not
exceed the lover, in her estimation. When
her brother and Mr. Bell came in, Fanny
blushed, and simpered, and fluttered over the
signs of her employment, in a way which
could not fail to draw attention from any one
else but Mr. Bell. If he thought about her and
her silks and satins at all, it was to compare
her and them with the pale sorrow he had
left behind him, sitting motionless with bent
head and folded hands in a room where the
stillness was so great that you might almost
fancy the rush in your straining ears was
occasioned by the spirits of the dead, yet
hovering round their beloved. For, when
Mr. Bell had first gone up-stairs, Mrs. Shaw
lay asleep on the sofa; and no sound broke
the silence.

Mrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal,
hospitable welcome. She was never so gracious
as when receiving her son's friends in
her son's house; and the more unexpected
they were, the more honour to her admirable
housekeeping preparations for comfort.

"How is Miss Hale?" she asked.

"About as broken down by this last stroke
as she can be."

"I am sure it is very well for her that she
has such a friend as you."

"I wish I were her only friend, madam.
I daresay it sounds very brutal; but here
have I been displaced, and turned out of my
post of comforter and adviser by a fine lady
aunt; and there are cousins and what not
claiming her in London, as if she were a lap-dog
belonging to them. And she is too weak
and miserable to have a will of her own."

"She must indeed be weak," said Mrs.
Thornton, with an implied meaning which her
son understood well. "But where," continued
Mrs. Thornton, "have these relations been
all this time that Miss Hale has appeared
almost friendless, and has certainly had a
good deal of anxiety to bear?" But she did
not feel interest enough in the answer to her
question to wait for it. She left the room to
make her household arrangements.

"They have been living abroad. They
have some kind of claim upon her. I will do
them that justice. The aunt brought her up,
and she and the cousin have been like sisters.
The thing vexing me, you see, is that I wanted
to take her for a child of my own; and I am
jealous of these people, who don't seem to
value the privilege of their right. Now it
would be different if Frederick claimed her."

"Frederick! " exclaimed Mr. Thornton,
"Who is he? What right-?" He stopped
short in his vehement question.

"Frederick," said Mr. Bell, in surprise.
"Why don't you know? He is her brother.
Have you not heard-"

"I never heard his name before. Where is
he? Who is he?"

"Surely I told you about him when the
family first came to Milton- the son who was
concerned in that mutiny."

"I never heard of him till this moment.
Where does he live?"

"In Spain. He is liable to be arrested the
moment he sets foot on English ground. Poor
fellow! he will grieve at not being able
to attend his father's funeral. We must
be content with Captain Lennox; for I
don't know of any other relation to summon."

"I hope I may be allowed to go?"

"Certainly; thankfully. You are a good
fellow, after all, Thornton. Hale liked you.
He spoke to me only the other day about
you at Oxford. He regretted he had seen so
little of you lately. I am obliged to you for
wishing to show him respect."

"But about Frederick. Does he never
come to England?"

"Never."

"He was not over here about the time of
Mrs. Hale's death?"

"No. Why, I was here then. I hadn't
seen Hale for years and years: and, if you
remember, I came- No, it was some time
after that that I came. But poor Frederick
Hale was not here then. What made you
think he was?"

"I saw a young man walking with Miss