life-guardsman and, by repute, the most
successful lady-killer of his generation.

III.

GERALDINE, who had been piteously terrified
at the prospect of keeping house alone with
her Gorgonic mother, was surprised to find
how suddenly the old lady changed. She laid
aside her harsh and insolent manner, was
kind, considerate, gentle,—ceased to find fault
—nay, was almost flattering; and Geraldine,
who was as loving as she was timid, soon
became quite playful and filial, and thought,
perhaps, after all she had been to blame, or
had been only fanciful. They had passed a
few happy days thus—happy days, in spite
of the strange desolation which her husband's
first absence makes for the young wife—when
a carriage drove up, and out dashed a fine,
handsome, young fellow, all bright blue-eyes,
moustache, white teeth, military swagger and
merriment; who kissed Mrs. Amphlett as
if he liked to kiss her, and seemed at home
in the house, and master of every one in it,
before he had fairly crossed the threshold.
This was Cousin Hal.

Never was there such a delightful
companion as Cousin Hal! Full of fun and
anecdote; always lively; the most
good-natured person in the world; possessing the
largest amount of chivalry to women of
which modern manners are capable; respectful
while familiar, and his familiarity itself
so affectionate and manly, that no one was
ever known to quarrel with him, and many
were found to love him—in fact is was his
speciality, and the motive of his many
triumphal pæans. All these characteristics made
him a dangerously delightful companion for
most young ladies. But Hal, though a scapegrace,
had his heart in the right place; and,
fond as he was of mischief, had no love for
evil, nor for vice.

At first Geraldine was shy toward him,
intending to be matron-like and dignified;
but Cousin Hal laughed all that out of
her; and, in an incredibly short time
established himself on the most comfortable
footing imaginable; Aunt Amphley,
as he called her, giving the pretty young wife
into his care in the oddest way possible:
especially odd in her, one of the strictest
known dragons of propriety extant. For
instance, Geraldine demurred at riding alone
with him—"Would Arthur like it?" And
Mrs. Amphlett answered, "Who is the best
judge of propriety, you or I? And if I say
that you may ride with your cousin, is it
fitting in you to virtually tell me that I am
an insecure guide to you, and that my habits
and views are improper for you to adopt?"

Geraldine wrote daily to her husband.
She had very little to write about, excepting
her love for him, and how pleasant Cousin
Hal made gloomy old Thornivale; and,
naturally, Cousin Hal came in for a large share of
the canvas. He was the only fact in the
present; and facts take wide dimensions.
Now, between Arthur and Cousin Hal there
had always been, since very boyhood, a
distinct and decided enmity. Not explosive nor
exploded; but none the less fierce because
subdued and smouldering. He called Arthur
surly; Arthur called him frivolous: he said
Arthur should have been a priest; Arthur
said that he should have been an actor, if not
a Merry Andrew. So Arthur was furious
when he heard of his being at Thornivale.
He wondered at his mother, abused Hal,
called Geraldine silly; and then he thought
of what his mother had once said about
the girl's facility of obedience and
impressibility, and he was doubly jealous. In
which amiable frame of mind he received a
letter from his mother. After some business
preliminaries the letter said:

"It is quite pleasant to see Geraldine and Henry;
they play together as if they were still children in
the nursery. Geraldine has grown so pretty, and
is all life and vivacity: she is quite a different
person to the lachrymose, nervous, depressed schoolgirl
she was when you were here. I fear you kept her
down too much: Henry, on the contrary, encourages
her. He is charmed by her frankness and playfulness,
she with his good temper and affectionate ways. And
certainly he is a very charming fellow, though I cannot
go to Geraldine's extent of enthusiasm, when she
said last night that she wished you were more like
him. To me, every one's individuality is sacred, and
I would have no moral patchwork if I could. Miss
Vaughan vexes me that she dislikes Henry so much.
She spoke quite sternly to your wife last evening about
her evident partiality, which Geraldine calls 'cousinship;'
but Miss Vaughan crushed her with one of her
lofty looks, and little Geraldine ran off to Henry—
cousin Hal, as she called him—for shelter and protection."

Arthur read no more. He crushed the
letter in his hand and, covering his face,
groaned. Neither that day nor the next,
nor the next, again, did he write to his
wondering wife. Hitherto he had written
every day, according to the fashion of
husband-lovers; but now, too suspicious to write
naturally, too proud to betray his suspicions,
he chose not to write at all, as the easiest
solution of the difficulty. Whereby he
nearly broke poor Geraldine's heart, which,
not reproving her, furnished her with no clue
to the enigma. She was sure he was ill—he
had met with some accident—he had been run
over by an omnibus or by one of those immense
waggons—he had been garotted—he was
dying—he was dead. This was her ascending
scale of horrors; at which her mother scoffed
grimly, but which kind-hearted Hal tried
to cheer and soothe away. On the fourth
day the letter came—short, reserved, cold. It
said nothing to wound, but nothing to delight,
the young wife. Geraldine almost wished he
had not written at all; though she was glad
and grateful to find he was well, and that
nothing had happened to him.

She answered as if no cloud had fallen
between them; noticing nothing. She told him