to depress her sister. His views of life were
very sombre, and no effort ever enabled him
to look forward in a sanguine or hopeful spirit.
If, however, to these feelings an absolute fault of
character were to be added—the want of personal
courage—her feeling for him could no longer be
even the qualified esteem she had hitherto
experienced. She also knew that nothing could be
such a shock to Florence, as to believe that the
man she loved was a coward; nor could any
station, or charm, or ability, however great,
compensate for such a defect. As a matter, therefore,
for grave after-thought, but not thoroughly
"proven," she retained this charge in her mind,
nor did she by any accident drop a hint or a
word that could revive the memory of that
evening.

As for Miss Grainger, only too happy to see
that Florence seemed to retain no trace of that
distressing scene, she never went back to it, and
thus every event of the night was consigned
to silence, if not oblivion. Still, there grew
out of that reserve a degree of estrangement
between the sisters, which each, unconscious of in
herself, could detect in the other. "I think
Milly has grown colder to me of late, aunt.
She is not less kind or attentive, but there is a
something of constraint about her I cannot
fathom," would Florence say to her aunt.
While the other whispered, "I wonder why
Florry is so silent when we are alone together?
She that used to tell me all her thoughts, and
speak for hours of what she hoped and wished,
now only alludes to some common-place topic
the book she has just read, or the walk we took
yesterday."

The distance between them was not the less
wide that each had secretly confided to Calvert
her misgivings about the other. Indeed, it would
have been, for girls so young and inexperienced
in life, strange not to have accorded him their
confidence. He possessed a large share of that
quality which very young people regard as
sagacity. I am not sure that the gift has got a
special name, but we have all of us heard of
some one "with such a good head," "so safe
an adviser," "such a rare counsellor in a
difficulty," "knowing life and mankind so well,"
and "such an aptitude to take the right road in
a moment of embarrassment." The phoenix is
not usually a man of bright or showy qualities;
he is, on the contrary, one that the world at
large has failed to recognise. If, however, by
any chance he should prove to be smart, ready-
witted, and a successful talker, his sway is a
perfect despotism. Such was Calvert; at least
such was he to the eyes of these sisters. Now,
Emily had confided to him that she thought
Loyd totally unworthy of Florence. His good
qualities were undeniable, but he had few
attractive or graceful ones; and then there was
a despondent, depressed tone about him that
must prove deeply injurious to one whose
nature required bright and cheery companionship.
Calvert agreed with every word of this.

Florence, on her side, was, meanwhile,
imparting to him that Loyd was not fairly
appreciated by her aunt or her sister. They deemed
him very honourable, very truthful, and very
moral, but they did not think highly of his
abilities, nor reckon much on his success in life.
In fact, though the words themselves were
spared her, they told her in a hundred modes
that "she was throwing herself away;" and,
strange as it may read, she liked to be told so,
and heard with a sort of triumphant pride that
she was going to make a sacrifice of herself and
all her prospects—all for "poor Joseph." To
become the auditor of this reckoning required
more adroitness than the other case; but
Calvert was equal to it. He saw where to differ,
where to agree with her. It was a contingency
which admitted of a very dexterous flattery,
rather insinuated, however, than openly declared;
and it was thus he conveyed to her that he took
the same view as the others. He knew Loyd was
an excellent fellow, far too good and too moral
for a mere scamp like himself to estimate. He
was certain he would turn out respectable,
esteemed, and all that. He would be sure
to be a churchwarden, and might be a poor-
law guardian; and his wife would be certain
to shine in the same brightness attained by
him. Then stopping, he would heave a low,
faint sigh, and turn the conversation to
something aoout her own attractions or graceful
gifts. How enthusiastically the world of
"society" would one day welcome them and what
a "success" awaited her whenever she was well
enough and strong enough to endure its fatigue.
Now, though all these were only as so many
fagots to the pile of her martyrdom, she delighted
to listen to them, and never wearied of hearing
Calvert exalt all the greatness of the sacrifice
she was about to make, and how immeasurably
she was above the lot to which she was going
to consign herself.

It is the drip, drip, that eats away the rock,
and iteration ever so faint, will cleave its way
at last; so Florry, without in the slightest
degree disparaging Loyd, grew at length to
believe as Calvert assured her, that "Master
Joseph" was the luckiest dog that ever lived,
and had carried off a prize immeasurably above
his pretensions.

Miss Grainger, too, found a confessor in their
guest: but it will spare the reader some time
if I place before him a letter which Calvert
wrote to one of his most intimate friends a
short time after he had taken up his abode at
the villa. The letter will also serve to connect
some past events with the present now before
us.

The epistle was addressed Algernon Drayton,
Esq., Army and Navy Club, London, and ran
thus:

"My DEAR ALGY,—You are the prince of
'our own correspondents,' and I thank you,
'imo corde,' if that be Latin for it, for all
you have done for me. I defy the whole
Bar to make out, from your narrative, who
killed who, in that affair at Basle. I know, after
the third reading of it, I fancied that I had