well guarded by its outer sleeve of purple
silk, and, within that, drooping frills of finest
lace, and a shining bracelet of gold thickly
set with emeralds, clasped about it, and ever
and anon slipping up the round arm. Fair
little hand!

Leonard looked at it; then at her sweet
face, where a faint flush was gathering and
fading, and then glowing again, like sun-rays
upon snow. Then he looked round the room,
and finally his gaze rested full on the face of
Mr. Bellew, his host, and future father-in-law.
No sign of weariness in Leonard now. There
was even more than usual energy and vigour
in his face; he rose erect in his seat, still
holding the little hand in his, still gazing at
the old merchant's placid, well-favoured
countenance.

"It is a bitter night, outside," Leonard
said. "It will be a hard winter."

''Hard winter, truly!" observed Mr.
Bellew. "My horses fell three times this
morning. At last I had to get out and walk
a street's length to the counting-house. Have
you had any adventures, Leonard?"

"Not of that kind," replied he, the faintest
smile quivering at his mouth.

"No. But we look for something more
stirring from you, who have been away ten
days; in that romantic manufacturing
district, too. How did you leave Blishford?"

"Cleaner than it had ever been in its life,
I think, for the snow fell even faster than
the dirt."

"All business satisfactorily settled?" Mr.
Bellew asked, en passant.

"The business is settled."

"Come, come; you needn't blush, Rosamond!"
said Mr. Bellew, who seemed genial
even to jocularity on this occasion. "So much
of the preliminaries over, then. Well—well—
well. Miss Agnes, shall I give you this
hand-screen."

The old gentleman bent forward, always
studiously polite to his fair guest. It was
curious to watch his grave face relax into a
smile of stately, Grandisonian courtesy, while
all the time, the shrewd eyes shone, the
inflexible mouth was firm and hard.

"Papa, papa!" cried one little fairy who
tumbled round on the hearth-rug—a tiny
bundle of azure silk and lace—with a rosy
face beaming up in eager inquiry, "Is it true,
papa, is Rosamond to be married soon?"

"And will she go away?" chimed in the
other, "and won't she be our very own, any
more?"

Rosamond rose. She might be excused
for seeking her work from a table in the
inner room, pending the answer to these
inquiries. But Leonard followed her—
Leonard drew her yet further away—into
the little conservatory, at one side of which
Rosamond was accustomed to sit and read
or write or work. Her little desk was
there now; her chair stood beside it, and a
white vase with a single crimson rose in it.
She took this last in her hand, and examined
it with great attention.

"It is for you," she said, softly. "I have
watched it budding day after day, and this
very morning it opened. It knew you were
coming, you see. I had taught it to know."

"Shall we sit here awhile?" said Leonard.
"I like this place. It is pleasant to be here."

"And remember," said she, "you have
everything to tell me."

He started. She smiled up at him, in the
very overflowing of contentment.

"Oh, I have so much to hear!" she went
on, gaily, "the history of ten days, the full,
true, and particular history. You know it
is of no use to attempt to satisfy me with
less. So begin, do begin."

She sat down, and he took his place beside
her. Such a serene, sweet face was drooped
from his gaze, such quivering happiness
played about the rosy mouth. There was a
brief silence: they could hear the children's
voices in the other room, and Agnes' vivacious
tones clear above the rest.

"She is telling them a story," said
Rosamond, "and I am going to hear my own
special story—am I not?"

Leonard's voice, stedfast and sustained,
vibrated on the murmur of distant sound
with special distinctness.

"Yes, darling, you shall be told."

Something in the tone of his voice, an in-
definite, indescribable something, smote
Rosamond's quick sense. The shy happiness
faded from her face; she looked up with a
swift, appealing glance—a sort of helpless
deprecation of ill.

"Leonard! What is it?"

"I will tell you all, my Rosamond. My
Rosamond," he repeated fondly, with a quiet
smile, that insensibly smoothed away, for
the moment, the trouble in her face. He
held her hand close, and began.

"You are to see me, then, going through
that wonderful town, at once so rich and so
squalid—so magnificent and so miserable, with
its thousands upon thousands of inhabitants
mostly poor—many of them destitute—some
even despairing. Through the dark, dismal
streets, where all the falling snow was
polluted by smoke and filth, and even through
the frost the air was heavy and impure.
Past miserable dwellings—hovels, where
people seemed festering, not living; where I
saw gaunt figures moving about with
wretched faces, ashen-hued—with glaring
eyes, and sunken, hollow cheeks. I saw their
hungry, fierce looks as they passed me by—
these creatures that want, and disease, and
ignorance together seemed to have left
scarcely human. Rosamond, my heart swelled
as I saw them, and knew that the avarice
and cold-heartedness of my uncle had helped
to make them so. I thought that in the
days to come, life should hold better things
for them, that I would repair the injuries—
right the injustice that he had done."