the more complete because it was reluctantly
paid, and concealed as much as possible.

With regard to the dinner parties- Edith's
friends contributed the beauty, Captain
Lennox's the easy knowledge of the subjects
of the day; and Mr. Henry Lennox, and the
sprinkling of rising men, whom he brought
about the house, as privileged brother-in-law,
contributed the wit, the cleverness, the keen
and extensive knowledge; of which they
knew well how to avail themselves when
occasion required without seeming pedants,
or burdening the rapid flow of conversation.
These dinners were delightful; but even
here Margaret's dissatisfaction found her out.
Every talent, every feeling, every acquirement
- nay, every tendency towards virtue,
was used up as materials for fire-works. One
day, after the gentlemen had come up into
the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox drew near
Margaret, and addressed her in almost the
first voluntary words he had spoken to her
since she had returned to live in Harley Street.

"You did not look pleased at what Shirley
was saying at dinner."

"Didn't I? My face must be very expressive,"
replied Margaret.

"It always was. It has not lost the trick
of being eloquent."

"I did not like," said Margaret, hastily,
"his way of advocating what he knew to be
wrong- so glaringly wrong- even in jest."

"But it was very clever. How every word
told! Do you remember the happy epithets?"

"Yes!"

"And despise them, you would like to add.
Pray, don't scruple, though he is my friend."

"There! that is the exact tone in you that-."
She stopped short. He listened for a
moment to see if she would finish her sentence;
but she only reddened, and turned
away; before she did so, she heard him say,
in a very low clear voice:

"If my tones or modes of thought are
what you dislike, will you do me the justice
to tell me so, and give me the chance
of learning to please you?"

Mr. Bell did not come up when Margaret
expected him. He missed all the dinner-parties;
which Edith regretted continually,
declaring she was so worn out by the heat
that she did not think she had strength
enough left in her to give another. This,
she said, with a little air of apology to
Margaret, as if she would have wished to
pay every attention to her friend; and Margaret
could hardly succeed in assuring her
that Mr. Bell was the last man in the world
to consider himself neglected by any such
omission. "Only let him come here in a free
way whenever he likes, and you cannot please
him more. I want him to see you, Edith;
you know you were ill all the time he was
here in May."

"And I am in shocking looks now," said
the beauty, glancing at herself complacently
in the glass.

"Oh, it is not at all for your beauty: it's
because I love you so much, you naughty
Edith, that I want him to see you!"

"And do you really still think of Spain in
this weather?"

"It will be cooler before September. Oh,
yes! I think of going to Cadiz terribly
much- just in that absorbing, wilful way
which is sure to be disappointed or else
gratified to the letter, while in the spirit it
gives no pleasure."

"But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret."

"No; I don't think it is. Only it ought
to warn me, and check me from forming such
passionate wishes. It is a sort of 'Give me
children, or I die!' I'm afraid my cry is,
'Let me go to Cadiz, or else I die.'"

"My dear Margaret! You'll be persuaded
to stay there; and then what shall I do?
Oh, I wish I could find somebody for you to
marry here, that I could be sure of you!"

"I shall never marry."

"Nonsense, and double nonsense! Why,
as Sholto says, you're such an attraction to
the house, that next year he knows ever so
many men who will be glad to come."

Margaret drew herself up haughtily." Do
you know, Edith, I sometimes think your
Corfu life has taught you-"

"Well!"

"Just a shade or two of coarseness?"

Edith began to sob so bitterly, and to
declare so vehemently that Margaret had
lost all love for her, and no longer looked
upon her as a friend, that Margaret came to
think she had expressed too harsh an opinion,
for the relief of her own wounded pride, and
ended by being Edith's slave for the rest of
the day; while that little lady, overcome by
wounded feeling, lay like a victim on the sofa,
heaving occasionally a profound sigh.

Mr. Bell did not make his appearance even
on the day to which he had for a second time
deferred his visit. The next morning there
came a letter from Wallis, stating that his
master had not been feeling well for some
time, which had been the true reason of his
putting off his journey, and that at the very
time when he should have set out for
London, he had been seized with an apoplectic
fit; it was, indeed, Wallis added, the
opinion of the medical men that he could not
survive the night; and more than probable
that by the time Miss Hale received this
letter, his poor master would be no more.
Edith cried terribly at this shock, perhaps
the nearest way in which she had ever been
brought into contact with death. Here was
a man who was to have dined with them today,
lying dead or dying instead. Margaret's
quiet tears fell unnoticed. How fatal this
year had been to her! No sooner was she
fully aware of one loss, but another came-
not to supersede her grief for the one before,
but to reopen wounds and feelings scarcely
healed. At last Edith started up with, "I