"And your's, Lucy?"

"Mine!—dear little girl, what a question!
Don't you know me well enough to know
that the man does not live on this earth who
could or should play the tyrant over me?
No, Norah! not the strongest will or the
fiercest temper could conquer me. Let them
try! There is not a man in England that I
could not make my slave if I chose."

And she laughed—half in deprecation of
her imperial boast, half in conscious power—
such power as women when they are young,
beautiful, and self-willed, alone feel.

"Not your father, Lucy?"

"My father? Bless his dear gentle heart!
he would not hurt a fly, much less offend his
daughter, of whom he is so extravagantly
proud and fond. Dear, good-tempered papa!
he never said 'No,' to my 'Yes,' in his life;
nor to mamma's either. No; mamma is more
inclined to be tyrannical than papa, but she
is not difficult. I can soon kiss her into a
good humour; and then I gossip with her,
and, dear soul! she likes that. So I get
round her, too; if, with a little more management,
yet quite as effectually as round papa;
and they never dream of thwarting me—
never!"

"And your brothers? Am I troublesome?
But it is so long since I have seen you, that I
understand nothing of your family or your
position now."

Norah spoke so timidly, as one accustomed
to refusals.

''Ask what you like, dear," said Lucy, in
her fine, patronising way. "I shall be very
happy to tell you anything. Well! my
brothers—they are the best creatures in the
world! I have two—as you may remember.
Launce is the eldest: he is like papa—a dear,
soft, large, good-tempered thing, more like a
big old dog than anything else. I call him
Doggie when he is particularly good.
Edmund is the youngest of us all; he is a year
younger than I—by the bye, just your own
age, Nory—and one of the gentlest beings
breathing. He is a spiritual, etherial morsel,
into whom nature forgot to put both bones
and evil—a perfect angel, dear boy, and such
a sweet poet! But he would have been better
as a girl than as a man. He is too fair; and
really, without nonsense, he has not enough
wickedness in him for a true man. As he is,
he holds very much the office of the bards of
old with us all. We ask his views on all
intellectual matters, never his advice on
worldly affairs; and, if he were not
incorruptible, he would have been spoilt years
ago, with all the love and petting he has had.
But, to go back to myself. You may see by
this sketch of home, Norah, that I have no
very formidable opponents to encounter.
Launce is too soft-hearted; Edmund too
good—besides being too abstracted—to oppose
me; so that, in fact, Nory, I rule the house—
and that is just the truth."

"What a happy life!" said Norah, sadly.

"Now tell me yours, Nory."

"O! no, no! never mind mine! It is
too tame after yours," said Norah hurriedly.
"I have nothing to tell but what you
know."

"Why, child! I know nothing. Come!
your history or your life, rebel!"

At that moment a bell rang imperiously,
as everything was done at Lyndon Hall.

"The first dinner-bell, Lucy," said Norah,
looking frightened. "I must go, dear. Do
not be a minute too late, papa is very
particular, and punctual to a moment. Mind
you are in time, for I want you to be
a favourite here," she added with a sad
smile.

"Very well, I will be punctual," said
Lucy, hurrying about her room and ringing
for her maid. Then, when Norah had
fairly closed the door, she laughed aloud and
said—

"For to-day only, just to feel my ground."

True to her promise, down she came, five
minutes before the time, all radiant in
peach-blossom and silver. Little Norah glided in
almost immediately after, in a floating light
blue robe; the one self-possessed and queenly,
the other timid and retiring; the one with
her broad black brows and open eyes, her
rich complexion and her ruddy, laughing
mouth, the other with shy, melancholy orbs
always hidden by their drooping lids, with
small and delicate lips that smiled more sadly
than Lucy's wept.

The Colonel and Gregory were waiting to
receive them. The Colonel stood near the
fire-place, severely watchful of the hour;
Gregory lounged against the chimney-piece,
eagerly looking for Norah. The Colonel,
with his iron-grey hair and keen grey eyes,
his hawk nose, thin face, and military bearing,
looked the impersonation of severity
turned gentleman; while Gregory, swarthy
and excited, his large black eyes taking every
shade of feeling as mirrors throw back forms,
his thick red lips and small white teeth
beneath, looked like what he was—the half-caste,
with the savage element predominant.
Between them both, no wonder was it that
frail, fair Norah's life was slowly dying out
of her; it was a greater wonder how it had
been preserved so long. As Lucy said—
writing home to her mother that night, and
exaggerating in consideration of her mother's
weakness for gossip—"she looked like a little
white lamb between a lion and a jaguar—
the jaguar was the Colonel" (added in a
footnote). "But," continued Lucy, with a
burst of heroism by no means common to
her, "I will save her! I feel that I have had
this mission given to me, and that I am sent
to effect poor Norah's release."

When the party separated that night,
Colonel Lyndon reviewed himself anxiously
in his dressing-glass—specially about his
eyes and round his mouth. After a few
minutes he drew himself up, saying:—"Not