they will do; and, when it is done, they bid
me receive with joy the intelligence that my
child is counted as nothing in his father's
sight, and that we are to be robbed of a third
of our income. O! had I but harkened to
the voice that bade me listen to you, when
he lay senseless and powerless—when disease
had done the work ready to my hand, and
only to leave undone was needful. Now, he
is strong again in mind and body, and the
strength he has regained, through my help, he
uses to insult and injure me! He must
needs enter on the estate at once. He must
sow enmity between me and my husband.
When was it before, since the day when he
first called me wife, that Sir Edward decided
on even the smallest of his affairs without
me? Now he consults, he decides, he
portions out his income; and, when it is done,
he tells me thus and thus it is to be. Devise
what you will—fear no flinching in me, now."

"Noble Madonna," cried Agnese, with
a look of triumph, "now you are yourself
again, all will be well; the daughter of the
Curé shall never queen it here; and Edward
shall inherit the lands of his father."

"We must be careful what we do, Agnese:
we must be subtle and secret. Sir
Edward has given to his son, to this Frank, who,
but for me, might be lying in the vault
beside his mother, the house in Devonshire,
because it was his mother's, and he is quite
sure that I must approve of so equitable an
arrangement. The poor simpleton, Ann
Irwin, left the house to her husband, thinking,
I suppose, that no second love would
banish her pale image from his heart, and
that he could soar to no higher passion. This
house is to be rendered back to her son, that
he may live there with his wife; and that
they may enjoy their Paradise, three
hundred pounds a-year is to be taken from
our income. Listen, Agnese, I will urge
my husband to send his son to Elington; he
shall alter and furnish to his taste. I will
have liberal means placed at his disposal;
the garden and the pleasure-grounds shall be
re-arranged to his fancy; and he shall dream of
the happiness he is never to know, as he
wanders through the newly-adorned rooms,
and lingers under the trees. He shall return
to fetch his bride—she shall twine the orange-
flowers in her hair—the wedding guests shall
assemble—but the ringers who were to ring
out the wedding peal shall toll for a death."

"Will you not destroy the girl with her
lover?" inquired Agnese, eagerly.

"No, I hate her too much; she has won
from me the hearts of all I love; but for
her smiles and soft voice I might have
lived happy and innocent. She loves him,
Agnese; he is as dear to her as the light of
heaven. She shall live to pine for him in
hopeless sorrow."

"We must be wise and secret," said
Agnese. "The crime shall be mine, the
vengeance yours."

"Never fear, Agnese. The vengeance I
will take, shall be sudden and certain as the
swoop of the eagle. But enough, we have time
to spare; to deceive them into security must
be our present labour."

CHAPTER XIII.

"KITTY," cried Edward, bursting into the
drawing-room, at the Parsonage, where
Catherine sat with an open book before her,
but thoughts wandering far away, "Kitty,
my dear sister, what am I to do? Here I
have been puzzling my brain for the last ten
days to compose an Epithalamium for you and
Frank! I tried Greek first, but you know
I've only read the Prometheus, and Iambics
don't come easy. I tried Latin next, but
I couldn't determine whether it should be in
Sapphics or Alcaics, and owing to the
confusion of my mind, half the stanza was in one
and half in the other; so down I fell to
English, plain, wholesome English, as father
calls it—which is, after all, the most Christian
language of the three. I shall have a couple of
hours' hard fighting with the Muse, by and
by, and I'll bring her coy ladyship to terms,
depend upon it. If you could but help me to a
rhyme, now and then—but, of course, that is
not to be expected. Mother is tremendously
grand to-day. I can't get a word out of her,
or I'd have pressed her into the service. She
is glorious at finding rhymes. She has got a
splendid gown for to-morrow, and a bonnet
my aunt would give her ears for."

"I wish I could show her how grateful I
am for all her goodness to us," said Catherine.

"I don't think you need feel oppressed by
the weight of the obligation," replied Edward,
gaily; "though I must say mother has behaved
splendidly about Elington; and one must not
mind her being a little cross sometimes. But
come, Kitty! If I go and fetch the horses,
you'll have one more ride with me, won't
you, before you join the formidable corps of
matrons. Just one last ride?"

Catherine not unwillingly consented, for
she loved the boy dearly; and, in the near
approach of an event so important, she felt
herself unable to exercise her habitual control
over her thoughts. It was a day in early
autumn. The foliage had lost nothing of its
summer fullness, though it was coloured here
and there with the beautiful shades that
herald its decay. Roses clustered round the
cottage doors, and the air was fragrant with
clematis, while the stately autumn flowers
nodded queenly greetings to each other, and
the ripe fruits basked in the sunshine. The
fresh wind, the blue sky, the rich landscape,
combined to raise the spirits of the riders.
Never had Edward looked so handsome;
never had the play of his mind been so graceful.
Catherine could not help gazing with
admiration on his dark animated countenance,
and on the supple grace of his movements.

"I will be with you before breakfast
tomorrow, Kitty," he gaily cried as he rode