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KOli 
 
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 Author o 
 
UOliEHTSON'S OHEAF SEI?,I ' S <i 
 
 POPULAR READING AT POPULAK PRICES. 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 BY MA.Y AQ-JSTES FLEMINGh, 
 
 Author of "A Wonderful Woman, " "One Nikht's Mystery," •' A Terrible Secret," 
 
 "Carried by Storm," etc., etc. 
 
 
 
 ,'1 
 
 COMPLETK 
 
 TORONTO 
 J. KOSS ROBERTSON, 55 KING-STREFT WEST. 
 
 SOUTH-WEST CORNER OF BAY-STRBBT. 
 -K, 1880. 
 
 ■v,o'Vers;tas 
 
 BIBLIOTHECA 
 
!^ 
 
 
 
 
 IPJ 
 
 'In mine ej 
 ever looked c 
 
 WillCl 
 
 It is a dre 
 has raiued ; 
 apace, it pji 
 iog down ih< 
 hour she h 
 weather thn 
 witu a geuti 
 of ita glouin, 
 her novel, 
 back stairs, 
 ir u^jon the 
 
 ' If you y] 
 
 ' Oil ! ' aaj 
 Come iu, A. 
 evening, no\ 
 
 • Well It 
 apologeticall 
 your clean tl 
 looked id foi 
 Mrs. Hopki 
 left clutterii 
 says, and tot 
 nines. Miss < 
 of the heels. 
 
 Jemima A 
 Mr. Dooliti 
 soft-spoken 
 bald spot, a 
 manner. Jc 
 era were lik( 
 cies, and i 
 victuals, or t 
 stairs. The 
 Ann dometii 
 and hurl bo< 
 tions down i 
 Ksthetic wot 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 F»^VRT FIRST. 
 
 *In mine eyes she ia the sweetest larly that I 
 ever looked oa,'— 'Much Ado About Nothinu' 
 
 CHAP I ER I. 
 
 WHICH PRESENTS JEMIMA ANN. 
 
 It is a dreary prospect. All day long it 
 has raiued ; as the short afternoon wears 
 apace, it pjurs. Mrs. Hopkins' niece, lay- 
 ing down the novel over which for the past 
 hour she has been absorbed, regards the 
 weather through the grated kitchen window 
 with a gentle melancholy upon her, begotten 
 of its gloom, and returns despondently to 
 her novel. A soft step stealing down the 
 back ataira, a soft, deprecating voice, breaks 
 ir upon the narrative and her solitude. 
 
 ' if you please, Miss Jim ? ' 
 
 ' Oa ! ' Bays Jemima Ann, " is that you ? 
 Come iu, Mr. Djohttle. Dreadful nasty 
 evening, now, am't it ? ' 
 
 ' Well It ain't nice,' says Mr. Doolittle, 
 apologetically : ' and I guess I won't muss 
 your clean tioor by comiug in. What I've 
 looked iu for Miss Jim, is a pair o' rubbers. 
 Mrs. Hopkins she don't like gum shoes 
 left clutterm' about the bedrooms, so she 
 Bays, and totes 'em all down here. Number 
 nines, Miss Jemima, and with a hole in one 
 of the heels. Thauky ; them's them.' 
 
 Jemima Ann produces the rubbers, and 
 Mr. Doolittle meekly departs. He is a 
 soft-spoken little man with weak eyes, a 
 bald spot, and a hen-pecked and depressed 
 manner. Jemima Ann wislfes all the board- 
 ers #ere like hun — thankful for small arier- 
 cies, and never finding fault with the 
 victuals, or swearing at her down the back 
 Btairs. The boarders do swear at Jemima 
 Ann dometimes, curses both loud and deep, 
 and hurl boots, and brushes, and maledio- 
 tiong down the area, when absorbed in the 
 Ksthetic woes of her heroine she forgets ihe 
 
 gross material needs of these sinful young 
 men. But long habit, seven years of board- 
 ing house drudgery, has inured her to all 
 this ; and imprecations and bootjauks alike 
 rain uuheed'.d on her frowzy bead. A sen* 
 sible head, too, in the main, and with an 
 ugly, good-humoured face looking out of it, 
 and at boarding-house life iu general, through 
 two round, bright black eyes. 
 
 It is a rainy evening in early October, the 
 dismal twilight of a wet and dismal day. 
 Mrs. Hopkins' basement kitchen is lit by 
 four greenish panes of mud- bespattered 
 glass', SIX inches higher than the pavement. 
 Through these six inches of green 
 crystal Jemima Ann sees all she ever sees of 
 the outdoor world on its winding way. 
 Hundreds of ankles, male and female, thick 
 and thin, clean and dirty, according to the 
 state of the atmosphere, pass those four 
 squares of dull light every day, and all day 
 long, far into the night, too ; for Mrs. Hop* 
 kius' boarding-house is in a populous street, 
 handy for the workingmen — artisans in iron, 
 mostly, who frequent it. A great foundry 
 is near, where stoves and range3, and heat- 
 ers and grates are manufactured, with noise 
 and \jnm , and clanking of great hammers, 
 and clouds of blackest coal smoke, until that 
 way niadnesslies; and the * hands ' emerge in 
 scores, black as demons, and go home to 
 wash and dine at Mrs. Hopkins' boarding- 
 house. Limitless is the demand for water, 
 great and mighty the cry for yellow soap, of 
 these horny handed Vulcans, who, like lob- 
 sters, go into these steaming cauhirous very 
 black and come out very red. For seven 
 long years Jemima Ann has waited on these 
 children of the torge, and been anathematized 
 in the strongest vernacular for slowness and 
 ' muddle-headednesB,' and got dinners and 
 teas, and washed dishes, and swept bed- 
 rooms, and made beds, and went errands,, 
 and read novels and story-papers, and watuh> 
 ed the never-ending stream of bootheel» 
 passing and repassing the dingy panes of 
 glass, aad waxed, from a country-lass of 
 seventeen, to a strong-armed, sallow-faced 
 young woman of twenty-four ; and all the 
 
 
 K/ 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 TomaQoo of life that ever came near he" to 
 brighten 'the dull drab nt every day, waa 
 oontaiaed in the ' awful ' nice stories de- 
 voured in every spare moment left her in the 
 busy oaravanaera of her aunt Samantha 
 Hopkins. 
 
 The rain patters a^ain<)t the glass ; the 
 twiliirht deepens. Jemima Ann has to 
 strain her eve<4 to catoh the last entrancing 
 gentenoea of chapter tive. The ankles that 
 Bourry past are mudily, the skirts bedraggled. 
 -Jemimi Ann wishes they were fewer ; they 
 come between her and the last bleak rays of 
 light. A melancholy autumnal wind rises, 
 and blows some whirling dead leaves 
 down the area : the gutter just outsiae swells 
 to a miniature torrent, anil has quite the 
 romantic roar of a small river, Jemima 
 Ann pensively thinks Even she can 
 read no more. She lays down her tattered 
 book with a deep sigh of regret, prop^ her 
 elbows on her knees, sinks her chin in her 
 palms, and gazes sentimentally upward at 
 the greenish ca'sement. I c is nearly time to 
 go and light the gas in the front hall and 
 dining-room, she opines. The men will be 
 here directly, all shouting out together for 
 warm water and more soap, and another 
 towel, and — be dashed to you ! Then there 
 is cold corned-beef to be cut up for supper, 
 and broad out iu great slices from four huge 
 homemade loaves, and the stewed apples to 
 be got out, and the tea put to draw, and 
 "ter that to be poured, and after that, and 
 ,e into the weary watches of the night, 
 iiishes to be washed, and the table reset fur 
 to-morrow's breakfast 
 
 Jemima Ann sighs again, and this time it 
 is not for the patrician sorrows of the lovely 
 Duchess Isoline. In a general way she has 
 not much time for melancholy musings. The 
 life of Mrs. Hopkins' ' help ' does not hold 
 manv gaps for reflection. It is a breathless, 
 dizzying round and rash— one long 'dem- 
 nition grind,' from week's end to week's 
 end. And perhaps it is best that it should 
 be so ; else even Jemima Ann. patient, plod- 
 ding, strong of arm, stout of heart, sweet of 
 temper, willing of mind, might go slowly 
 melancholy mad. 
 
 * It would be awful pleasant to be like 
 they are in stories,' muses Jemima Ann, still 
 blinking upward at the gray squares of blurr- 
 ed light, • and have azure eyes, and golden 
 Presses, and wear white Swiss and sweeping 
 silks all the year round, and have lovely 
 IKnArdsmen and dukes and things, to gaee at 
 B person passionately, and lift a person's 
 hand to their lips.' Jemima Ann lifts one 
 of her own, a red right hand, at this point, 
 and surveys it. It is not particularly clean ; 
 it has no nails to speak of ; it is nearly as 
 
 largp, and altogether as hard, as that of any 
 of the foundry 'hands;' and she sighs a 
 third sigh, deepest and dolefullest of alL 
 There are hands and hanrls ; the impossibil- 
 ity of any mortal man, in his senses, ever 
 wanting to lift this hand to his lips, comes 
 well home to her in this hour. The favour'te 
 ' gulf ' of her novel lies between her and 
 such airy, fairy beings as the Duchess Iso- 
 line And yet Jemima Ann fairly revels in 
 the British aristocracy. Nothing lens than a 
 baron^lb can content her. No heioine under 
 the rank of ' my lady ' can greatly interest 
 her. Pictures of ordinary every-day life, of 
 ordinal y every-day people, pall upon the 
 highly seaflimed palate of Jemima Ann. Her 
 own life is so utterly unlovely, so grinding 
 in its sordid tigliness, that she will have 
 no reflection of it in her favourite literature. 
 Dickens fails to interest her. His men and 
 women talk and act, and are but as 
 shadowy r3flections of those she meets every 
 day. 
 
 ' Nothing Dickens ever wrote,' says 
 Jemima .Ann, with conviction, 'is to be 
 named in the same dav with the ' Doom of 
 the Duchess,' or ' The Belle of Belgravia.' 
 
 The darkness deepens, the rain falls, the 
 wind of the autumn night si;<hs outside. 
 Through the gusty gloamings a shrieking 
 whistle ouddeuly pierces, and Jeminia Ann 
 her feet, as if shot. The six 
 tie 1 The moments for dream- 
 au end. Life, at its ugliest, 
 , most practical, is here. The men 
 will be home for supper in five minutes. 
 
 ' Jim 1 ' ories a breathless voice. It is a 
 woman's voice, sharp, thin, eager. There 
 is a swish of woman's petticoats down the 
 dark stairs, a bounce into the kitchen, then 
 an angry exclamation: ' \ou Jim, are yon 
 here ? What are you foolin' at now, and it 
 blind man's holiday all over the house ! ' 
 
 'I'm a lightin' up, Aunt Samanthy,' re- 
 sponds Jemima Ann, placidly ; ' you know 
 you don't like the gas a flarin' a minute be< 
 fore it's wanted, and the whistle's only just 
 blowed. 
 
 'I'm blowed myself,' says Aunt Saman- 
 tha — not meaning to be funny, merely 
 stating a fact ; ' and clean out o' breath. 
 
 I've run every step of the way here from . 
 
 Jemima Ann, what d'ye think ? They want 
 me to take in a woman.' 
 
 * Do they ? ' says Jemima Ann. The gas 
 is lit by this time, and flares out over the 
 untidy kitchen and the two women. 'I 
 wouldn't, if I was you. Who is she ? ' 
 
 'Rogers has her,' says Mrs. Hopkins, 
 vaguely. ' She's with the rest at the hotel i 
 but there ain't np room for her there. 
 RoKen is full himself, and he wants me to 
 
 springe 
 o'cloci 
 ing a: 
 grimieib 
 
 take her ; s 
 she ain't thi 
 what he s 
 sioh ladies ! 
 • Oh 1 • sa 
 gappressed 
 yon don't si 
 ' And <>h< 
 Hookins, I 
 were the lai 
 a vexed w 
 thini;, and 
 that. Rogi 
 says all the 
 and raises 
 miss right 
 says. And 
 he knows ] 
 like to oV)li{ 
 dear little 
 neifhbour 1 
 furder tirst 
 •Oh, An 
 says Jem in: 
 lady. Nej 
 nun is the 
 st Ty.' 
 
 ' No I s 
 
 responds ; 
 
 own sex ^ 
 
 started in i 
 
 — ladies th 
 
 table boa 
 
 girls, and 
 
 One wonia 
 
 six foundr; 
 
 iron wante 
 
 to riace on 
 
 i gsin a b 
 
 and findini 
 
 of the but 
 
 So I soon I 
 
 up my mi 
 
 foundry hi 
 
 lots of soa 
 
 hair oil wl 
 
 let him 
 
 plenty of 
 
 he may gr 
 
 go mussin 
 
 proper hoi 
 
 and that's 
 
 « Did y< 
 
 ma Ana, i 
 
 •Mr. R 
 
 no for an 
 
 eveuin,' <?; 
 
 bring tbe 
 
 won't be i 
 
 is. I kn( 
 
 foundry h 
 
 at the pre 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 hat of snj 
 ■le aitjrhB a 
 at of alL 
 mpnssibil- 
 mses, ever 
 pa, comei 
 I favour'te 
 her and 
 ichesB loo- 
 y revels in 
 eHB than a 
 nne under 
 y interest 
 ay life, of 
 upon the 
 Inn. Her 
 ^rinding 
 will have 
 iterature. 
 men and 
 but as 
 eets every 
 
 ate,' says 
 IB to be 
 ' Doom of 
 gravia.' 
 fallB, the 
 i outside, 
 shrieking 
 nima Ann 
 The six 
 or dream* 
 :s ugliest, 
 The men 
 mtes. 
 K It J8 a 
 r. There 
 down the 
 ;hen, then 
 I, are you 
 3W, and it 
 nuse I ' 
 nthy,' re- 
 i^ou know 
 linute be- 
 only just 
 
 it Saman- 
 , merely 
 •' breath. 
 
 from . 
 
 'hey want 
 
 Thegai 
 over the 
 men. * I 
 e?' 
 
 Hopkins, 
 he hotel , 
 sr there, 
 its me to 
 
 take her ; says she ain't no b«)tber ; says 
 ■he ain't that Bort ; says she's a lady. That's 
 what he says ! but don't tell me. Drat 
 aioh ladies 1 She's one of that oirouslot.' 
 
 ' Oh 1 ' says Jemima Ann, in a tone of 
 luppreBHpd rapture ; ' a circus actress 1 Lor' 
 yon don't say so. ' 
 
 ' And ohe's got a little girl,' goes on Mr(i. 
 Hookins, in an irritated tone, as if that 
 were the last straw, and rubbing her nose in 
 • vexed way, ' she's a Miss Mimi— some- 
 thini;, and she's got a little girl I Think o' 
 that. Rogers says it's all right. R«(;erB 
 says all them sort does that way ; marries 
 and raises families, you know, and stajfS 
 miss right along This one's a widow, he 
 says. And he wants me to take her in ; sayn 
 he knows I've got a spare room, and would 
 like to oblige a charming young lady and a 
 dear little child — not to speak of an old 
 neichbour like him. Yar ! I'll Bee 'em all 
 furder tirat — the whole bilin'l' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Samauthy, do let her come !' 
 says Jemima Ann. ' I should love a circus 
 lady. Next to a duchees, an actress or a 
 nun is the most romantic people in any 
 st'ty.' • 
 
 * No I sha'n't,' Mrs. Hopkins finappishly 
 responds ; ' not if 1 know myself and my 
 own sex when I see 'em. When first I 
 started in the boardin' line I took in females 
 — ladies they called themselves, too, and 
 table boarded 'em — dressmakers, workin' 
 girls, and that — and I know all about it. 
 One woman was more trouble in a day than 
 six foundry hands in a week. Always a hot 
 iron wanted please, an' a little bilin' water 
 toriaoe out a handkerchief or a pair ofatock- 
 i'gsin a basin, and cupi o' tea promiscuous, 
 and finding fault continual with r,he strength 
 of the butter and the weakness of the coffee. 
 So I soon sent that lot packing, and made 
 up my mind to sink or swim with the 
 foundry hands. Give a man a latch-key, 
 lots of soap and water, put bis boots anil 
 hair oil where he can lay his hands on 'em, 
 let him have beefsteak and onions, and 
 plenty of 'em, f.>r his Vtreakfast, and though 
 he may grumble about the victuals, he don't 
 go mussin' with his linen at all sorts of im- 
 proper hours. I won't have the circus woman, 
 and that's all about it ' 
 
 * Did you tell Mr. Rogers so ?' asks Jemi- 
 ma Ana, rather disappointed. 
 
 * Mr. Rogers is ayidyit ; be wouldn't take 
 no for an answer. ' I'll step round this 
 evenin,' «ays the grinning old fool, ' and 
 bring the lady with me, Mrs. Hopkins. You 
 won't be able to say no to her — no one ever 
 is. I know the supper and six and-twenty 
 foundry hands is lyin' heavy on your mind 
 at the present moment,' says he, ' and your 
 
 nat'rel Bweetness of disposition,' he snys, 
 'tis a trifle cruddled by 'em. Yes; I never t-ee 
 such an old rattletongue. But he'll fcp I 
 
 Let him fetch his Lord sskes, Jemima 
 
 Ann ! there's them men, and not so much as 
 a drop o' tea put to dror ! Run lik« mad, 
 and light the gas 1' 
 
 Jemima Ann literally obeys. She flics up 
 stairs like a whirlwind, sees a mntch to the 
 hall gas, and has it blazing as the front door 
 is flung wide, and the foundry hands, Vdnck, 
 hungry, noisy, muddy, troop in. and up 
 stairs, or out back to the general ' WMsh'us ' 
 
 There is no more time for talking;, for 
 thinkintr, hardly for breathing— surh a 
 multiplicity of things are to be done, and ail, 
 it seems, to be done »it once. Hut water, 
 soap, towels — the tocsin of war rings 
 loudly up stairs and down and in 
 their various chambers. Gas is lit, the 
 long table set, knives rubbed, bn ad cut, meat 
 sliced, chairs placed — all is confusion. Babel 
 condensed. 
 
 J< mima Ann waits. Coarto jokes rain 
 about her, a dozen voices call on her at once, 
 demanding a dozen different things, and she 
 is - somethin^ed — at intervils, for lacking as 
 many hands as Briareus. But mofHy it all 
 falls harmlesH and balf-r.nheard. Sha is re- 
 gretting vaguely that lost circuR lady. 
 Since she may never be a duchess, nor even, 
 in all human probabdity, a 'my lady,' it 
 strikes Mrs. Hopkins' niece the next best 
 thing would be to turn circus rider, or be- 
 come a gipsy and tell fortunes. To wear a 
 scarlet cloak, to wander about the ' merry 
 green wood,' to tell fortunes at fairs, to shep 
 under a cart or a hed^ie. in the ' hotel of the 
 benutiful stars'— this would he bliss! Not 
 that scarlet is in the least becoming to her, 
 and to sleep under a henge -say, on n night 
 like this— would not be quite unadulterated 
 bliss might even be coniiucive to premature 
 rheumatism. But to go jumping along one's 
 life path through paper hoops, on flying 
 Arab steeds, in ganze and spangles, — oh I 
 that would be a little ahead of perpetual tea- 
 pouring, bread-cutting, bed making for six- 
 and-twenty loud-voiced, rough-louking 
 f undry men. 
 
 She has been to a circus just once, she re- 
 members, and saw some lovely creatures, in 
 very short petticoats, galloping round a saw- 
 dust ring in dizzying circles, ou the bare 
 backs of five Arab steeds at once, leaping 
 over banners and through fiery hoops', and 
 kissing Hnger-tips, and throwing radiant 
 soules to the audience. 
 
 wemima Ann feels she could never reach 
 suoh a pitch of perfection .is that. Her legs 
 (if these members may be thus lightly 
 spoken of) are not of that sylph-like sort a- 
 
 to* 
 
 o 
 
a 
 
 LOHT FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 floulptor would piiiH to iminnrtalize in 
 marble. She wears a wide nnmher seven, 
 and her instflp has not the Andalosian arch, 
 under whioh water may ilow. In point of 
 fact, Jemima ia fiat-footad. In no way does 
 the Bvmrnetry of her hoily correspond with 
 that of her mind. Still, it would have been 
 something to have had this lady riifer come. 
 If not the roue heraelf, ahe would at least for 
 a little have lived near that peerless flower ; 
 but the gods have spoken, or Aunt Samantha 
 has, which is much the same, and it may 
 never be. 
 
 Supper is over, the men hurry out, on 
 pleasure and pipes bent, not to return until 
 ten o'clock brings back the Hrst straggler 
 with virtuous thoughts of bed. 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins and her niece sit wearily 
 down amid the ruins of the feast, and brew 
 themselves a fresh jorum of tea. A plate of 
 hot, buttered toast is made, some ham is 
 cooked, 'which,' says Mrs. Hopkins, 'a bit 
 of br'iled ham is a tasty thing for tea. and, 
 next to a pickled eyester, a relish I'm un- 
 common partial to, I do assure you.' 
 
 And bath draw a long breath of great re- 
 lief as they take their first sip of the cup 
 that cheers. 
 
 'I'm that dead beat, Jim,' observes the 
 lady of the house, ' that I don't know wheth- 
 er I'm a sittin' on my head or my heels, 
 as true as you're born !' 
 
 At Mrs. Hopkins in a general way sits on 
 neither, this observation is difficult to an- 
 swer lucidly, so JemiraaAun takes a thought- 
 ful bite out of her toast, with her head plain- 
 tively on one side, and answers nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins is a tall, thin, worried-look- 
 ing woman, with more of her b »ny construc- 
 tion visible than is cousidtent with personal 
 baauty, and with more knowledge of her in* 
 ternal mechanism than is in any way com- 
 fortable, either for herself or Jemima Ann. 
 
 Mrs Hopkins is on terms of ghastly famili- 
 arity with her own liver, and lungs, and 
 spine, and stomach, and takes very 
 dismal views of these organs, and inHiots 
 the dreadful diagnosis on her long-suffering 
 niece. 
 
 * Aunt Hopkins,' says Jemima Ann, ' I'm 
 most awful sorry you didn't take in that 
 lady from Mr. Rogers. I should loved to a 
 ^n3wed her.' 
 
 ' Ah I I dare saj', so's you could spend 
 your time gaddin' up to her room, and losin' 
 your morals, and ruinin' your shoes. No, 
 you don't. She'd worrit my very life flfit. 
 not to speak of my legs and temper, in fwo 
 days. And a child, too — a play-actin' child I 
 What would we do with a child in this 
 house, I want to know, among twenty-six 
 
 foundry hands, and not time in it to say 
 ' Jrtok Robinson'— no, nor room neither '!" 
 
 Jemima Ann opens her lips toaHmit the 
 point of her knife, laden with orumb and 
 gravy, and to romark that she doesn't want 
 to say * Jack Robinson' — when the door- 
 bull Hharply and loudly rings. 
 
 ' There I' oriep Mrs Hopkins, exasperated. 
 ' I kiiowed it ! It's her aud him 1 D K>ae 
 take the man, he sticks just like a 
 burr ! Show em up to the front 
 room, Jim,' says her aunt, wrathfully, 
 adjusting her back hair, 'and tell 'em I'll 
 be there. But T ain't agoin' to stir neither,' 
 adds Mrs. Hopkins to herself, resuming her 
 toast, ' until I've staid my stomach.' 
 
 Jemima Ann springs up, breathless aud 
 radiant, and hastens to the door. 
 
 And 80, like one of her cherished heroines, 
 hastens, without knowing it, to her ' fate.' 
 For with the opening of the street door ou 
 this eventful evening of her most uneventful 
 life, there opens for poor, hard-worked 
 Jemima Ann the one romance of her exist- 
 ence, never quite to close again till that life's 
 end. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN WHICH WB MKET TWO PROFKSSIONAL 
 LADIES. 
 
 A gust of October wind, a dash of October 
 rain, a black October sky, the smilin>^ face of 
 a stout little n>an, waiting on the threshold — 
 these greet Jemima Ann as she opens the 
 door. A carriage stands jusi outside, its 
 twin lamps beaming redly in the blackness. 
 
 ' Ah, Miss Jemima^ eood evening t' says 
 this smiling apparition, ' although it is any- 
 thing but a good evening. A most uncom- 
 mon bad evening, I should nay, insteid. How 
 are you, and how is Aunt Hopkins, now that 
 the supper and the six and-twenty are off her 
 mind ? Aud is she in ? But of course she's 
 in,' cays Mr. Rogers, waiting for no answers. 
 ' Who would be out that could be in such a 
 night ? Just tell her I'm here, Jemima Ann 
 — come by appointmenc, you know ; and 
 there's a lady in the ha sk at the door, and a 
 little girl. You go and tell Mrs. Hopkins, 
 Jim, my dear, and I'll fetch the lady along 
 to the parlour. One pair front, isn't it T 
 Thanks 1 Don't mind me ; I know the 
 way.' 
 
 Evidently he does, aud stands not on the 
 order of his going. 
 
 'Run along, Jemimy,' he says, pleasantly, 
 'and call the aunty. I'll fetci? the lady up 
 stairs. Now, then, mademoiselle,' be calls 
 going to the door of the carriage ; ' it's all 
 right, and if you'll be kind enough to step in 
 
 out of the ri 
 
 stairs, please 
 
 this way.' 
 All this ti 
 
 and mouth 
 breathless in 
 Mr. Roger 
 Stars and S 
 street, assist 
 door, aud sa 
 a child in hi 
 ily up to tht 
 
 •This is 
 he says, soil 
 kins' select 
 men ' 
 
 * Faugh 
 disgustedly 
 smells of CO 
 the three 
 dinners cool 
 
 And inde 
 like odour 
 passages of 
 those unhai 
 prayers) aso 
 can always 
 in the kitch 
 'Mrs. H 
 dinner, for i 
 done it for 
 has left me 
 Mam'selle 
 with boiled 
 here, let mt 
 silver. Thi 
 And this i 
 niece, and 
 wart| younj 
 present you 
 -famous ban 
 er, of whon 
 Petite Maf 
 Mr. Ro2( 
 of a court 
 angel, and 
 and bowp, 
 laugh, and 
 a bewilden 
 beautiful h 
 Duch^'ss I 
 feels quite 
 anything I 
 her pathei 
 of a face, i 
 ing out of 
 fuse rippli 
 low on a 
 silk, that 
 seal jackc 
 laughing 
 
 * flower-fa 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 out of the rain, I'll carry Petite hero. Up 
 stairs, please. Wait a minute. Now, then, 
 this way.' 
 
 All this time, Jemima Aon e^'inds, eyes 
 and mouth ajar, looking, listb^iing with 
 breathloHS interest. 
 
 Mr. llogeri, gentlemanly proprietor of the 
 Stars and Stripes Hotel, further down the 
 street, assists a lady out of the chariot at the 
 door, and says, 'Come alona;, little un',' lifts 
 a child in his arms, and leads the way jaunt- 
 ily up to the 'one pair front.' 
 
 ' This is the place, Mademoiselle Mimi,' 
 he says, somewhat suddenly. 'Mrs. Hop- 
 kins' select boaiding-house for single gentle- 
 men.' 
 
 ' Faugh !' says Mademoiselle Mimi, curling 
 disgustedly an extremely pretty nose ; ' it 
 smells of corned beef and cabbage, and all 
 the three hundred and sixty-five nasty 
 dinners cooked in it the past year.' 
 
 And indeed a most anci'^nt and cabbage- 
 like odour does pervade the halls and 
 passages of thff Hotel Hopkins. It is one of 
 those unhappy houses in which smells (like 
 prayers) ascend, and the lodgers in the attic 
 can always tell to a tittle what is going ou 
 in the kitchen. 
 
 ' Mrs. Hopkins can get up a nice little 
 dinner, for all that,' says Mr. Rogers. ' She's 
 done it for me before now, \ihen the cook 
 has left me in the lurch. She'll do it for you, 
 Mam'selle Mimi. You won't be served 
 with boiled beef and cabbage while you're 
 here, let me tell you. And she's as clean as 
 silver. This is the parlour ; take a chair. 
 And this is Jemima Ann, Mrs. Hopkins' 
 niece, and the i.iol of six-and -twenty stal- 
 wart| young men, Jemimy, my love, let me 
 present you— Mademoiselle Mimi Trillon, the 
 iamouB bare-back ri ler and trapeze perform- 
 er, of whom all the world has heard, and La 
 Petite Mademoiselle Trillon. the younger.' 
 
 Mr. Rogers waves his hand with the grace 
 of a court chamberlain and the smile of an 
 aneel, and Mademoiselle Mimi Trillon laughs 
 and bowp. It is a musical, merry little 
 laufi;h, and the lady, Jemima Ann thinks, in 
 a bewildered way, is tho most brilliant and 
 beautiful her eyes have ever looked on. The 
 DuchosB Isoline herself was less fair 1 She 
 feels quite dazzled and dizzy for a moment, 
 anything beautiful or bright is so far outside 
 her pathetically ugly life. She is conscious 
 of a face, small, rather pale just now, look- 
 ing out of a coquettish little bonnet ; of pro- 
 fuse rippling hair of flaxen fairness waving 
 low on a low forehead ; of a dreos of dark 
 silk, that emits perfume as she moves ; of a 
 seal jacket ; of two large blue-bell eyes, 
 laughing out of the loveliness of that 
 ^ flower-face.' 
 
 ' Oh 1' she says, under her breath, and 
 stands and stares. 
 
 Mile. Mimi laughs again. Her teeth are 
 as nearly like ' pearls ' as it is in the nature 
 cf little white teeth to be. She can afford to 
 lauirh, and knows it. 
 
 ' Now. then, Jemimy !' cries the brisk 
 voice of Mr Rogers. *I know you are lost 
 in a trance of admiration. We all are, bless 
 you, when wo first meet Mam'selle Mimi. 
 Nevertheless, my dear girl, busiueds before 
 pleasure, and business has brought us here 
 to-night. Call your aunt, and let us get it 
 over.' 
 
 ' Here is Aunt Samanthy,' responds 
 Jemima : and at that moment enters unto 
 them Mrs. Hopkins, her 'stomach staid,' 
 and considerably humanized by the mellow- 
 ing influence of sundry cups of tea, and 
 (quantities of hot toast and broiled ham. 
 
 Mr. Rogers rises, receives her with effu* 
 sion, presents to her the Mesdemoiselles 
 Trillon, mother and daughter, and Mam'selle 
 Mimi holds out one gray -gloved hand, with 
 a charming smile, and says some obarniing 
 words of first greeting. 
 
 Jemima Ann watches in an agony of 
 suspense. She hopes — oh 1 she hopes Aunt 
 P'^mantha will not steel her heart and bolt 
 her front door against this radiant vision of 
 golden hair, and silk, and seal. 
 
 But Aunt Samautha is not impressionable. 
 Long years of foundry hands, of straggles 
 with her liver and other organs, of much 
 taxes and many butcher bills, have turned 
 ti bitterness her natural milk of human 
 kindness, and she casts a cold and disapprov* 
 ing glance on the blonde Mimi, 
 and bobs a stiff little courtesy, and 
 sits down severely on the extreme edge of a 
 ohair. 
 
 ' So sorry to intrude,' says the sweet 
 voice of Mile. Mimi, in coaxing accents, 
 ' dear Mrs. Hopkins, at this abnormal hour. 
 It is really quite too dreadful of me, I admit. 
 But what was I to do ? Mr. Rogers' hotel is 
 quite full, and evep if it were not, there are 
 reasons — a pause, a sigh, the blue bell eyes 
 cast a pathetic glance, first at her child, 
 th?n appealingly at Mr. Rogers, then more 
 appealiugly at frigid Mrs-. Hopkins — ' there 
 is a person at the hotel with whom I cannot 
 posaibly associate. £ am a mother, my dear 
 Mrs. Hopkins ; that dear child is my only 
 treasure. In my absence there woi^ld be no 
 one at the hotel to look after her. I can not 
 leave her to the tender mercies of the ladies 
 of our company. So I am here. You will 
 take compassion upon us, I am sure' — clasp* 
 ng the gray-gloved hands — * and afford us 
 ospitality during our brief stay in this town. 
 
 
 
 i 
 
LOiT FOR A WOMAN, 
 
 BnoM'hall, come h«re. Go direotly to thi« 
 nio« Utly, and Hay, ' How do you do ?' 
 
 ' Won't 1' HayH Mile. Trillou, the younger 
 —she II a young person uf thn;e or four 
 years — in th« pnttnpteMt way ; 'her'iinnta 
 niuH lady, kltyv'n a uarsy, naray lady !' 
 
 The child >• almost prettier than the 
 mother, if prettier were possible. 8he is a 
 duplicate in little rose and lily-8kin, Haxen 
 oarli, blue bell eyes, sweet little roay mouth, 
 that to look at is to long to kins. 
 
 A wil<l iiupulae in on Jemima Aim to 
 i atoh her up and smothor hor with kisses, 
 but aonitithing iii thti blue-bell eyt>H warned 
 her suuh liberties would not be safe. 
 
 ' For shame, you bad Snowball I' says 
 Mile. Mimi, shocked, while Mr. Rogerh 
 chuckles in appreciation of the joke, and Je- 
 mima Ann holds out a timid hand of ooncilia- 
 tiou, and smiles her most winning smile. 
 The turquoise eyes turn slowly, and scan her 
 with the Oauw, steadfast, terrible look of 
 ohildhood, from head to foot. Evilutitly 
 the result is unflatisfactory. 8he, too, is a 
 ' narsy lady.' The disdainful pprite lurnR 
 away with a little more of diadain, and at:indH 
 slim and sileut at Mr. Rogers' knee. For 
 Jemima Ann, she has fallen in luve at tirst 
 sight, and from that hour until the last of 
 her life is Mile. Soowbali's abject slave. 
 
 ' Now, don't you think you oan manage it, 
 Mrs. Hopkins?' says, Mr. Rodgcrs, suavely ; 
 there's such a lot of them at my place, and it 
 may be only for a week ; and. as Mimi says, 
 it is for the child's sake. It won't do to have 
 her running about wild, while mamma is 
 away at the circus, you know-r-eh, little 
 Snowball ? And here's our Jemima oan 
 keep an eye to her just as well as not, while 
 the other's on the dinner. Not a mite of 
 trouble, are you. Snowball T Quite a grown- 
 up young lady in every thing but feet and 
 inches. Come, Mrs. Hopkins, say yes.' 
 
 ' And I will not stay in the same house 
 with Madame Olympe !' exclaims, suddenly. 
 Mile. Mimi, her blue eyes emitting one quick, 
 ■harp, lurid flash. And here, at last, as it 
 dawns on Mrs. Hopkins, is the ' cat out of 
 the bag ;' the true reason of this late visit 
 and petition. In the circus company are 
 two leading ladies — Madame Olympe and 
 Mile. Mimi — and war to the knife has natural- 
 ly, from first to last, been their motto. They 
 are rivals in everything ; they disagree in 
 everything. They hate each other with a 
 heartiness and vim that border?, at times, on 
 frenzy I All that there 78 of the moat blonde 
 and sprightly is Mile. Mimi ; a brunette of 
 brunettes, dashing, dark, and dangerous, is 
 Madame Olympe. Mimi professes to be 
 French, and was ' raised ' in the back slums 
 of New York. Olympe is French — a soi 
 
 distant grisette of Mabille. Paris is written 
 on her face. And two tomcats on the tdts, 
 at <load of niuht, never fought for mastery 
 with tongue and claws as do the lovMly Mimi, 
 th«< superb Olympa. 
 
 * Ladies t ladies 1' the long sufTuring mana- 
 i<er is wont to remonstrate, on the vei^e of 
 bursting into tears, ' how can you, you know? 
 Yitur little hands were nevor made to tear 
 each other's eyes ! Upon my soul 1 wonder 
 at yon — French and uverytbiig tiH you ar«. 
 And I've al way heard the Freuch b' at the 
 d — 1 tor politunes!'. liut it ain't polite to call 
 oich other liars and huHBien, and ht-ave hair 
 bniahes at each other. Mow, I'm blest if it 
 is.' 
 
 All this time Mrs. Hopkins »its, upright, 
 grim, li^id, viituous, on the slippery edj^e of 
 her horue hair chair ; * No," written in capital 
 letters in her eye of stone, on her brow of 
 adamant, whensuJdenly, and most unexpeot* 
 edly, the child with the odd name coinefl t > 
 the re?i!ue. Snowball Hxes her azure uyes 
 on the fr-izen visage ; some fa ■'iii nation is for 
 her there surely, for out rippks all at once 
 the sweet tinkle of a ohilil'H merry laugh ; 
 uhe toddles over to her side, and slips her 
 roiseleaf hand into the hard old palm. 
 
 'Not a naray lady. 'Ni)ball likes you. 
 'Noballseepy. Kei wants to go to bed.' 
 
 ' BIqib your pretty little heurt ! ' exclaims 
 Mrs. Hopkins, involuntarily. Even Achilles, 
 it will be remembered, had a vulnerable spot 
 iu his heel. Whether Aunt Samauatha'a is 
 in her heels or in her heart, Snowball haF 
 found it. But then to find people's hearts 
 and keep them ia a tri 'k of Snowball's all 
 hor life long. 
 
 ' Seepy, seepy,' reiterates Snowball with 
 pretty imperiousness. ' Put 'Noball to bed. 
 Mamma, make her put 'Noball o bed.' 
 
 ' Yon must put us up, you see,' says mam- 
 ma. ' Come, aiy dear madam, it will be iu< 
 human to refuse. 
 
 It will. Mrs. Hopkins feels she cannot 
 say 'No,' and Mrs. jflopkins also feels bhe 
 will repent iu wrath and bitterness, saying 
 'Yes.' She casts one scathing glaice at se- 
 rene Mr. Rogers, and says, 'Well, yea, 
 then,' with the very worst grace in all the 
 world. 
 
 ' Oh, I'm awful glad ! ' cries out Jemima 
 Ann in the fulness of her heart. ' Oh, you 
 little darling, come to me, and let me get 
 you ready for bed. ' 
 
 • Go tc the nice, nice girl. Snowball,' says 
 Mile Mimi, 'and tell her you will have sotne 
 bread and milk and your hair brushed before 
 you go to sleep. Ever so many thanks, Mrs. 
 Hopkins, though tV"t yea bad rather an un- 
 cordial tone. Rogers," — she uses no prefix — 
 ' the trunks are coming by express : you 
 
 will find 
 Send then 
 ■upper to 
 •naok at t 
 aH soon 
 We'vn bei 
 tiroil. ' 
 
 A swift 
 Mile. Mill 
 Aro\)» froi 
 tone lias 
 of "uli^ari 
 fe«'l tiid 
 
 ' Malve 
 lounge ne 
 ' and don 
 is a p«rfe( 
 don't wai 
 cliil Iren. 
 you're ^ei 
 truly am 
 tell O'yni 
 she m ant 
 llnr m 
 down stai 
 geal-^kiii 
 piny its h 
 net, atret 
 her hostel 
 is fa^t asl 
 •Well, 
 iug a ton^ 
 honour, 
 Bever ! ' 
 
 • 'Noba 
 bed and 
 pliintivel 
 
 Jeiiiim: 
 yen; urea 
 
 • You d 
 
 have y"Ui 
 
 t ao miuu 
 
 never sav 
 
 my life !' 
 
 ' Land 
 the youn 
 ' Haiiiso 
 motto th 
 do> 8 han 
 nisht, R 
 sober thi 
 that for 1 
 get that 
 to lied 
 be'ore t 
 itt' here. 
 
 And HI 
 in for it 
 beat be 
 Snowbal 
 QuXf.n h« 
 drowsy 1 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 is written 
 the tilt*, 
 
 ely Miini, 
 
 iiiu; mana* 
 
 VtM^M of 
 
 ou know? 
 e to tear 
 
 I wonder 
 1 yoii arn. 
 
 i>i at the 
 ite to call 
 f-nvf hiiir 
 bleat if it 
 
 upright, 
 y ed^e «i 
 n capital 
 r brow of 
 inexpeot* 
 coineH t t 
 sure oyes 
 ion ia for 
 1 at once 
 y laugh ; 
 slips her 
 I. 
 
 ikes you. 
 b«d.' 
 exulaiina 
 Achiiles, 
 able spot 
 lathaV is 
 ball haF 
 9 hearts 
 ball's all 
 
 lall with 
 1 to bed. 
 3d.' 
 
 ys mam- 
 dl be iu< 
 
 ) cann<:t 
 eels bhe 
 I. saying 
 36 at se- 
 ll, yes, 
 all the 
 
 Jemima 
 
 Oh, you 
 
 me get 
 
 11,' says 
 ve 8om« 
 i before 
 18, Mrs. 
 * an UD- 
 prefix — 
 38 : you 
 
 
 will Hiid a vaii.^'^ and latchel in the cab. 
 Send thi-m up. I won't trouble you for 
 lupoer tonight, MrM. Hopkins ; we had n 
 •nauk at the hotel. Rut uet my n.'om re.idv 
 ax Hoon nn you can. There's a good rouI 
 We've been ou the go ill dav, and I'm dead 
 tired.' 
 
 A swift and subtle change hat come over 
 Milt). Mimi. Her pleading lady-like manner 
 drops from her as a gitrment ; her present 
 tone has an enHy rin(^ of command, % touch 
 of vulgarity, that, .Mrs. Hopkinn is quick to 
 fe< I kiid resent, but cantiot define. 
 
 ' .Make up n bed for Snowball nn a sofa or 
 lounge nt>ar mine,' she fays to Jemima Ann, 
 ' and don't let her have too much milk. She 
 is a perfect lictle pig for country milk, and I 
 don't want tier to get fat. I hate Habby 
 cliil Ireii. \nd I'll lie on this c 'oh while 
 you're getting my room ready, 1 really and 
 truly am tit to drop (}ood night, Rogers ; 
 tell O'ympp, with my coniplimunts, I hope 
 she in' auH to g.» to bed Hober this first niyht.' 
 
 liHr muiiiual laugh follows Mr. Kogtrs 
 down stairs. Then she glides out of her 
 leal-Bikin like a beautiful little serpent slip- 
 ping its nkin, thrown off the coquettish bon- 
 net, atretches herself on the sofa, and before 
 her hostesHi or niece are fairly out of the room 
 is fRAt asleep. 
 
 ' Wei), I never!" says Mr?. Hopk^s.draw* 
 ing a long breath. ' Upon my word and 
 honour, Jemima Ann, I do as&ure you I 
 Bever ! ' 
 
 ' 'Noball soepy, 'Noball hungry, want her 
 bed and milk, want to go to bed,' pipes 
 pliihtively the child. 
 
 Jemima gathers her up in her arms, and 
 venures to kiss the satin smooth cheek. 
 
 * You dear little pet, 'she says,' you shall 
 have yxur bread and milk, and go to bei in 
 t vo minute!'. Oh, ynu pretty little love ! I 
 never saw anything half so lovely as you in 
 my life !' 
 
 ' Land's sake, Jemimy Ann, don't spile 
 the young one 1' says, irritably, her aunt. 
 ' Hanioome is as handsome does, is a true 
 motto the world over, and if her or her mar 
 dot^B handsome, I'm a Dutchman. 'Good- 
 night, R:)i^ers, and tell Alimp, to go to bed 
 sober this first night ;' pretty soit o' talk 
 that for a tempffanoe boardin' house. There! 
 get that nUepy baby somethiu' and put her 
 to bed I'll go and Hx Miss Flyaway 's •■oom 
 before the men come in, and tind her sleep- 
 ilk' here, Hud make fooln of themselves." 
 
 And HO, atdl wrathfiiljand grumbling, but 
 in for it now, Mrs. Hopkins goeH to put her 
 beRt be'iroom id order. Jt^mima carries 
 Snowball down to the dining-room. The 
 fluXt^n head lies against her shoulder, the 
 drowsy lids sway over the sweet blue eyes. 
 
 the very lips are apart and dewy. Oh ! how 
 lovely she is, how lovily, how lovely, thinka 
 Jemima Ann, in a sort of ranture. Oh ! i( 
 xhe ponbl k^-eo this beautiful baby with 
 her for ever nnd 'ever !' 
 
 At Hight of the bread and milk '^no^ball 
 Wttkes up enough to partake of that refresh- 
 ment. But she sleepily declines conversa- 
 tion, and the pntty head sways as the long 
 light cm In are being braided, and her clothes 
 taken off, and she ih sound again, when 
 Jummia bears her tenderly 'ip to the little 
 extempore bed Aunt Samantha has prepared. 
 She Rtands and gazes at her in a rapture at 
 she sleeps. 
 
 * She 1 »oks like a duchess' daughter f 
 She li.wks like on angel Aunt Sanianthy T 
 she sayB, under her breath. 
 
 ' Ves I' cries Aunt Samantha, in bitter 
 scum. * I never see an angel — no more did 
 you. An<l if you did, I don't believe they'd 
 a nd at a circns. Now g<» down and shake 
 up t'other angel in the parlour, and tell her 
 she can tumble into bed as soon as she likes. 
 And mark my words, Jemima Ann,' oon- 
 clu.len Mrn. Hopkins, solemnly prophetic, 
 * that woman will give us trouble, such as 
 wo ain't had in many a long day, before 
 we're rid of her 1" 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 IN WHICH WE GO TO TUB CIRCUS. 
 
 It is the evening of another day ; crisp, 
 clear, cool. The town-hall has tolled seven, 
 and all the town, in its Sunday best, is troop- 
 ing gayly to the great common on the out- 
 skirts, where the huge circus tent isereced, 
 vvlitsre dags fly, and drums beat, and brass 
 instruments blare, and great doings, will be 
 done to night. 
 
 A great rope stretches from the centre of 
 the common to the top of the tent, quite a 
 giddy height, and the celebrated tigfit-rope 
 dan-jer, Mile. Mimi, is to walk up this before 
 the performance, giving gratis a taste of her 
 qualities to an admiring woi Id. 
 
 Other outward and vi>»ible signs of the in- 
 ward and tobe-paid-for gruels going on 
 within, are there aH well. Every dead wall, 
 every tenoe all over the town, is placarded 
 with huge posters, anoouDCing in lt»fty let- 
 ters of gorgeous colours, the wonderful 
 doings to be beheld for the small sum of 
 fifty cents, children half pi ice, clergymen 
 free ! 
 
 Pictures of all the animals, whsee aucea- 
 tora came over in the Ark with Noah and 
 family, together with portraits of the un- 
 paralleled Dauehter of the Desert, Madame 
 Olympe, on her fiery steed Whirlwiu i, of the 
 
 
 
10 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 daring and fearless tiapezist and tightrope 
 dancer. Mile. Mimi, direct from Pa'-is, of the 
 little Fairy Queen, Snowball, who is to be 
 borne aloft in one hand by the Bounding 
 Brothers of Bohemia, in the thrilUng one-act 
 drama of the 'Peruvian Princess.' 
 
 The portraits of the rival stars attract 
 much admiration and comment— in rather a 
 coarse and highly-coloured state of art, it 
 must be admitted, but sweetly pretty and 
 simpering all the same, displaying a great 
 redundancy of salmon-coloured bust and 
 arms, and pronounced by those who have 
 seen the fair origin'^ls, speaking likenesses. 
 
 And now all t'.ie town is to see them, 
 the chariot races, the Bounding Brothers, 
 the Fairy Queen, the Daughter of the 
 Desert, the clown, and the rest of the 
 menagerie. 
 
 It is a crisp, cool, fresh, yellow twilight; 
 the world looks clean and well washed, 
 after last night's rain. The sky is tur- 
 quoise blue, there is a comfortable little new 
 moou smiling down, as if it, too, had 
 come out expressly to go to the circus. 
 
 Everybody is in fine spirits, there is much 
 laughter and good-humoured chaffing, the-? 
 •re troops and tvoops of children — children 
 of a larger growth, too, who aflfect to treat 
 the whole affiir with off-hand, good-natured 
 contempt — only came to look after the young 
 oner, you know — old boys and girls, who in 
 their secret souls are as keen for the sport as 
 any nine-year old of them all. 
 
 An immense throng is gathered on the 
 common, watching with beating hearts and 
 bated breath, for their first taste of rapture, 
 the free sight of Allle. Mimi walking up the 
 rope. And amid this throng, in her Sunday 
 * things' quite ' of a tremble' with joyous ex- 
 pectancy stajids Jemima Ann, waiting with 
 tie deepest interest of all f )r the first glimpse 
 in her public capacity of the fair performer 
 she has the honour of knowing in private 
 life. 
 
 The band stands at ease giving tbo public 
 tantalizing lifrtle tastes of its o^uality, work- 
 ing up the suspense of small boys to an 
 agonizing pi ch, laughing and talking to one 
 another, as if this magical sort of thing were 
 quite every-day life to them, when suddenly 
 everybody is galvanized, every neck is 
 strained, an indescribable murmur and rush 
 goes through the crow . : ' 01, hush 1 Here 
 she is 1 Oh, my ! isn't she lovely I Oh-h-h I' 
 it is along-drawn, rapturous breath. 
 
 A vision has appeared — j? vision all gold 
 and glitter, all gauze and spangles, all rosy, 
 floating skirts, a little flag in each hand, 
 "bare white arms, streaming yellow curls, 
 twinkling pink feet, rosy smiling face 1 The 
 band strikes up a spirited strain, and up, and 
 
 up, nnd up floats the fairy in rose and 
 spangles. 
 
 Every throat stretches, every eye follows, 
 every breath seems suspended, every mouth is 
 agape. Profound stillness reigns. And up, 
 and up, and up still floats the rose-pink 
 vision ; and no\»' she stands on the dizzy 
 top, a pink star against the blue sky, waving 
 her flags, and kissing hands to the breathless 
 crowd below. Now she is descending slow- 
 ly. Slowly, and slowly plays the band, and 
 the tension is painful to all these good, sim- 
 ple souIp, 
 
 A sort of involuntary gasp goes through 
 them as with a light buoyant bound she is 
 on terra flrma, bowing right and left, and 
 vanishing into the tent like the fairy she is. 
 
 ' Oh-h-h I wasn't it lovely I Oh, ma, she 
 is jdst too sweet for anything. Oh, pa, do 
 let us harry in and get a good seat. Was it 
 Olympe? No, it wasn't, it was the other 
 one, Mamzol Mimi. Oh, I'm being scrooged 
 to death. Pa, do let us hurry in — don't you 
 see everybody is going I' 
 
 Jemima Auu goes with .the rest. It is the 
 rarest of rare things for her to be off duty, 
 but Aunt Samantha has relented for once, 
 and her niece is here, fairly palpitating with 
 expectant rapture. 
 
 All the boarders, washed and shining with 
 ^ood humour,much friction, and yellowsoap, 
 in brav^ array muster strong, and kindly 
 little Mr. Doolittle has meekly presented 
 * Miss Jim ' with a ticket. So she is swept 
 onward and inward, with the crowd into «he 
 great canvas arena, and presently flnds her- 
 self perched on an exquisitely uncomfortable 
 shelf, her knees on a level with her chin, 
 gazing with awe at the vast sawdust ring 
 and the red curtain beyond, whence it is 
 whispered the performers will presently 
 emerge. 
 
 Tuen she glances about her — yes, there are 
 the boarders, ther- is Mr. Rogers, there is 
 the butcher and his family, there is the 
 undertaker and his wife, there is the family 
 grocer and his seven sons and daughters, 
 there are quite numbers of ladies and gentle- 
 men she knows. And ail over the place 
 there are swarms of children, childr n be^ 
 yond any possibility of computation. A 
 smell of sawdust and orange-peel, a pervad- 
 ing sense of hilarity and peanuts is in the 
 atmosphere, the band plays as if it would 
 burst itself with enthusiasm, and the evening 
 performance triumphantly begins. 
 
 Long after this festive uight, Jemima Ann 
 tries to recall, dispassionately, all she has 
 seen in this her first glimpse of wonderland, 
 but it is all so splendid, so rapid, so be- 
 wildering to a mind used only to under* 
 ground kitchens, and the society of black 
 
LOST FOR A WOMA^. 
 
 ll 
 
 ia rose and 
 
 •y eye follows, 
 every mouth is 
 ;n8. And up, 
 the rose-pink 
 on the dizzy 
 e sky, waving 
 the breathless 
 cendiDg slow- 
 ;he band, and 
 3Be good, sim> 
 
 goes through 
 
 bouud she is 
 
 and left, and 
 
 i fairy she is. 
 
 Oh, ma, she 
 
 Oh, pa, do 
 
 Beat. Was it 
 
 'AS the other 
 
 eing sorooged 
 
 in — don't you 
 
 3st. It is the 
 
 be off duty, 
 
 bed for once, 
 
 pitating with 
 
 shining with 
 1 yellow soap, 
 I and kindly 
 ly presented 
 
 she is swept 
 rowd into «he 
 tly finds her* 
 noomfortable 
 th her chin, 
 lawdust ring 
 ivhence it is 
 ill presently 
 
 yes, there are 
 gers, there is 
 there is the 
 is the family 
 i dauijhters, 
 s and geutle- 
 it the place 
 childr n be*' 
 jutatioD. A 
 el, a pervad- 
 ats is in the 
 
 if it would 
 i the evening 
 s. 
 Jemima Ann 
 
 all she has 
 wonderland, 
 apid, 80 be- 
 y to under- 
 ity of black 
 
 beetles, and blacker foundry hands, that 
 her dazzled brain fails to grasp it with any 
 coherence. There are horses — good cracious 
 — such horses as one could hardly imagine 
 existed out of the Arabian Nights ; horses 
 that dance polkaa and jigs, that put the 
 4'kettle on, that listen to the clown, and 
 understood every word he said, horses that 
 laughed, horses that made courtesies to the 
 audience, horses that stood on their hiod 
 legs, that knelt down, that jumped through 
 hoops and over banners. Jemima Ann 
 would not have been surprised to see a peg 
 turned in their side, and behold them 
 spread their wings and soar to the ceiling. 
 Only they didn't And then the clown, 
 with his startling, curious, and white 
 visage, his huge, grinning mouth, and 
 amazing nose, his funny dress, and funnier 
 retorts to the exasperated ring-master — 
 Jemima Ann nearly died of laughing at him 
 Only to hear his jovial ' Here we are again ! ' 
 was worth the whole fifty cents ; so said 
 the good people about her, laughing till 
 they cried, and so with all her heart, said 
 Jemima Ann. 
 
 But this was only a little of it. When 
 Mile. Mimi appeared, more gauzy, more 
 spangly, more lovely even than outside, 
 careening round and round, ou four fiery 
 bare-backed steeds, in that breathless man- 
 ner that yonr head swam, and yourrespira- 
 tion came in gasps, then the enthusiasm rose 
 to fever heat, if you like. They shouted, 
 they stamped, they applauded the very knobs 
 off their walking-sticks, and Jemima Ann, 
 faint with bliss, shuus her eyes for a moment, 
 and feels she is in the mad vortex of high 
 life at last, feels that she is living a chapter 
 out of one of her weekly * dreadfuls. ' How 
 <beautiful Mimi locks, as she sweeps by, 
 smiling, painted, radiant. And now — it is a 
 moment never to be forgotten — Mimi sees 
 her, smiles at her — yes, in full tilt pauses to 
 smile at her, and throw her a kiss from her 
 finger tips. All heads turn, all eyes Hx won- 
 deringly, enviously, on the crimson visage of 
 Jemima Ann. 
 
 ' Do you know her ?' asks in a tone of awe, 
 those nearest, and Jemima Ann glows f and 
 responds : 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 It is a proud moment ; it is a case of ' great- 
 mess thrust.' People scan her as she sits, 
 and wonder if perchance she too is not a pro- 
 fessional lady taking her fifty cents' worth 
 here for a change, among the common herd. 
 
 Madame Olympe comes as the daughter of 
 the desert, a big, handsome, bold brunette, 
 ^ith flashing eyes and raven locks. These 
 same raven looks, together with a brief al. 
 lowanoe of cloth of gold, and bullion fringe 
 
 and a pair of tinkling anklets, comprise 
 nearly all she has about her in the way 
 of costume. She ia d'- tinctly indecent ; the 
 virtuous maids and matrons blu&h in their 
 secret souls, and feel that this is worse, very 
 much worse, than thd pink gauze. And 
 though the Daughter of the Desert seemn to 
 tly through the air, and does some wonder- 
 ful things, she is coldly received, and the 
 audience break into a laugh when a forward 
 small boy suggests that before she does any 
 more she'd better go in and put something 
 on, else maybe she'll ketch a cold in her 
 head. It is felt as a relief when she does go, 
 and the Bounding Brothers take her place. 
 One, in the dress of an Indian chief, all fea- 
 thers, beads, and scarlet cloth, mikes a raid 
 on the territory of another, the Prince of 
 Peru, captures the child of that potentate, 
 and rides at break-neck speed with her held 
 aloft in one hand in triumph. And Jemima 
 Ann gasps painfully, for it is little Snowball, 
 all in white, her long fair curls floating, her 
 rose-bud lips smiling, the tiny creature 
 stands erect, and is whirled round and round 
 by iae Indian chief. She kisses her baby 
 hand, she smiles her sweet baby smile, her 
 dnuntless blue eyes wander over the house. 
 If she should fall. Jemima Ann shuts her eyes, 
 sick with the thought, and does not look up 
 Again, until after a free fight, and a great deal 
 of shooting with bows and arrows, the 
 princess is recaptured, and the Bounding 
 Brothers bound out of sigiit. 
 
 Mile. Mimi on the trapeze winds up the 
 performance. Her agility, her strength, her 
 daring, here, are something to marvel at. 
 Her springs from one swinging bar to another, 
 look perilous in the extreme. It is wond- 
 erful where, in that slight, graceful frame, 
 these delicate hands and wrists, all 
 that steel-like strength of muscle can 
 lie. Tnis also Jemima feels to he more pain- 
 ful than pleasant — it is a reliief when it is 
 over, and though it had been an evening of 
 much bliss and great excitement, it is some- 
 thing of a relief to rise and stretch one's 
 ciamped limbs, and breathe the co'il f esh 
 night air, and see the sparkling frosty stars. 
 Too much pleasure palls, Jen^ima Ann's head 
 swims with so much merry-go-round— she 
 will be glad to get back to the cool attic 
 and flock niattrass and think over at her 
 leisure how happy she has beer. 
 
 ' I wonder what time Mile. Mimi and 
 that dear little SuowbaU will get home ? ' 
 she muses ; * the dear little love ought to 
 be fit to drop with tiredness. No wonder 
 her ma wanted some supper, I wish Aunt 
 Samanthy hadn't been so cross.' 
 
 A vivid remembrance of the scene of 
 that afternoon fliwhes through her mind, 
 
 
 
12 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 as ahe trudges homu through the quiet 
 streets. Mile. Mimi juttt back from rehearsal, 
 ■he aud Auut >)Am>iuilia busy|in the kitchen, 
 iSnovirbaU tripping abous, makiog pretty 
 baby questions — a swish of silk, a watt of 
 strong perfume, and Mimi, bright in silk 
 and velvet, laue and juvveileiy preneua her- 
 self. 
 
 ' How nice and hot it is here,' she says, 
 coming in with a shiver ; ' the vest of the 
 house is as cold as a barn. Why don't you 
 have a fire in your parlour this October 
 breather, Mrs. Hopkins? And how good you 
 smell 1 ' finiliing the warm air, and seating 
 herself in front of the glowing stove. 
 ' What are you cooking, Jemima Ann ? ' 
 
 'Johnuy-uake and ginger bread for the 
 men's teas,' responds modestly, Jemima 
 a pan of each. Tne mea like 'em. 
 
 Ann; 
 
 ' Do they ? ' says Mimi, laughing, 
 ' Wtiat nice, innocent sort of men yours 
 must be, my dear, judging by their foud ! 
 I should not like ginger- bread and the 
 other thing. Apropos, though (no. Snow* 
 ball, I don't want you ; run awa> ), I 
 should like a hot supper when I come Oack 
 to>iiight. I am always tired, and hungry as 
 a hunter, I always have a hot supper ; cold 
 things make me dyspeptic. Will you see to 
 it, Jemima Ann V 
 
 Jeuuiua Ann glances apprehensively at 
 Auut Samuntha. Aunt Saaiauthe draws up 
 her mouth like the mouth of a purse, and 
 stands ominously silent. 
 
 * What time would you like it ?' timidly 
 Teuturea Jemima Ann. 
 
 ' Oh, about eleven ; I shall not be later 
 than that. Nothing very elaborate, yo'i know 
 —just a fowl, a chicken or duck, ma»hfd po- 
 tat ea, one sweec and one savory. Cotfee, of 
 course, as strong as you like, and cream if it 
 is to be had for love or money. Something 
 simple like that ! And I shall need some 
 boiliug water fur pun— well, I shall need it. 
 I may briug a fneud home to supper. I hale 
 eating alone, so lay covers for two. Don't 
 Serve it lu that big, dismal place you call the 
 diuing-room ; let un have it ooziiy in the 
 parlour. And do lij^Ut a tire , your black 
 grate is enough to 8en<l a chill to The marrow 
 of one's boutrs. Snowball will not sit up, 
 of course. You will put her to bed as soon 
 as sue conies home. You will not forget any- 
 thing, will you, Jemima Ann ?' 
 
 Jemima Ana is too paralyzed to answer ; 
 Mis. llopkiua is literary petrified with indig- 
 nation. Oi.ly for a moment, though ; then 
 she tmea the audacious Mimi, her eyes fldsh- 
 iug, iter face peony red, her hands on her 
 hiprt, war and dffiauu| in every snorting 
 word. 
 
 ' So ! this is all, 'em, is it ? Jest some. 
 
 thin' simple and easy, like that ! And at 
 eleven o'clock at night ! Wouldn't you like 
 a soup, and fish, and oysters, ma'am, and a- 
 side dish and Charley Roose, and ice-cream, 
 and strawberries to top the lot. Why, bang 
 your impidence 1' cries Mr^. Hopkins, wax- 
 ing suddenly from the bitterly sardonic to 
 the furiously wrathful — * what do you think 
 we are ? You come here and fairly force 
 yourself on a reapectable bouse, and try to 
 begin your scandalous goin's on before you're 
 twenty four hours in it. But I'll see you 
 furder first, 'em, and Rogers, too, I co assure 
 you. No friends are let in this house,' s>iys 
 Mrs. Hopkins, with vindictive emphaaiPy. 
 * after ten o'clock at night — no, not for 
 Queen Victorious, if she begged it on her 
 bended knees.' 
 
 Mile. Mimi, toasting her little high-heeled 
 French shoes before the fire, turns coolly^ 
 and listens, first in surprise, then in amuse- 
 ment, Cu this tiraiie. 
 
 * My good soul,' she says, calmly, ' don't 
 lose your temper. You'll hare a fit 
 of some kind, and go off like a 8hui>, 
 if you go on like that. And what do 
 you mean by scandalous proceedings ? 
 You really ought to bo careful in your 
 talk — people get taken up sometimes for ac« 
 tiooable language. It is not scandalous to 
 eat a late supper, is it? I am a veiy 
 proper persou, my dear Mrs. Hopkins, and 
 never scandalize anyboily. If I can't have 
 supper here, I will have it elsewhere it is 
 much the same to me. You will give me a 
 latch-key, I suppose — or do you allow such 
 a demoralizing thing to your artless black 
 lambkins ? Or would you prefer hitting up 
 for me ? I like to be obliging, and I will be 
 back by one.' 
 
 ' Miss Mimi.' begins Mrs. Hopkins, ' if 
 that's your name,' — Muni laugh — 'this 
 house ain't no place for the likes of you.* 
 Miss M mi glances disdainfully about, and 
 shrugs her shoulders. ' It's a homely place, 
 and we're homely people.' Mimi laughs 
 »gain, and glances amusedly from the hot 
 and angry face of the aunt, to the flushed 
 and distressed face of the niece — a gl»nce 
 that says, * I agree with you.' • Your ways 
 ain't our ways'— (' No. thank Heaven?" says 
 Mimi, sotto' voce) — 'and so the sooner we 
 part, the better, I do assure you. You'll 
 jest be good enough,' ma'am, to take your* 
 self, and your traps, and your little girl, t»ut 
 of this as soon as you like— and the sooner 
 the better, I do assure you.' 
 
 Mimi looks at h — . There is a laugh still 
 on her rose-red mouth ; there is a laughing 
 light in her blue eyes ; but there is a laugh- 
 ing devil in them, too. 
 
 ' My good creature,' she says, slowly^ 
 
 * you labo 
 and yon 
 take me 
 paid you 
 power oi 
 hospitabl 
 And I wi 
 I will in 
 return at 
 on me at 
 no ! don'l 
 «onveniei 
 breaks ol 
 ment at 
 and risei 
 the sooni 
 better, 
 Mrs. Ho 
 gingercal 
 some of 
 me curl ' 
 It is tl 
 -experien( 
 trepid ch 
 most af ri 
 does bhe 
 xvith a b 
 and eye 
 No fit en 
 breath, 
 globe ! ' 
 has been 
 secret so 
 She 8 
 starlit ni 
 man wai 
 soured a 
 tude anr 
 the boar 
 euthusia 
 lag Mil 
 doubt, a 
 the girl 
 have a 
 Mimi. 
 They fe( 
 fleet glc 
 Samantl 
 declines 
 the bril 
 more sn 
 Jemima 
 
 •III 
 root,' is 
 she brii 
 house: i 
 kins.' 
 
 The( 
 Mimi s< 
 circus t 
 Jemin«i 
 pets hei 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 18 
 
 * yon labour under a mistake. I will not go, 
 and you shall not make me. You agreed to 
 take me in the presence uf witnesses. I have 
 paid >ou a week's board in advauc*', and no 
 power on earth will move me out of this 
 hospitable mansion until it suits me to go. 
 And I will keep what hours I please. And 
 I will invite what friends I like. I shall 
 return at one, and you shall shut your doors 
 on me at your peril. And I will see you — 
 no ! don't cry out before you are hurt — in- 
 convenienced ia the word I will use,' she 
 breaks off, laughing aloud in genuine amuse- 
 ment at the horror ii the face of her hostess, 
 and rises gracefully. ' Now, Jemima Ann, 
 the sooner you bring me up some tea the 
 better, I do assure you,' mimicking per ectly 
 Mrs. Hopkins' nasal tones ; ' and if your 
 gingercake is very good, vou may bring me 
 some of that, too. Come, Snowball, and let 
 me curl your hair.' 
 
 It is the first time in all her seven years' 
 -experience that Jemima Ann has seen her in* 
 trepid chieftainness taken down. She is al- 
 most afraid to look at her ; but when she 
 does bhe tinds her gazing after her enemy 
 Tvith a blank and stony stare, and rigid lips 
 and eyeballs, alarmingly RU^'gestive uf fits ! 
 No fit ensues, however. Tnere is a gasping 
 breath, a stifled, 'Well, this does cap the 
 globe ! ' and then silence. Aunt Samantha 
 has been routed with slaughter, and in her 
 secret soul Jemima Ann rt-juices. 
 
 She eofcS home now, through the crisp, 
 starlit night, and finds her stormy kinswo 
 man waiting up with a tongue and temper 
 soured and sharpened by long hours of soli- 
 tude and stocking darning. She is first, but 
 the boarders follow cloBely,noisy,hungry,and 
 enthusiastic in their loud praises of the charm- 
 lag Mimi. Olympe is a fine woman, no 
 doubt, and not stingy of herself, but Mimi's 
 the girl for their money. And thus th'ay 
 have a proud f«)e]ing of proprietorship in 
 Mimi. She is one of the family, so to speak. 
 They feel that her beauty and success re- 
 flect glory on the bouse of Hopkins. Aunt 
 Samantha listens to it all with grim scorn ; 
 declines snappishly to be ent:ertained with 
 the brilliant doings of the night ; declines 
 more snappishly to go to bed, and leave her, 
 Jeminaa Ann, to wait up for Mile. Mimi. 
 
 * I'll see it out, if I sit here till I teke 
 roov,' is her grim ultimatum. ' I'll see that 
 she brings no troUopin' characters into this 
 bouse: so, hold your jaw, Jemima Ann Hop 
 ikina.' 
 
 The door-bell rings aa she speaks. Is it 
 Mimi so soon 7 No, it is a man from the 
 oirons with little Snowball, sleepy and tired, 
 Jemin>a Ann takes her tenderly, kisses and 
 fwia her, ondraiMes and puta her to bed. It 
 
 is midnight, and still Mimi is not here. 
 Grimmer and grimmer grows the rigid face 
 of Aunt Samantha, colder and colder grows 
 the night, drearier and drearier looks the 
 kitchen, quieter and more quiet seems the 
 lonesome midnight btreets. One. Halt past — 
 with her arms on the table, her face lying on 
 theirs, sleep as a garment drops on Jemima, 
 when, once more, sharp, loud, startling the 
 door- bell rings. 
 
 ' It's her !' cries Jemima Ann; and springs 
 up, • for which, Oh ! be joyful.' 
 
 She runs up stairs. Aunt Samantha fol- 
 lows. Outsitie there are vuiceH, one the voiceof 
 a man, and loud laughter. The key is turn- 
 ed, the door is opened, Mimi stands before 
 them She comes in laughing aunt and 
 niece fall back. What isthetnatter ? Herfair 
 face is fiushed, her blue eyes glascy, there is 
 a smell, strong, Bul>tle, spiritous. In horror 
 the truth dawns upon them — she is— (it is 
 the phrabe of Jemima Ann) — 'she is tij^nt !' 
 
 Tney fall back. Even Aunt Samantha, 
 prepared for the worst, is not prt pared for 
 this, iihe is absolutely dumb! Mile. Mimi 
 laugh in their faces — a tipsy laugu. 
 
 'Car lamp up stairs, 'Mimy Ann,' she 
 says, indistinctly, *sor' to keep you up. 
 Miss Hopkins. Goo'ui^ht.' 
 
 Id (lead silence Mis. Hopkins falls back, 
 in dead tilence Jemima Ann obeys — words 
 fail them both. She precedes Mimi to her 
 room, where eweet little Snowball sleeps, 
 pure and peaceful, sets the lamp in a place 
 of safety, sees their hoarder fling o^ hat and 
 jacket, and throw herself, dressed as she is 
 on the bed, too far gone even to undress ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHICH EECOKDS THE DARK DOINGS OF MLLE. 
 MIMI. 
 
 'Cold chicking,' says Jemima Ann — 'that's 
 one, buttered shortcake— that's two, cran- 
 berry sass— that's three, and frizzled beef 
 
 that's four. Yes, four. I've got 'em all. 
 And tea— that's five. There ain't nothin' 
 the matter with her appetite, whatever there 
 may be with her morals.' 
 
 The antecedent of this personal pronoun 
 is, of course, M.lle. Mimi, and Jemima Ann 
 is busily engaged arranging her supper on a 
 tray. Up in the parlour, in a pale-blue 
 negligee, and looking more or less like an 
 angAl, with her floating, untidy, fair hair, 
 Mimi is yawning over a fashion magaiine, 
 and listening to the prattle of her small 
 daughter. 
 
 ' Enter Jemima Ann I' she ories, gayly, 
 springing up, 'laden with the fruits of the 
 earth. Snowball and I were begining to 
 
 
 ;1 
 
14 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 think that you had forgotten ua. And where 
 is the precious auntie, my Jemima, and ia 
 ■he as far goae as ever, in blackest sulks ?' 
 
 It is the afternoon succeediog that night, 
 and no thundercloud ever gloomed more 
 darkly than does the countenance of Mr?. 
 Hopkins whenever it turns upon her audaci- 
 oua boarder. 
 
 ' She is feeling dreadful bad, Miss Mimi,' 
 responds Mrs. Hopkiu'a niece, gravely, ' and 
 no wonder. You really hadn't ought to 
 done it.' 
 
 Mimi laughs, with genuine, unaffected 
 amuaument, and pinchea Jemima Ann's 
 hard, red cheek, in passing. 
 
 ' I really haun't ought to done it ! Dew 
 tell ! Here, Snowball, come on — here's a 
 lovely bit of chicken for you. Weil, now, 
 Jemima Aan, I admit I did imbibe a 
 little too freely last night, but what 
 wdl you ? I was dead beat, I was warm 
 and aching with fatigue, and Lacy'a (Jlic- 
 quoG WAS the very best, and iced to per- 
 fection. Did you ever drink iced cham- 
 pagne, my poor Jemima ? Ah ! the wine of 
 lite 18 not fur such as you. If I had to ex- 
 change places with you, and grub down in 
 that abominable kitchen among pots and 
 paud, and wait on dirty, oily fouudrymen, 
 auti be girded at by that virago, your aunt, 
 I would simply cut my throat in a week, 
 and ot two evils think it the least ' 
 
 ' Aunt ain't a bad sort. Please don't 
 abuse ber,' returned Jemima, still gravely, 
 ' her bark ia worse than her bite. Who is 
 Lacy. Miss Mimi ?' 
 
 i'ue hrst shyness of new acquaintance is 
 over, Mimi ia a tree^and-easy, lonch-and-go 
 Burt of peraon, easy to grow familiar with, 
 and Miss Hupkina has her full share of fem- 
 inine curiosity. 
 
 ' Is be that aristocratic-looking gent, with 
 the raven black mustache and diamond atuda 
 a stoppin' at tbe Waabiugton House ?' asks 
 J.miina, in cnnsideri* ble awe, as she assiB.s 
 Snowball to milk anti short-cake. 
 
 'Dyed, Jemima— dyed, my dear,' laughs 
 Mimi; 'that mustache gets mangy some- 
 times and purple. But the studs are real, 
 ana he is rich enough to wear a whole 
 diamond shirt front, it he choose. Yes, my 
 Jemima, 'tis he I the gent at the Washing- 
 ton , and a very swell young man he is ! 
 And be is dead in love with me ; but this is 
 a s&jret, mind,' and Mimi laughs again at 
 tbe simple, puzzled face of Miss Hopkins. 
 ' Hd is down here from New York, wasting 
 his sweetness ia Claugville air, for me and 
 for me aioue. I might be Mrs. L» ly to-mor<- 
 row, my Jemima, if I otaose.' 
 
 ' Aud you don't choose ?' 
 
 ' No, 1 don't. I have had enough of m«i 
 
 and matrimony. They're a mistake, Jemima. 
 The game isn't worth the candle. No 1' her 
 face sets and darkens suddenly, ' at the very 
 best, ic's not worth it.' 
 
 ' Are — are you a widow ?' Jemima Ann 
 ventures, timidly. , 
 
 There is no reply : Mimi is carving her 
 chicken with a certain vicioua energy, and 
 all the laughing light has vanished from her 
 insouciant face. 
 
 •A widow,' she says, impatiently. 'Oh, 
 yes, of course I'm a widow — Rogers told you 
 that, didn't he ? Snowball, don't choke 
 yourself with that chicken wing. You little 
 srourmand. Take her aM'ay from the table^ 
 Jemima Ann ; she's had enough.' 
 
 ' Wasn't had 'nuff,' cries out Snowball, 
 Itstily, clingiog to her plate with both 
 hands : ' s'ant eo. Noball wants more sort- 
 cake' Mimmy Ann. 
 
 ' Oh, let her have some more,' says Jemi- 
 ma. ' The dear little pet ia hungry.' 
 
 ' The dear little pet will be as fat as a 
 dear little pig, directly, under your injudici* 
 ous indulgeuce, Miss Hopkins. No, Snow- 
 ball, not another morsel, and no more milk. 
 Leave the table this moment ; you ought to 
 know by now that what mamdia says she 
 me; '18.' 
 
 She rises and bears Snowball bodily from 
 the victuals. Aud straightway Suowball 
 opens her mouth, and there rises to heaven 
 such a shriek, as it ia to be hoped few child- 
 ren have the lungs and temper to emit. 
 
 * Tnere ! ' saya Mimi, composedly, 'that is 
 the sort of angelic diapnsition your dear lit- 
 tie pet is blessed with, Jemima. Please open 
 the window if 3he doesn't stop this instant, 
 aud throw her out 1 ' 
 
 Jemima Ann declines to act on this sum- 
 mary hint. She soothes the enraged child 
 instead, and surreptiously conveys to her a 
 central land wedge of short-cake. 
 
 ' What an odd name you have given her,' 
 she remarks, clearing away the things ; ' she 
 never was christened Snowball, was she ? 
 Thab'i not a Christian name. ' 
 
 ' She never was christened anything, my 
 good Jemima,' responds her mother with a 
 shrug. What is the use of christening ? She 
 was a little white. roly>p(dy baby ; white 
 hair, white skin, white clothes so her father 
 used to toss her up and oa 1 her his snow- 
 bird, his snowflake, his snowball, and all 
 sorts of silly, snowy names. As she had to 
 be called something. Snowball it finally came 
 to be, and Snowball I suppose it always will 
 be now. It suits the liltl^ white monkey as 
 well as anythinrr else. Pearl or Lily would 
 be more sensimental, bat I don't profess to 
 be a sentimental person myself. I leave 
 
 that for 
 Snow ! ' 
 
 The dot 
 
 ' Samai 
 you here' 
 
 The pie 
 face, and 
 matron al 
 the door, 
 around. 
 
 •Why 
 Ann, 'is 
 Aunt San 
 Do come 
 wautin' t( 
 the cotta^ 
 
 'How c 
 smiling re 
 perhaps I 
 
 She sto 
 on Snowb 
 die on he 
 
 A start 
 startled p; 
 breathlei^s 
 who has r( 
 
 •Uhl' 
 manners, 
 Mrc. Tink 
 that boarc 
 
 Mimi SI 
 teeth, and 
 
 Mra. Ti 
 and Strang 
 fallen upo 
 sort of pi 
 her eyebrc 
 
 ' Upon 
 nice mot! 
 Ann?' 
 
 Jemima 
 The elder) 
 pale as w 
 her heart. 
 Goodn 
 ' Whatevi 
 
 ♦Oh m 
 had a turt 
 is that la( 
 
 ' Mamz( 
 don't knu 
 
 •Oh m; 
 afeared I 
 An actresi 
 
 ' A tigh 
 Lor ! Mrs 
 faint 1 ' 
 
 For Mri 
 sudden ai 
 immediat< 
 And Mri 
 Jemima A 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 Id 
 
 that for you, romance rtiadiog Jetnima 
 Snow ! ' 
 
 The door opens as she speaks. 
 
 ' Samantha,' says a pleasant voice, ' are 
 you here ? ' 
 
 The pleasant voice belongs to a pleasant 
 face, and both are the property of a pretty 
 matron all in drab, like a Quaker, who opens 
 the door, and stands gazing icquiringly 
 around. 
 
 ' Why Mrs. Tinker ! ' pxclaims Jemima 
 Ann, * is it you I When did you come ? 
 Aunt Samanthy's jest gone out marketin.' 
 Do come in and wait. I know she's been 
 wautin' to see you, and a tulkin' of going to 
 the cottage all week,' 
 
 ' How do you do, Jemima Ann ? ' is the 
 smiliug response of the drab matron. ' Well, 
 perhaps I had better — ' 
 
 She stops suddenly. Her eyes have fallen 
 on Snowball, then on Mimi, and the words 
 die on her lips. 
 
 A startled look comes into her eyes, a 
 startled pallor falls on her face, her lips part 
 breathlessly, she stands and stares line one 
 who has received a shook. 
 
 ' Oh! ' says Jemimp, Ann, remembering her 
 manners, 'This is Mrs. Tinker, Miss Mimi. 
 Mrc. Tinker, this is Mamzel Mimi, a lady 
 that boards here, and her little girl.' 
 
 Mimi smiles easily, shows her small white 
 teeth, and nods. 
 
 Mra, Tinker tries to bow, but some sudden, 
 and strange and great dread and surprise have 
 fallen upon her — she retreats backward in a 
 sort of panic, without a word. Mimi lifts 
 her eyebrows and laughs. 
 
 ' Upon my word I ' she exclaims, ' is that 
 nice motherly old party cracked, Jemima 
 Ann?' 
 
 Jemima Ann hurries out without reply. 
 The elderly 1 it y stands in the passage, still 
 pale as whitewash, her hands pressed over 
 her heart. 
 
 Goodness me, Mrs. Tinker I ' she cries. 
 ' Whatever is it?' 
 
 • Oh my dear,' says Mrs. Tinker. ' I've 
 bad a turn, I ve had a turn, my dear. Who 
 is that lady in the parlour ? ' 
 
 • Mamzel Mimi, Mrs. Tinker. Surely you 
 don't know her ? ' 
 
 • Oh my dear, I'm afeard I do— I'm sore 
 af eared I do. What is she Jemima Ann ? 
 An actress ? ' 
 
 ' A tight-rope dancer — a circus performer. 
 Lor ! Mrs. Tmker, you ain't a going to 
 faint I ' 
 
 For Mrs. Tinker, breathing in gasps, lays 
 sudden and violent held of Jemima, as if an 
 immediate swoon were indeed her intention. 
 And Mrs. Tinker weighs ten stone, and 
 JemiHDa Ann feel that with the best wishes 
 
 in the \^orld, she is not equal to bearing her 
 to the nearest cold'Water tap. Mrs. Tinker 
 thinks better of it, however, and does not 
 swoon. 
 
 ' No,' she says weakly. ' No, Jemima, 
 my dear I shall not faint. Oh me ! oh me I 
 to think it shauld come at last. I've always 
 feared it my dear, always feared it. Soouer 
 or later I said she will ftnd us, and she will 
 come. Oh me, my dear mistress. How 
 will she bear this ? ' 
 
 • Do you mean Madam Valentine ? ' say 
 Jemima Ann, looking sympathetic, and 
 deeply puzzled. 'Does she know Mamzel 
 Mimi ? Good gracious me, Mrs. Tiuker, 
 you can never mean that.' 
 
 ' Don't ask me any qnestions Jemima 
 Ann, you will bear it all soon enough. 
 Come down stairs, I feel fit to drop, and 
 answer me a few questions. Tell me when 
 this — this person came, and all ab'^ut her.' 
 
 They descend to Mrs, Hopkins' own par- 
 ticular sittine-room, and Mis. Tinker, btill 
 in a weak and collapsed state, is provided 
 with a fan and a glass of water, which otimu- 
 lants bring her slowly round to calmness and 
 cuhertnce. .Jemima Ann unfolds all she 
 knows of Mile Mimi, which is not very 
 much, but which is lif>tene(i to with pro- 
 found and painful intf i.dity of interest. 
 
 ' It's the same, it's the same,' 8a>8 Mrs. 
 Tinker mourniully. ' I know it's the same, 
 I never heard the name afore, l<ut 1 knew 
 the face at once. It is many and many a 
 weary day ago, but she hasn't changed. Oh 
 me, oh me, to think of her coming at this 
 late day, and all the harm she's done. It's 
 wicked my dear, but I hoped she was dead 
 — I did indeed. And the child too. Oh 1 
 what will Madam Valentine say ? ' 
 
 'Mrs. Tinker,' begins Jemima, literally 
 devoured by curio>ity — but Mr?. Tinker 
 rises, a distressed look mu her face, and 
 motions for silence with her hand. 
 
 ' Mo my dear,' she says, in the same 
 mournful tone. ' I can't tell you. I can't 
 tell any one. I can't stay and see Pamautha. 
 I don't feel fit to talk or anythintf. I've had 
 a blow Jemima .A.nn, a blow. I'll go home 
 my dear, and read a chapter in my fiible, 
 and try to compose my mind.' 
 
 Jemima Ann escorts her to the door, more 
 mystified than sha has ever been betore in 
 her life, and watches her out of sight, walk- 
 ing sloMTlyand heavily as if*burtiened with 
 painful thoughts, 'i'hen she returns up 
 stairs and into the parlour, where Mimi lies 
 indo ently on the sofa, her little feet ornstied 
 in an attitude more suggestive of laziness 
 and ease than lady-lik« gi aue. 
 
 ' Well Jemima, has that flustered old per*, 
 son departed 1 And what was the master 
 
 Iras'* 
 
 o 
 
 »■ 
 
 i 
 
16 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 with her T Is she generally knocked over in 
 that unoomfortable manner by the sight nf a 
 flcracger T And she is on her way back to 
 the highly respectable lunatic asylum whence 
 -flhe escaped ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Mirai, are you sure ? Do you mean 
 to say you never saw her before ? ' 
 
 • Never, to the beat of ray belief. Why T 
 Dans she seem to ^ay that she knows me ? ' 
 
 Jemima Ann is silent. There is a mystet y 
 here, and she feels that discretion may be 
 judicious. 
 
 ' Who is the venerable party anyhow ? 
 She is a nice kindly-looking bi»dy, too, the 
 sort of motherly soul one would like for a 
 nurse or that ' 
 
 'She is Mrs. Tinker— Mrs. Susan Tinker.' 
 
 • Susan Tmker. Euphonious cognomen 1' 
 laughed Mimi. ' What else is she, oh, 
 reticent Jemima Ann ! ' 
 
 ' Well, she is housekeeper to Madame 
 Talentine, She has been her housekeeper 
 ^or more than twenty years. ' 
 
 Jemima is just about lifting the tray to 
 go, but Mile. Mimi springs erect so sud- 
 denly, utters an exclamation so sharply 
 that she drops her load. 
 
 ' Land above ! ' she exclaims in terror, 
 ^ what is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 * Who did you say ? ' Mimi cries 
 out breathlessly ; ' housekeeper for whom?' 
 
 ' Madame Valentine— old Madame Valen- 
 tine of the cottage. So then yon do 
 know something of the secret after ail ? ' 
 
 Mile. Mimi is standing up. A flush 
 sweeps over the pearly fairness of her face 
 then it fades and leaves her very pale. 
 She turns abruptly away, walks to a win- 
 dow, and stands with her back to th« 
 curious Jemima Ann. She stands for fully 
 Ave minutes staring out; but she sees 
 nothing of the dull darkening street, the 
 sky, the few paasers-by, 
 over the way. The blue 
 with a light not good to 
 
 leaden October 
 the ugly shops 
 eyes gleaming 
 see. 
 
 ' Don't go,' she says at last, turning 
 round as she sees Jemima Ann gathering 
 up the the tray. ' I want to ask you a 
 question. Who is Madame Valentine ? ' 
 
 ' Who is she ? Why she is Madame 
 Valentine, ^though why madame any more 
 than other folks I don't know, except that 
 she is very rich — immensely rich and aristo- 
 cratic. Oh, lAy goodness ! ' says Jemima 
 Ann, despairing of conveying any idea of the 
 pinnacle of patrician loftiness and wealth 
 which Madame Valentine has attained. 
 
 * Rich and aristocratic 1 What in the 
 world then,' aaks Mimi, with a gesture of 
 infinite contempt oat of the window, ' does 
 «hedohero!' 
 
 ' It ain't such a bad place, Claugvillu 
 ain't,' retorts Jemima, rather hurt; 'but 
 she don't live here. Stie dou't live no. here, 
 Mrs. Tinker says, for good ; she just goes 
 about. She has houses and places evi^ry- 
 where, in cities and in the country. She 
 came here three or tour years ago, au<i took a 
 fancy to a place out of town, and thought 
 the air agreed with her. Su she bou>{ht 
 the cottage, and comes fur a month or two 
 every fall since. And ner nephew likes it 
 fur the shooting — partridges and that. She 
 is going away next week, and won't come 
 again till next September.' 
 
 'Her nephew?' Mini repeats quickly. 
 ' Who is her nephew ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Vane Valentine, a young Eoglish 
 gentleman, aud her heir. Yun ougtiter see 
 him a ridin' through thn town, mounted on a 
 big black horse, as tall and straight as any- 
 thing, aud looking as if everybody he met 
 was dirt under his feet !' cries Jemima Ann, 
 in a burst of euthusiaatic admiration. 
 
 Indeed ! Mr. Vane Valeutine puts on 
 heirs, does he ? So he is the heir ! I knew 
 there was a British cousin, and an heir to 
 the title. Do you know that high-steppmg 
 yuung gentleman will be a baronet one uay, 
 Jemima Ann ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' says Jemima Ana ; 'Mrs. Tinker 
 told me. But how do you come to know ? 
 You ain't acquainted with him, are you ?' 
 
 ' I have nut tnat pUasure —at prettent, I 
 may have, putisibiy, before long. Nu — duu't 
 ask questions ; all you have to do is to 
 answer them. There are only the old lady 
 and this patrician nephew ?' 
 ' Tnat 8 all. Mr. Valentine is dead.' 
 ' Yes. But used there not to be some one 
 else— a son ?' 
 
 Jemima Ann looks at her with ever- grow 
 ing curiosity. But her back is to the wan.' > ;^' 
 light, and there is nothing to be seen. 
 
 says, ' that you should 
 ; not many people do. 
 Even Mrs. Tinker hates to talk of it. But, 
 yes — there was a son. ' 
 ' What became of him ?' 
 ' Well, he went wild, and ran away, and 
 made a low marriase, and was cut off, and 
 drowned. I don't know uothin' more — I 
 don't, indeed. I only found that out by 
 chance. And now I must go,' says, nervous- 
 ly, Jemima Ann, ' for it is nearly six, and 
 aunt will be back, and the hands supper is 
 to get.' 
 
 Mimi makes no effort to detain her ; but 
 when she is alone she stands for a very long 
 time quite still, the dark look deepening and 
 ever deepening in her face. She hears the 
 house door open, and the shrill, vinegar 
 Toioe of Mrs* Hopkins — hears the sweet, 
 
 'It's odd,' she 
 know about that 
 
 shrill sin 
 
 chanting v 
 
 ballad of 1 
 
 hears the t 
 
 and still st 
 
 the night i 
 
 room, and i 
 
 But MIU 
 
 a couple of 
 
 all the woe 
 
 and even e 
 
 hazardou-i 
 
 daring doii 
 
 trace of 1 
 
 thuughc ha: 
 
 and at th 
 
 sparkles h 
 
 home after 
 
 usual, witl 
 
 as furuistiei 
 
 paid for by 
 
 For Mr 
 
 most resjj 
 
 house in 
 
 town of C 
 
 trial of her 
 
 help herself 
 
 Hopkins ia i 
 
 the moat da 
 
 muddied in( 
 
 door,' Mrs. 
 
 ' and here ia 
 
 thitig in tb 
 
 bowu the 
 
 them all. 
 
 in her face 
 
 ' don't put J 
 
 to go wher 
 
 sooner. I 
 
 my medical 
 
 lite I leal is 
 
 going to ch{ 
 
 health to 
 
 prejudices, 
 
 TJaere is u 
 be strong, 
 the iuevicab 
 
 the blessed 
 
 » 
 
 •Lindo' 
 Bopkius. 
 this 1 Of al 
 low groau tit 
 weak to expi 
 
 Jemima . 
 scandalized 
 heart of hei 
 ' right good 
 at what shi 
 seated cartia 
 ing past ; at 
 seat, beaiiie 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 17 
 
 Bhrill singing of her baby daughter 
 otaanting with much spirit and 'go,' the 
 ballad of the 'Ten Little Injun Boys' — 
 hears the ear-splitting workmen's whidtle — 
 and still stands rapt and motionless, though 
 the night has long since fallen, and all the 
 room, and all the street is dark. 
 
 But Mile. Mimi belongs to the public, and 
 a couple of hours later, flashes before it in 
 all the wonted bravery of tinsel and glitter, 
 and even eclipses herielt in the matter ot 
 hazardoU'i flying leaps on the trapeze, and 
 daring doiaxd on the dizzy slack-wtre. All 
 trace of that darkly-brooding cloud of 
 though c hns vanished from her riante face, 
 and at the after-circus supper she out- 
 sparkles her sparkling self, and returns 
 home after one, flushed and excited, as 
 usual, with the amber vintages of France, 
 as furnished by the Hotel Washington, and 
 paid for by Mr. Lacy. 
 
 For Mrs. Hopkins, keeper of the 
 most respectable temperance boarding- 
 house in the good New Euglaud 
 town of CUngville, it is the bittuvist 
 trial of her life. And she is powerless to 
 help herself ; the sting lies there. Mrs. 
 Hopkins is total abstinence or she is nothing, 
 the most daiiug foundry hand never returus 
 muddled more than once. 'There is the 
 door,' Mrs. Hopkins, with fltshing eyes, 
 ' and here is you. You git. ' There is some- 
 thing in the Spartan brevity that takes 
 bowu the biggest and blackest hand of 
 them all. But Mile. Mimi al solutely laughs 
 in her face. 'My good soul,' she says, 
 ' don't put yourself in .< passion. I inteud 
 to go when my week it up, not an hour 
 sooner. I require stimulanvs, prescribed by 
 my medical attendant, I assure you. The 
 lite I lead is frightfully exhausting. I am not 
 going to change my Habits and injure my 
 health to af-commodate your old-fashioned 
 prejudices, my dear Madam Hopkins.' 
 
 Tiiere is nothing for it but to su^er and 
 be strong. Aunt Samantha knocks under to 
 the inevitable, and counts every hour until 
 the blessed one of her happy release. 
 
 'Lind o' hope 1' cries out, deaparirg, Mrs. 
 Hopkins. 'Jemima Ann, will yo-i look at 
 this 1 Of all the shameful oreeters '—a hol- 
 low groan fluishes the sentence — words are 
 weak to express her sense of reprobation. 
 
 Jemima Ann looks. She is not so easily 
 scandalized as Aunt Samantha, and in her 
 heart of hearts, rather envies Mimi her 
 ' right good time,' but even she is startled 
 at what she beholds, Aa open, double- 
 seated cartiage, bright with varnish, is flash- 
 ing past ; and perched high on the drivei's 
 seat, beside the renowned Mr. Lacy, hold- 
 2 
 
 ing the reins, and ' hiing ' to four spirited 
 horses, is Mile. Mimi. An expert whip she 
 evidently is, and remarkably jaunty and au- 
 dacious she looks, a pretty hat setooquettisU* 
 ly on the gildtd hair, a cigarette between her 
 rosy lips, she smokes with gusto while she 
 drives. Behind sits one of the Bounding 
 Brothers and his yovog woman, also witU 
 cigarettes alight, and loud laughter ringing 
 forth, and as they fly past, the whole deeply- 
 shocked town ot (Jlangville seeir.a to rusn lu 
 thHir doors and windows, to catcli a glimpse 
 of the demoralizmg vision. 
 
 ' 1 knew she smoked,' Jemima Ann re- 
 marks, in a subdued voice : ' she does in hur 
 own room sometimes of an afternoon.' 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins sinks into a chair, faint with 
 despair. What will this reckless creature ila 
 nfcxt ? 
 
 * She'll give the house a bad name,' she 
 says, weakly, 'and there don't seem uothiut^ 
 I can do to prevent it. To sit up theie, 
 drivin' two team of rariu', pranciu' horser*, 
 smokin' cigars, and likely's not half tight. 
 I'll go over to Rogers' this very minute aud 
 give him a piece of my mind anyhow.' 
 
 The landau, with its four laughing, smok- 
 ing occupants flashes one of town, leaving 
 the coal smoke, the noise, and black giiuie 
 of fouuderies and mauutactones far beuinil,, 
 and whirls along a pleasant country roait, 
 treed on every hand, brilliant with crim&ou 
 and orange glories of bright October. 
 
 ' D jes nybody happen to know a place 
 called The\Jot:age,'a8ks Mimi, 'the residence, 
 ( balieve, of one Mrs. or Madam Valentine ?' 
 
 ' 1 do,' replies Mr. Lacy, ' I've met young 
 Valentine ; aueced siitt" young prig ; puts ou 
 airs of British nobility— * aw, aon't you 
 know, my dear fellah ' - that sort of thing. 
 Felt like kicking him on the only occaxiou m e 
 met. Sour-looking, black-looking beggar. 
 But he lives right out here, with his graud- 
 mothei, or fairy godmother, or something.' 
 
 ' His aunt, my friend ; be definitr. There 
 is a painful lack of lucidity in your remarks, 
 Licy,' tays Mimi. ' Well, I want to stop at 
 Tne Cottage. I am going to make a call. 
 Don't ask questions ; it is my whim ; that is 
 enough for you. Madam Valentine is a 
 real graude dame, so they tell me, and I've 
 never had the pleasure of meeting one of tho 
 b. eed. So 1 am going to call, and see for 
 myself. I may neve'* have another chance. 
 
 ' You have the audacity of the devil,' 
 says Mr. Lacy, with artless admiration. 
 ' By George ! I should like to see the old 
 lady's face when you announce yourself, 
 judging from what I hear, and from the 
 look of that black- vieaged uephew, she is 
 more like a venerable empress run to seed 
 
 i,..;ar! 
 Sim 
 
 
 
 a 
 
18 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 than aa every>day, rich, old woman. Shall 
 we all call, or will you go it aloutt ?' 
 
 Mtiiii responds that she will go it alone. 
 Her cigarette is smoked out. Mr. Lacy 
 lights her another, as she pulla the four 
 prAiiuiug bays up at the gates uf The Cot- 
 
 tag*j. 
 
 Her pretty face is slightly paler than 
 usual ; her lip) are set in a tight line ; a 
 sombre light, that bodes no good to the 
 lady Hhe proposes to visit, is in her blue eyes. 
 8he aits a moment, and scans the house and 
 gronntis. 
 
 • N-it much of a place,' remarks Mr. Lacy, 
 sliglitingly ; ' only a shootin'-box for the 
 bluok boy— I mean the nephew. Lots of 
 space though ; could be made a tip-top 
 enuutry seat if they liked. Want to get 
 down ?' 
 
 Miiui waves his hand aside, and leaps 
 lightly to the ground. 
 
 • Wait for me here,' she says, and out of 
 her voice all the »nap aud timbre have gone— 
 * or no ; drive on, aud come back in half an 
 hour. 1 will be ready for you then.' 
 
 • Wish we had an old shoe to throw after 
 vou for luck, Mimi,' calls out the Bounding 
 brother. ' Don't let the ogress of the castle 
 eat yon alive if you can help it.' 
 
 • And don't fall in love with the high- 
 [ t ued nephew,' says the young person by his 
 
 bide. 
 
 • Or, what is more likely, don't let the high- 
 toned nephew tall lu love with >ou,' adds 
 Mr. Lacy. * Sure to do it once he sets eyes 
 on you. "a, ta, Vlimi ! Speak up prettily to 
 tbe'ola lady. Don't be ashamed of yftur- 
 self.' 
 
 She waves her cioarette, opens the iron 
 gaten, and enters. The carriage and four-in- 
 hand whirl on— vanidh. 
 
 With the yellow afternoon sun sitting 
 
 down on her through the lofty niapks and 
 
 larches, Mimi, with head defiantly erect, 
 
 . ai>d blue eyes dangerously alight, walks up 
 
 to the iroat of The Cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IK WHICH WE VISIT MADAM VALENTirK. 
 
 It is an unpratettouB building, as its 
 name implies, alow, wuite frame structure, 
 with a 'stoop,' or veranda, running the 
 whole length of its front ; set in wide, wild 
 grounds, and nothing anywhere to betoken 
 that the lady, who is mistress there, is a 
 lady of great wealth, and still greater dignity 
 and social distinction. There are great beds 
 of gorgeous, flaunting dahlias, Mimi notices, 
 and ofier beds of brilliant geraniums ; no 
 other flowers. .T«ro great dogs start up at 
 
 her approach, and bark loudly ; otherwise it 
 is all as still, in the afternoon hush, as the 
 oastle of the sleeping beauty. But human 
 life is there, too, and not asleep. A lady, 
 slowly paciug up aud duwn the long stoop in 
 the warm suasiiiiie, pnuiies. turun, stands, 
 looks, and waits for the visitor to approach. 
 
 It IS Madam Vi«leutine herself. Mimi 
 knows it at a glance, though she has never 
 seen her before. But she ha» seen her picture 
 and heard her desurihed, ah ! many times. 
 She is a tall, spare olil lady, with silvery 
 hair, combed high over a roll, a la Pompa- 
 dour, silvery, severe face, made vivid by a 
 pair of piercing dark eyes. She wears a 
 dress of soundless, lusterless black silk, that 
 sweeps the hoards behind her. She looks 
 like one born to rich, aoundles silks, 
 and priceless laces, and diamond 
 rmgs. Many of these sparkle on the 
 slender white hands, folded on the 
 g'^ld knob of her ebony cane, as she stands 
 and waits. A lofty, stately figure, her 
 trained robe trailing, her jewels gleaming ; 
 but her mnjesty of bearing is altogether lost 
 on her daring and dauntless visitor. With 
 her fair head well up and back, her blue 
 eyes alight, smiling defiance in every feature, 
 aud still smoking, 8trai>;ht up and on 
 marches Mimi until the two women stand 
 face to face. 
 
 The dogs, at a sign from their mistress, 
 have ceased barking, aud crouch, growling, 
 near. The cottage rests in its afternoon 
 hush, the long stiadows of the western sua 
 fall on and gild the two faces — one so fair, 
 so youthful, so bold, so reckless ; the other 
 so stern, so old, so ret, so prond. 
 Madam Valentine breaks the silence flrst. 
 
 ' To whom have ^ the pleasure of speak* 
 ing ?' she asks, her voice is as hard as her face, 
 deep and strong almost as a man's. 
 
 ' Vou don't know me,' Mimi says, airily ; 
 ' well, that is your fault. I never was proud. 
 Still, you might recognize me, I think. 
 Look hard. Madam Valentine ; look again, 
 and as long as you like. I am used to it ; 
 it's in my line of business, you know ; aud 
 tell me did you never see any one at all like 
 
 me 
 
 »» 
 
 She removed her cigarette, knocks off the 
 ash daintily with her little tinger-tip, and 
 holds it poised, as she stands at ease, a smile 
 on her face, and stares straight into Madam 
 Valentine's eyes. 
 
 ' I do not know you,* that lady answers in 
 accent of chill disgust. ' I have no wish to 
 know you. If you have any business, state 
 it and go. ' 
 
 ' Hospitable !' Mimi laughs, ' and polite. 
 So you do not know me, and have no desire 
 to know me ? Well, I can believe that. No, 
 
 you do 
 before, 
 you hav 
 your eld 
 she look 
 Mada 
 sudden < 
 den wih 
 has chat 
 
 dam Vtt 
 •My 
 
 ' is it- 
 'Geo^ 
 
 Jaw. 
 
 M iry V 
 
 world 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 10 
 
 vou do not know me. You never met me 
 before, but I have every reason to believe 
 you have heard a ^reat deal of me. I think 
 your eMwrly housekeeper knows who I am ; 
 she looka aa if she did yesterday afternoon.' 
 Madam Valentibe takes i* step back, a 
 sudden change paeies over her face — a sud- 
 den wild feir comes into her eyes. And it 
 has chanced to few people ever to see Ma- 
 dam Valentine look afraid. 
 
 ' My God 1' she says, under her breath, 
 
 ' is ic — is it ' 
 
 ' Creorj^e's wife. Yes, my dear mother-in- 
 law. You behold your daughter ! I am 
 Miry Valentine— known to the circus-going 
 world as Mimi Trillon. For professional 
 rea8ons a French name has hitherto suited 
 me best, but my reputation is made now aa 
 a dashing trapizist, and tight-rope dancer, 
 and I aiu tired of sailing under false colours. 
 1 propose from this day forth assumi j; my 
 O.VD name. '"Mrs. George Valentine ' will 
 look well on the bills, I think, and sounds 
 solid and respectable. Unless — unless,' — 
 she pauHos, and the blue eyes flash out upon 
 the black ones vith alookof epiteand hatred 
 not good to see. ' I owe ) ou something 
 these la!>t eight years, Madam Valentine, 
 and I have vowed a vow to pay my debt. 
 But I am willing, after all, to forget and 
 forgive — on one condition. Do you know I 
 have a chili ?' 
 
 There is no reply. Abhorrence, hatred, 
 disgust, look at her out of Madame Valen- 
 tine's dark, glowing eyes. 
 
 ' A little girl of tl|i-ee years and three 
 months — George's daughter — your only 
 grandchild, madam ; the heiress, if right is 
 done, of every farthing you possess. I love 
 my child , provide for her, provide for me ; 
 you count your wealth by millions ; I drudge 
 like a galley slave. Buy me otf ; 1 don'c u.-.e 
 tine phrases, you see, and I have my price. 
 Buy me off from the circus. It is not half 
 a bad life for me, but for my little girl's 
 sake, and for the honour of the highly re- 
 spectable familv I have married into, I will 
 quit it. But at a fair price — a carriage, ser- 
 vants, diamonds, a fixed and sufficient an- 
 nuity — all that. And you may take your 
 granddaughter and place her at school ; I 
 ghali not object, mothers must sacrifice their 
 own feelings for the good of their children. 
 Do all this, and I promise to forget the 
 past, and trouble you no more.' 
 
 She pauses. Madam Valentine still 
 stands, but more erect, if possible, her hands 
 resting one over the other on the top of her 
 cane, her face as set as steel. 
 
 ' If you have finished,' is her ioy answer 
 •go r 
 A flush of rage orimaons Mimi'a face. She 
 
 and oomes a step 
 
 plants her little feet, 
 closer to her foe. 
 
 ' I have not finished 1' she cries, fiercely ; 
 ' this is one side of the mei'al — let me 
 show you the reverse, llefune — treat 
 me with scorn and insult, as you 
 have hitherto done, and by this light 
 I swear I'll make you repent it I I'll placard 
 your name — the name you are all so proud of 
 — on every dead wall, on every fence, in 
 every newspaper, the length and breadth of 
 the laud ! I'll proclaim from the house-tops 
 whose dau^hteriu-law I have the honour to 
 be, whose wife I have been, whose widow I 
 am ! For you know, I suppose, that your 
 son is dead ?' 
 
 The haughty, inflexible old face changes 
 for a moment, there is a brief quiver of the 
 thin, set lips — then perfect repose again. 
 
 ' Yes, he is dead,' goes on Mimi, 'killed 
 by your hardness and cruelty. He was 
 your only son, but you killed him with your 
 pride. It must be a consoling thought that, 
 in your childless old age 1 But you have 
 your nephew — I forgot — he is to have poor 
 George's birthright. He perished in misery 
 and want. Madam Valentine, and his last 
 thought was for you. It will comfort you 
 on your death-bed, one of these days, to re- 
 member it. Now choose — will you provide 
 for my future and for my child's, or shall I 
 proclaim to the world who I am, and what 
 manner of woman are you ?' 
 
 * Will you go ?' repeats Madam Valentine, 
 m the same voice uf icy contempt, ' or must 
 I set my dogs on you to drive you out ?' 
 
 ' If you dare !' cries Mimi, her face ablaze. 
 ' I defy you and your dogs ? I shall remain 
 in Clangville until Saturday — this is Thurs* 
 day — I give you until Saturday to decide. 
 If I do not hear from you before I leaVe this 
 place, look to the consequences I The whole 
 country shall know my story ; the wasld, 
 shall judge between us. My story shall go 
 to be told in every way in which it is pos> 
 sible to teli it, the story of the wronged 
 wife, and the mother who murdered her 
 only son 1 You are warned ! I wish you 
 ^ood-day, and a very good appetite for your 
 dinner, Madam Valentine !' 
 
 She takes her skirts after the stately old 
 fashion, and sweeps a profound and mocking 
 courtesy. Then singing, as she goes a snatch 
 of a drinking song, and walking with an ex- 
 aggerated swagger, she marches back to re- 
 join her friends, by this time waiting at the 
 gate. 
 
 Madam Valentine stands and looks after 
 her, a lofty, lonely, dark, draped figure, in 
 the yellow waning light. So still she stands, 
 her hands folded on the top of her gold and 
 
 
 / 
 
20 
 
 I,OST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 black o»ne, that it u nearly halt aa hoar 
 
 befnre the wfkea from her trance. 
 
 Tho lengthy aftcruooa ahadowa are at 
 their longest, the October wind aigha fitfully 
 through the trees, the air grows sharp nnd 
 frosty, but she feels no chill, sees no change. 
 The dead seems to have arisen, her drowned 
 sou has c »me from his grave and spoken to 
 her through this woman's lips— this low-born, 
 low-bred, violent creature, this jumper of 
 horizontal bars, this rough rider of horsps ! 
 This is the wife he has wedded, the daughter 
 he has given her, the mother of the last 
 daughter of the house of Valentine ! If 
 vindictive little Mimi, laughing, jesting, 
 smoking, driving four-in-hand, louuly and 
 recklessly all the way back, could but read 
 the heart she has left behind, even her 
 vengeance would ask no more ! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES MB. VANE VALENTINE. 
 
 She rouses herself at last, and goes in, 
 shivering in the tirst consciousues she has 
 yet ffelt of the rising wind. It is dusk al- 
 ready in the hall, but the sitting-room she 
 eaters is lit by a bright wood tire. The last 
 pale primrose glitter of the western sky 
 shows through the muslin curtains of the one 
 bay-window — a window with no womanly 
 litter of bird cages and flower-pots, or fanny 
 work. And yet it is a cosy room, a suf- 
 Bciently home-like, with an abundance of 
 books and magazines strewn everywhere, 
 many pictures on the papered walls, and 
 half a dozen chairs of the order pouf. 
 
 She pulls the bell-rope in crossing to her 
 
 own particular seat, and sinks wearily into 
 
 i its downy depths, in front of the fire. Sha 
 
 1 still rests upon her cane, and droops a little 
 
 \ forward, but the stern old face keeps its 
 
 Tlnifil frigidity of look, and shows little more 
 
 trace of suffering than a fac<> cat in gray 
 
 stone. 
 
 • Jane,' she says, quietly, to the woman 
 who appears, ' send Mrs. Tinker to me.' 
 
 Jane says ' Yes'm,'and goes. The dark, 
 resolute eyes turn to the tire and gaze into 
 its ruddydepths, until the door re-opens, and 
 the house-keeper, fluttered and nervous, 
 enters. She has caught a glimpse of the 
 visitor, and stands almost like a culprit 
 before her mistress. 
 
 Madam Valentine eyes her for a moment 
 as she stands smoothing down her black silk 
 apron with two restless old hands. 
 
 ' Susan,' she says, in the same quiet tone, 
 ' I have had a caller. You may have seen 
 lier — you may even have heard her, she spoke 
 loudly enough. She mentioned you incident- 
 
 ally in something she said— spoke of your 
 recognizing her, or something of the kind. 
 Do you know who I mean ?' 
 ' Mistress, I am afeard I do.' 
 ' You have seen this— this person, then — 
 where ?' 
 
 * She lodges with my cousin in thn town, 
 ma'm— leastways she was poor, dear Tinker's 
 cousin afore he departed ; she keepn a board- 
 iu' house, which her name it is Samautha 
 Hopkins, — ' 
 
 Madame Valentino "^ her hand im- 
 
 patiently — a hand ..ashes in the ti'e 
 
 light. Samantha Ho^.<iins is sumothing le>a 
 than nothing to her. 
 
 ' She lodges in Clangville, and you have 
 seen her. Have you spoken to her ?' 
 
 'Oh, no, ma'am, no— not for the wor d 
 And — and I didn't know she knew me-' 
 • How did you know her ?' 
 ' Mistress,' in a low tone. ' I used to see 
 — I often saw — her picture with — with 
 
 Master ' 
 
 Again the white, ringed hand flashes in 
 the tire-light, quickly — angrily, this time. 
 
 ' Stop 1 I want to hear no names. Do you 
 know who she claims to be V 
 ' Mistress, yes, ' still very low. 
 ' Do you believe it ?' the voice this time 
 sharp with angry pain. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear mistress, I am afeard — I 
 am afeard — I do !' 
 
 A pause. The tire leaps and sparkles, and 
 gilds the pictures on the walls, and brings 
 out in its vivid glow the faces of the two 
 women, mistress and servant. The last gray 
 light of the waning d&y lingers on these two 
 gray old faces — one so agitated, bo tear-wet, 
 BO strinken with sorrow and shame — one in 
 its chill, pale pride, showing nothing of the 
 agony within. 
 
 ' You recognized hor at first sight, ' says 
 Madam Valentme, mastering her voice with 
 an effort — it is hardly as well trained as her 
 face— 'without a word— from the photo- 
 graphs you see ?' 
 ' I did, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Then 1 suppose there can be no mistake. 
 I would not have believed that — that person's 
 word. You know there is a child V 
 
 ' I saw her madam. Oh, my dear mistress, 
 I saw her !— Master George's own little 
 child ! Oh I my heart ! my heart I' 
 
 She breaks down suddenly, and covering 
 her old face with her old hands, sobs as if 
 her heart would break. Madam Valentine's 
 face changes, works, and turns quite ghastly 
 as she listens and looks. 
 
 ' Oh, forgive me I' Mrs. Tinker sobs, ' my 
 own dear mistress. I have no right to cry 
 and distress you in your sore trouble, but I 
 loved him so I And to see her- that pretty, 
 
 pretty lit 
 d»'ad, my 
 wan his uh 
 to break , 
 me, I am < 
 in my arn 
 own flesh 
 than my o 
 
 • You n 
 
 She spe 
 coldly nor 
 
 ' And ; 
 mistress, < 
 Jjdned, at 
 
 'I am 
 Tinker. 
 When Mr 
 once.' 
 
 ' He is 1 
 in the 'all. 
 
 A slow, 
 ible, and 
 utter dusl 
 
 'Ye?,'s 
 come in 1 
 dress for ( 
 
 ' Shall ] 
 
 'No-n 
 eaough.* 
 
 Mrs. T 
 and her 
 once agaii 
 g'ze. 
 
 tJAll her 
 woman ha 
 and in thii 
 training ai 
 
 He wou 
 moment ci 
 her still fa< 
 a passional 
 tyrdom of 
 this hour, 
 the man m 
 whom she 
 
 He i8\ 
 man, a ne] 
 last male : 
 to a bare 
 Katherinc 
 Hamilton 
 
 He is a i 
 over twen 
 aquiline n< 
 a thin blac 
 parted doi 
 
 Thinnes 
 present sti 
 salient pc 
 certain ex 
 whole face 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 91 
 
 pretty little' one, and to know that he ia 
 dt'ad, my bright, bouny boy, and that ahe 
 wan his ubild— oh ! my miatresa, itgoea near 
 to break ^my heart. Don't 'ee be argry wi' 
 tne, I am only an old woman, and I held him 
 in my arma many and many a time, and my 
 own flesh r.iid blood could never be dearer 
 than my own Master George.' 
 
 • You may go, Huaan.' 
 
 She Bpeaka with meaaured quiet, but not 
 coldly nor impatiently. 
 
 ' And you are not angry wi' nie ?' Oh I 
 miatresB, don't 'ee be angry — don't ee, now ! 
 ladeed, and in very deed, I ' 
 
 'I am not angry. You are a good aoul. 
 Tinker. I have a great respect for you. 
 When Mr. Vane cornea in aend him to me at 
 once. ' 
 
 ' lie is here now, ma'am. I hear his ateps 
 in the 'all.' 
 
 A slow, rather heavy step, is indeed aud- 
 ible, and a man's voioe calls through the 
 utter dusk for somebody to show a light. 
 
 ' Yep,' says madam, listening, 'tell him to 
 oome in here, befure he goes to his room to 
 dress for dinner.' 
 
 ' Shall I send in lamps, ma'am ?' 
 
 ' No— not until I ring. The twilight is 
 eaough.' 
 
 Mrs. Tinker, wipiug her eye<i, departs, 
 and her misttess turns her brooding gaze 
 once again upon the fire. A very sombre 
 g'ze. 
 
 tJAll her life of fifty years and more, this 
 woman has been trained to self-repression, 
 and in this supreme hour she is true to her 
 training and traditions. 
 
 He would be a keen observer, who at this 
 moment could read what she is enduring in 
 her still face. And yet she has been a mother, 
 a piiflsionately loving mother, and all the mar- 
 tyrdom of maternity is ret\(ling her heart in 
 this hour. But of all the men in the world, 
 the man who enters now, is the very last to 
 whom she will show it. 
 
 He is V^ne Valentine, a young English- 
 man, a nephew of her late husband, and the 
 last male of the Valentine race, heir-at-law 
 to a baronetcy, and heir presumptive of 
 Katberine Valentine's millions, vice George 
 Hamilton Valentine, cashiered and deceased. 
 
 He is a slim, da'-k young man, not much 
 over twenty, with a sallow, thin face, a thin, 
 aquiline no8e,a thin, rather womanish mouth, 
 a thin black moustache, and thin black hair, 
 parted down the middle. 
 
 Thinness and blackness, indeed, at the 
 present stage of his existence, are the most 
 salient points about him, if you except a 
 certain expression of obstinacy about the 
 whole face, and an air of hauteur amounting 
 
 almost to insolence in everything he sayi 
 and does. 
 
 The pride of these Valentines, for that 
 matter, is quite nut of proportion to their 
 purse, if not to their pedigree, madam being 
 the only member of the family out of the ab- 
 Boliito rtach of poverty — but pride and pov- 
 erty run in harness together often enough. 
 
 He comes in quickly, surprised at Mrs. 
 Tinker's mossage, for madam, in a general 
 way, is not over fond of him, does not great* 
 ly atFeot his society and never sends for him. 
 
 ' You are not ill, aunt? ' he ioquires. 
 
 He speaks with something of a drawl, but 
 not an affected one. He never has much to 
 lay for himself, so perhaps is wise to make 
 the met of the little he lias. 
 
 * III ? No,' she answers, contemptuously. 
 ' I am never iil. You should know that. I 
 have sent for you to discuss a very serious 
 matter. I consider you have a right to know, 
 and perhaps— to decia<j. You may be my 
 heir ; the honour of the Valentine name is 
 in your keeping and she threatens — Vane I ' 
 abruptly, ' you know the story of my son 1 ' 
 
 •Unfortunately, yes. A very sad and 
 shocking story,' he answers, gravely. 
 
 He is standing by the mantel, leaning his 
 elbow on it, facing her. She, too, steadfastly 
 regards him, 
 
 * You were told as a matter of course when 
 you first came. Not many people know it — 
 it is a disgrace thit has been well hidden. 
 But it is 4 disgra ^ that all the 'vorld may 
 soon know. The A'omanis here.' 
 
 * Aunt 1 ' he cries. You do not mean to say 
 — not the woman he — ' 
 
 * Married. Yes. Once his wife, now hia 
 widow. And her little girl — his child.* 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' exclaims Vane Valen- 
 tine. 
 
 Then there is silence. They look at one 
 another across the red light of the fire, two 
 proud, dark faces, confronting, with the 
 same fear and paiu -n both. 
 
 'She is a circus performer— bare-back 
 rider — trapezist— so she tells me. She dances 
 on a tight-rope. She is everything that ia 
 brazen and bad, and vulgar and horrible. 
 And she is extremely pretty. She is here 
 with the circus in the town. She called at 
 this house not more than two hours ago. 
 Aud she threatens to proclaim to the whole 
 country — in posters, in papers, in every way, 
 that she is — has been — George Valentine'a 
 wife.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! * says Mr Vane Valen- 
 tine. 
 
 It seems the only thing left him to say. 
 He stands absolutely stunned by the tre. 
 menduusuesB of the catastrophe. ■ He 
 
 0. 
 
22 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ■UreM at his aunt with dilating eyei, from 
 which a very real horror lookn. 
 
 ' She oalli herself Mimi Trillon at preient. 
 She loddeH with Mrs. Tiaknr's oouRin ia 
 ('lan^vitle, and will remain until Saturday. 
 After Saturday the whole world ia to know 
 who she is.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' blankly repeats Mr. 
 Vane Viilentine. It has bet n said his cora- 
 mand of Inn^unge is not great. ' Can — can 
 nothing b« done, you know ? ' he anks in 
 blankest aoofintt). • I— I wouldn't for any- 
 thing, by Jove.' 
 
 ' She (lifers one alternativ<s I mentioned 
 the child — a little girl. She may be bought 
 off. Her price is the adoption, education, 
 oare of the child, and an annuity — a tolerably 
 large one, I fancy, for herself. She is tired 
 of her present life — so she xaya ; she will 
 leave it, give up the little girl, retain her in- 
 cognito, and live on the annuity — if it is pro- 
 vided. Otherwise ehe will proclaim her 
 wrongs and her identity to all who chose to 
 listen. Tnat ie her (.tfer.' 
 
 * By Jove !' says, still more blankly, Mr. 
 Vane Valentine, 'ahe is a cool hand. Mile. 
 Mimi Trillon— yes, I saw her name blazing 
 all over the town, and her picture, too, by 
 Jove ! All bare neck and arms, like a gri- 
 aette of Mabille. And that is George's 
 widow ? Good heaven I' 
 
 ' You have made that remark a number of 
 times already,' says, disdainfully, his aunt. 
 ' There is no ufe in standing there and sa^'ing, 
 * Good Heacen I' I fancy heaven haa /ery 
 little to do with Mile. Mimi Trillon. But 
 ■he is the person she claims to be : there is 
 no doubt of that. Tinker recognized her in 
 a moment from the photograph she used to 
 Bee. She has been good enough to give me 
 uatil Satu day to come to a decision. I 
 waive my right to deinde, and place the 
 matter in your hands. You have your full 
 share of the Valentine pride, and you are the 
 last of the name. You will bare it— with 
 honour, I trust — when 1 am dead. Decide — 
 do we acree or refuse ?' 
 
 Mr. Vane Valentine is not a fool ; very 
 far from it when a point of family honour is 
 Oiincerned. He decides with a promptitude 
 his soinewhat weak-looking mouth would not 
 seem to promise. 
 
 •We agree, of course. We must agree. 
 Good heaven ! there is no other course. If 
 she is the person she professes to be, and has 
 a right to the name — good God ! only to 
 think of that — a circus rider ! She must be 
 bought off at any price. Think of the pub- 
 licity I think of your leelingg ! think of 
 mine ! of my sister's — of Camilla's— of— of 
 everybody's- of Sir Rupert's, Good heaven ! 
 it's awfui, don't you know. She must be 
 
 bought off, at any price, and at once — at 
 once !' 
 
 •Very well.' responds the chilly voioe of 
 the lady. ' Do not excite yourself ; thtre ia 
 no haste. We have until Saturday, remem- 
 ber — two daya. Do nothing to-night ; Hleep 
 upon it. At the same time, I mny sny. I 
 think with you. Money is nothing, in a cnse 
 like this. She must be bought oil; and at 
 her own price.' 
 
 • Of course,' says, promptly, Vane Valen- 
 tine ; 'but I will make cho heat ti^rms I onn. 
 The best will be bad, no doubt. She mu«t he 
 a dueced sharper all through. It is well ahe 
 will give up the child. A little girl, you 
 say? Aw, that is the best, certaii h,' says 
 Mr. Valentine, strokinghis thin, bluck, miis- 
 tache, and retl^fcting it miulit hnve Vieen 
 'dueoed unpleasant and that' if Goor^e's 
 child had been a son. Inconceivable aRS, 
 George Valentine— doing the aM for love and 
 the world well lost business in the nineteenth 
 century, when passions and emotions, and 
 — aw — that sort of thing, are extinct. 
 
 But the ill- wind has blown him (Vane) 
 into a prospective fortune and title, so he is 
 not disposed to quarrel with the shade of hia 
 late idiotic cousin, nor even with his rascally 
 relici, if he can buy that lady off at a fair 
 price. 
 
 'I'll go to the circus this evening,' he says 
 after that ruminative pause. • and take a look 
 at her. Pretty, is she, you say ? l^ut of 
 course ; that was the reason — confound her ! 
 — that she fooled your— him. Y'es, it is 
 well she will resign the child. She, of course, 
 is not a proper person to bring up a little 
 girl, and, aw, a relative of ours. Good 
 heaven ! to think of it. I will see her, and 
 settle thip, aw, dueced unpleasaat business, 
 you know, for good and all.' 
 
 Very well,' 'madam says, wearily; 
 'and I think, "if you will excuse me, 
 I will not dine thin evening. I 
 will have a cup of tea here, and retire 
 early. I over fatigued myself this after- 
 noon, I fancy.' 
 
 It is a tired and aching heart that weighs 
 down Madam Valentine, not her afttrnoou 
 contitutional in the aunshine, up and down 
 the stoop. Perhaps Vane Valentine guesses 
 — he has more penetration than he looks to 
 have. He murmurs a few appropriate words 
 of regret, and a little later, goes to the 
 dining-room, and eats his dinner in solitary 
 state, somewhat gloomy and pre-occupied, 
 but with a very good appetite. Then, as 
 1 the starry October night falla mistily over 
 ' the world, puts on his light overcoat, and 
 sets out at a brisk walk for the town, the 
 circus, and his first sight of Mile. Mimi 
 Trillon. 
 
 WHICH Tl 
 
 The mo 
 ttie cotta.< 
 alight wi 
 glances n 
 cigar, an( 
 night for 
 like stoel 
 the ear < 
 before th 
 tall, sluud 
 instant, tl 
 ly akin t 
 stead of 
 brave, hat 
 of whose i 
 prig is nn 
 18 unjust, 
 that he is 
 forced hi 
 kinship hit 
 rine Valer 
 is sore t( 
 woman, ' 
 and weall 
 childless 
 other— (i< 
 strange tl 
 woman h( 
 of his chi 
 exercised. 
 • Yo'A n 
 perish in 
 pride I ( 
 want — BU 
 cry, stra' 
 hear, bre 
 face witl 
 Here wit 
 ride may 
 love and 
 moonlighi 
 room, a 
 to rue 
 her comj 
 aervants 
 Vane Va 
 excited i 
 beholdini; 
 fooled hi 
 alone. sV 
 silence, i 
 men. Ti 
 no trace 
 to-night 1 
 as burni 
 wet the I 
 It is 1 
 to think < 
 ly briefly 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 CHAPTKIl VII. 
 
 WHICH TREATS OF I,(»Vk's YOUNU DHKAM 
 
 The nionn is shining hriffhtly an he qiiitit 
 the ontta^e, a frosty m')nn, nntl the *>ky ia all 
 alight with stars. Mr. V'lino Val«Mitino 
 glancefi approvini^ly upwardn aa he liijhtB a 
 cigar, and opiuctt he will have a pleasant 
 night for hiM return walk. His step ringn 
 like steel on the hard ground, and rt-auht-s 
 the ear of nia(iani, sitting alone and lonely 
 before thf Hre. She glances after him — a 
 tall, slender ti>.'ure — andin that look, for one 
 instant, there tltshea out something strange- 
 ly akin to aversion. P\>r he stan<lH in the 
 atead of her son, her only son, her Wright, 
 brave, handsome, joyous George, the latoliet 
 of whose iihoe9, at hin worst, this stitf young 
 prig is unworthy to loose. Yet the aversion 
 18 unjust ; it is no fault of Vane Valentine's 
 that he is here, he lias neither sought for, nor 
 forced himself into the position, rather his 
 kinship hus been thrust upon him, and Kathu- 
 rine Valentine knows it well. But her npirit 
 is sore to<night She is a very desolate 
 woman, with all her pride, and pedigree, 
 and wealth, an old, a lonely, a widowed, a 
 childless woman. The cruel words of that 
 other — (ieorge'a wife— George's wife I how 
 strange the thought — nay, George's widow — 
 woman he has loved, has married, the mother 
 of his child, ring in her ears, and will not be 
 exercised. 
 
 • You murdered him ! You left him to 
 perish in want I You killed him with your 
 pride I Oh I God, is it true ? George iu 
 want — suffering -dying !' A low, moaning 
 cry, strange, and dreary, and terrible to 
 hear, brea'cs from her lips, she covers her 
 face with her hands there as she sits alone. 
 Here with m eye to see, no ear to hear, her 
 ride may drop from her for a little, and 
 love and memory awake. Firelight and 
 moonlight meet and mingle in the 
 room, a fitting spectral light for ghoiits 
 to nse out of their graves and keep 
 her company. The house is very still, the 
 servants with Mrs. Tinker, are at supper. 
 Vane Valentine is on his way to the circus, 
 excited and stimulated by the thought of 
 beholding the adventuress who erstwhile 
 fooled his infatuated Cousin (ieorge. Here, 
 alone, she is free to break her heart in 
 nilenoe, after the fashion of some strong wo- 
 men. To-morrow, she will he cold and hard, 
 no trace of weakness or tears will betray — 
 to-night she is at liberty, and tears as bitter, 
 as burning as ever childish mother shed, 
 wet the pale cheeks as she sits and thinks. 
 
 It is not such a long story, this tragedy, 
 to thmk over —the tragedies of life are most- 
 ly briefly told. To Katherine Valentine it is 
 
 but as yesterday since she last kixRedlxr 
 Mon — in reality it is eight years sincH he ^'s^e 
 up father, mother, home, friends, naniP, for- 
 tune, — all that men hold best worth the 
 kei'pini;, for sake of the fiink and white face, 
 :he bold, blue cyus. and tlaxt-u hair she saw 
 a f»iw hours ago. 
 
 Let me tuil you the story sho thinks out, 
 sitting here, a bnwed and forsaken ti^iirr*, 
 that Vane Viil(Mitiiie ruminates over, with 
 uontomptuous wonder on his way to the 
 circm — the old story of " young man mar- 
 ried, a young man marred.' 
 
 Some forty years btforo this starry Ootolur 
 night, another Valentine — AuMtin jVonlred 
 Valentine— said good-bye to old E'igl.iiul, t» 
 Valrntine Minor, to his el. lest brother. Sir 
 Rupert, and sailed for the new world to seek 
 his fortune. Literally to seek his fortune, 
 and fully resolved to Hud it. He was twHitty 
 years old, good-louking, well educated, fairiy 
 clever, poBse^sed of plenty of Hritish pluck 
 and 'go,' and backbone ; not afraid of plod- 
 ding, of waiting, of hard work, absolutely 
 determined to succeed. 
 
 That sort of man does succeed. Austin 
 Valentine succeeded beyoml even hia 
 most sanguine expectations, and like all ineu 
 of ability believed implicitly in himselt' He 
 took to trade, the first of the name of V.>len- 
 tine who had ever demeaned himfself. They 
 had been free-booters, raiders, hard fighters, 
 hard hunters, hard spendthrifts , had been 
 soldiers, sailors, rectors, lived hard, died 
 hard, distinguished thet.nselvc's in many 
 ways, but tradesmen none nf them had beer, 
 until young Austin threw off the traditioi » 
 and shackles of centuries, emancipated him- 
 self, took this new departure, demeaned him- 
 self, and made his fortune. 
 
 It was time, too, for the Valentine guinoan 
 had come to a very low ebb Riotous living 
 is apt to empty already depleted coffers. Sir 
 Rupert, with every inch of land mortgaged, 
 the manor rented, wandering about the Ci>d« 
 !)inent, striving drearily to make the nlo^'<; 
 of nothing, was perhaps a greater objtct of 
 compassion than Austin in the shipping ]>u»\- 
 n^ss and fur trade, w'ih wealth roUint; in 
 like a golden river, a millionaire alreadv iit; 
 thirty years. But Sir Rupert did not think 
 so. 
 
 From the heights of his untarnished poai- 
 tion, as one of the oldest baronets of the 
 baronetage, he looked in horror from thw 
 first, on his only brother's decadence, 
 spoke of him always as ' poor Austin,' and 
 to do him justice declined to avail him.self 
 in any way of such ill-gotten gain. Auscin 
 laughed ; he was philosophical as well as 
 shrewd, went ou the even tenor o: his we^ilthy 
 
 O 
 
24 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 way, and finally at three and-thirty looked 
 about him for a wife. 
 
 He f<iuQ(l one there in Toronto ready to 
 hie hand, a rara avis, posHessin^ in herself 
 every qualiiy — he most desired in a wifd — 
 beiuty, family, high breeding, an ancient 
 name. Her father was Colonel Hamilton, 
 Blie was the eldest of a family of daughters 
 scantily provided for. Like the Valentines, 
 the Hamiltons were uncomfortably poor and 
 proud. 
 
 The yonns; lady had many suitors, was a 
 belie and a "toast "in the racher exclusive 
 circle in which she moved, but from the Hrst 
 Austin Valentine stood to win. Nothing 
 succeeds like success. His name, his family, 
 his good looks, his riches, all were in his 
 favonr. 
 
 C)lonel Hamilton moved with the world, 
 and had no patrician scruples in regard to 
 the shipping interest and vast fur trade with 
 Indians and trappers, whatever the stately 
 Katherine may have had. 
 
 But she was a prudent young lady, too ; 
 not so very young, either, seven-and-twenty 
 perhaps, and there were all the younger 
 ones, and lite vfM rather a dingy affair in the 
 crowded hou.:tehold, and, besides, she was 
 not sentimental at all ; but she reclly — well 
 — had a very sincere regard and — and esteem 
 (it is difficult to find a correct word) for Mr. 
 Austin Valentine. 
 
 She said yes when he proposed, and looked 
 quite regal in her white satin and point 
 laces and pearls, every one said, on her wed- 
 ding day. 
 
 Tliey went abroad for a year, met Sir Ru- 
 pert still drearily economizing on the Con- 
 tinent, and the bridegroom received his for- 
 giveness and blessing and two lean fingers 
 to shake. He even promised to come ove. 
 and visit them * some time,' an indeilnice 
 period that never arrived. 
 
 They visited Manor Valentine, which fine 
 ancestral old place Mrs. Austin resented see- 
 ing in the possession of aliens, much more 
 than either of the brothers. 
 
 ' I'll pay off these coDfuunded mortgages, 
 and come and live heie one day,' said Mr. 
 Austin, coolly. 
 
 ' And I shall be Lady Valentiue,' thought 
 hi« bride. 
 
 For all the world knew Sir Rupert never 
 meant to marry— did not care f«»r that sort of 
 thing — was acontirmed invalid, h irpooondriao 
 rather, absorbed in himself ami his many ail- 
 ments. 
 
 R«ut ' creaking doors hang long ' — cnnfirm- 
 «d iiva.ils are mostly ten; c o as of 'i e, and 
 Mrs, Austin never btc<i>ne uiy Lady Valen- 
 i ne. 
 
 On this October night Aual in Valentine 
 
 has lain for years under the turf, while the 
 hypocondriacal elder brother is still on it, and 
 likely indefinitely t'ere to remain. 
 
 They returned to Tor.>nto and tet up house- 
 keening on a princely scale. 
 
 Katherine Valentine amply ren;iinerated 
 herself for the dingy jears of her maiden 
 life. She spent money^aviahly, extravagant- 
 ly, on every whim and capiice, until evei 
 generous Austin winced. Bat he signed the 
 big chf qutis and laughed. 
 
 Let it go— she did honour to him, to his 
 name, to their position as leadets of society 
 — her tastes were eeithetic, and sesthetio 
 tastes are mostly expensive. 
 
 Everything turned to gold in bis hands, 
 he was a modern Midas without the ass' ears. 
 Let her spend as she might the coffers would 
 still be full. 
 
 And then after ten years a son was born. 
 
 When a prince of the blood is born, can- 
 nous boom, bells ring, and the wcrld throws 
 up its hat and hoorays. None of these things 
 were done wheu Katherine Valentine's son 
 came into the world, but it was an event for 
 all that. 
 
 Toronto talked,'there were feasting below 
 stairs, there were congratulations from very 
 august quarters, a governor-general and an 
 earl's daughter were his sponsors, the chris- 
 tenina presents were something exquisite. 
 Sir Rupert wrote a very correct letter from 
 Spa — a weak little pean of rejoicing, but 
 very warmly welcomed. He looked on the 
 boy as his success^T, hoped he would grow 
 up to be an honour to the name of Valen- 
 tiue — had no doubt of it with such a mother, 
 trusted he inherited some of her beauty, 
 must be excused from sending anytliiug 
 more substantial than good wishes, the dis- 
 tance, eto. 
 
 Tney named the ba,by George, after his 
 paternal grandfather — George Hamilton 
 Valentine it stood on the recurd, and the 
 haupiaess of Austin and i.vatLerine Vakn- 
 tine was complete. Surely if ever a child 
 cam.3 iuto this world with the traditional 
 silver spuon in itsniouth, it was this one. He 
 dia iinherit his mother's statuesque beauty — 
 he was an uncommonly handsome child, 
 healthy, merry — a boy to gladden any 
 mother's heart. 
 
 . Years passed— there was no other child. 
 It can be imagined, perhaps, the life this 
 ' golden youth' led, it can hardly be deecrib- 
 ed. And yet he was not spoiled. Idolizing 
 his mother might be, but judicious she 
 was also, and very firm— firmness was a 
 silent point of her character. But she loved 
 him, he was the one crcatuie on eaith she 
 had absolutely loved— she loved him with 
 all her heart aud strength, and miud and 
 
 soul, as sail 
 be loved, 
 human id<| 
 even here 
 pair. An( 
 ception. 
 abr>>ad to 
 wished hii 
 English la(] 
 1 ut ncithi 
 ttteir darl^ 
 himself wia 
 fearless litt 
 laughing ej 
 hair, the 
 laugh in thl 
 a prince bl 
 heirship, h^ 
 with that 
 smile and 
 riti^ht of tfa 
 face— he w 
 would still 
 heir to fabi 
 more easy 
 was in the 
 He grew 
 for every 
 ology undei 
 his dogs, ai 
 studied, or 
 hearts of a 
 mostly he s 
 he had his < 
 aud what it 
 came into l 
 tutor, besid 
 taste for m 
 until his 
 Itioz^rt, di( 
 painted a 1 
 Laiiu verse 
 German, 
 shot up lik 
 eighteen hi 
 much embi 
 Ai a m 
 though eig 
 man Co go 
 Bat the tr 
 looked an 
 dark brigh 
 all the woi 
 teen-yeai'-( 
 enough to 
 He wal 
 out a cho 
 aang de.li( 
 the art of 
 boating, a 
 he did m 
 aud a-half 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 25 
 
 soul, as sainta love God, as He ab^ve should 
 be loved. No human heart can make a 
 human idol, and not pay the penalty 
 even here below, in heart-break and des- 
 pair. And Madam Valentine was no ex- 
 ception. She would not ,have him setit 
 abr<)ad to school. Hi* uncle, Sir Rupert, 
 wished him to go to Eton and Oxford, as an 
 English lad, and a future baronet should, 
 1 ut neither father nor mothe:' oould bear 
 their darling out of their sif^ht. The boy 
 himself wished it ; he was a bold, bright, 
 fearless little fellow at ten, with big, blauk, 
 laughing eyes, a curly crop of black brown 
 hair, the whitest teeth, the most genial 
 laugh in the world. Even if he hid not been 
 a prince by right divine of his b«rth and 
 heirship, he would still have been charming 
 with that frank bonny face, and winsome 
 smile and glance. He was born a prince by 
 rii^ht of that kingly brow, and handsome 
 face— he won all hearts— even a beggar he 
 would still have been barn tv conqueror. As 
 heir to fabulous wealth, to a title, it is again 
 more easy to imagine than describe what he 
 was in the provincial city of Toronto. 
 
 He grew and prospered ; he had masters 
 for every lanG;uage, every science, every 
 ology under the sun. He had his horse, ana 
 his dogs, and he drove and he rode, and he 
 scudieti, or let it aloue, and made glad the 
 hearts of a doting man and woman. But 
 mostly he studied, he was fairly industrious, 
 he had his own notions of noblesse oblige, 
 and what it became a prince to know ere he 
 came into hia kingdom. He had a resident 
 tucor. besides these masters, he had a pretty 
 taste for music, played the piano and sang, 
 until his mother thought him a modern 
 ]\Iuz^rt, did himself credit on the violin, 
 painted a little, sketched a great deal, wrote 
 Laiiu verses with fluency, spoke French and 
 German. With it all he grew and grew ; 
 shoe up like Jack's beanstalk indeed, and at 
 eighteen ntood tive-feet-eleven, in his very 
 much embroidered velvet slippers. 
 
 A4 a matter of course he broke hearts, 
 thuugh eighteen is full youug for a geutle> 
 man to go energetically into that businefls. 
 But the truth is he could not help it. He 
 looked and — played the mischief 1 Those 
 dark bright eyes that laughed so frankly on 
 all the world, wrought sad havoc with six- 
 teen-year-old hearts— indeed with hearts old 
 enough to know better. 
 
 He waltzed — ' oh I like an angel I' cried 
 out a chorus of young soprano voices. He 
 sang dftlioiously. He was past master of 
 the art of croquet, of flirtation, of billiards, 
 buatiog, archery, bane-ball ; what was there 
 he did not do to perfection 1 At eighteen 
 and ahalf, his mother was not the only lady 
 
 in the Canaf^ian universe who thought the 
 Buu aioue with his rising, and set when his 
 bewitderine presence disappeared. 
 
 And just here, when Elen was at its 
 fairest, sunniest, sweetest, the serpent came, 
 and after ii'itr* — the deluge ! 
 
 • Mother,' said George Hamilton Valen- 
 tine, one day at breakfast, ' I think I shall 
 take a run over the border, and spend a 
 week or two in New York. Parker can 
 come, too, if you think the wicked Gotham- 
 ites will gobble your only one up alive. 
 Too prolonged a course of Toronto is apt to 
 pall on a fiivolous min-l.' 
 
 Of course, she said Yes. He did pretty 
 much as he pleased in everything l)y this 
 time. Even her gentle, silken chain was 
 felt as a fetter, and rebelled against. He 
 took the discreet resident tutor, Mr. Parker, 
 and a drawing-room car for New York. But 
 he did not return in a week, nor in two, nor 
 in three ; and at the end of five, Mr. Parker 
 wrote a letter, that fell like a bursting 
 bomb into the palatial mansion at home, and 
 caused a message to Hash over the wires with 
 electric swiftness, summoning the wanderers 
 back. 
 
 Tney came back. Nothing was said. A 
 glance of intelligence passed between madam 
 and the tutor ; then she looked furtively, 
 auxioauly at her son. He was precisely the 
 same as ever, in high h&alth, Hue spirits, and 
 full of his recent flyiaj:! trip. The mother 
 drew a deep breath of relief. There was no 
 change that she could see. Only Mrs. Tin- 
 kftr, whohadwashtd Master Gborgie's face 
 at tive years old, and combed his hair, and 
 kis8i,d him vo the point of extinction, saw a 
 change. She did more ; she saw her photo, 
 graph. A oontidant George must have ; and 
 after a bundled extorted vows of secrecy, 
 reducing Mrs. Tinker almost to the verge of 
 tears with protestations of eternal silence he 
 forced from her, he showed her the photo- 
 graphs. And Mrs. Tinker looked at them, 
 and shrieked a shriek, and covered her shock- 
 ed old eyes with her virtuous old hands. For 
 — for the hussy had no clothts on, or next to 
 none, or what Mrs. Tinker considered none 
 — I^ver having seen the Black Crook, or a 
 ballot, or anything enlightened or Panaiaa 
 in her stupid old life. 
 
 ' Oh ! Master (ieorge, my dear, how cau 
 you ! The wicked, improper youug — young 
 person !' cried .N.rs. Tinker, in strong repro- 
 bation ; ' take them away. Master Georgie, 
 my dear— do'ee, now. I wonder at you for 
 showing me such things I I do, indee<l !' 
 
 ' Oh, come, I say 1' ories George, but 
 being only a boy, and nearly as innocent as 
 Mrs. Tinker heiself. be blushes a tire red 
 too. ' Look here, you dear old goose: Doa't 
 
 
 k 
 
 -«*. 
 
26 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 you see she is in tights ? How could she 
 perforin on the trapeza with petticoats 
 flapping about her heels ? Here is one. Now 
 look at this ; she has a dress on her — well, 
 a costume ; they're all in co»tume. Bother 
 your modesty I You're old enough to kaow 
 better ! Look here, I say ; did you ever iu 
 all your life see any one half so lovely ?' 
 
 ' I never saw any one half so iudecAut ? 
 Do you call that a dress — that thing ? Wliy, 
 it don't cover her nasty knees ! Oh, my 
 dear, my dear, take 'em away, and put 'em 
 in the tire ! She mus^t be a little t.ollop to 
 be took in that — that scandalous costoom, if 
 thats it's name. What would your blessed 
 mamma say, Master George, if Bhe saw them 
 sinful pictures ?' 
 
 • I say, look here,' says Master George, 
 rather alarmed, ' don't you go and say any- 
 thing to the mater about this. You're as 
 good as sworn, yuu know. And I'll thank 
 you not to call names, Mrs. Tinker. She's 
 no more a trollop than — ' than you are," is 
 on the point of George's tongue, but having 
 a general respect for old atje, and a very par- 
 ticuhr respect for Mrs. Tinker, he suppress- 
 es it, and stands looking rather sulky. 
 
 'Bless the dear boy !' cries Mrs. Tinker, 
 mollified at sight of her darling in dudgeon ; 
 *I won't, then, only, if she's a friend of 
 yours. Master Georgie, do beg of her to put 
 on her clothes next time ! Do'ce now, like 
 a lovey !' 
 
 George laughs ; it is not in his sunny, 
 boyish nature to be irate for more than a 
 minute at a time. 
 
 ;ril tell her,' he says, gleefully; 'she'll 
 enjoy the joke. Tinker, she's just the 
 jolliest, prettiest, sweetest little soul the 
 sun shines on to-day ! Aud she's the dearest 
 f'-ianA I i^ave in the world.' 
 
 'Ah!' says Tinker, with a deep groan. 
 What's her name. Master George ?' 
 
 ' Mimi ; is'ut it a pretty name ? It 
 seems to suit her somehow. Mimi 
 Trilloii. 
 
 He pauses ; a dreamy, rapturous look 
 comes into his eyes ; a Hush passes over his 
 face. 'Mimi: Mimi?' he leoeats, softly, 
 to himself. * % 
 
 Mrs. Tinker knows the symptoms. 
 At an early period of her career 
 the fatal disease attacked herself. 
 Tinker was the object, and she at- 
 tained Tinker. He is Head and gone now, 
 and it is thirty years ago, but Mrs. Tinker 
 remember and a vague and sudden, aud 
 great dread for her boy stirs within her. 
 
 ' What is she. Master George ?' she asks 
 next.' 
 
 ' Well, she's — she's a pmfessional lady/ 
 answers George. 
 
 The reply does not come fluently. He 
 looked tenderly down at the picture he 
 holds, as if he would like to kiss it while he 
 speaks. 
 
 ' She is not rich, she — she work^ for her 
 living. Shti's— # sort of actress. But she's 
 the dearest, prettiest little love in all the 
 world.* 
 
 ' She looks like a jumping Jack !' cries 
 out Mrs, Tinker, in the bitterness of her 
 feeling, ' and a misbehaved jumping Jack at 
 that !' 
 
 With which she goes, and George eoes, too, 
 laughing. She feels that duty bids her tell 
 all this to Madam Valentine, but loyalty to 
 Master Geor^>. forbids ; she cannot bring 
 herself te tell tales of her boy. So she says 
 nothing, but fears much, and tru$>t8 to time 
 to fet crooked things straight, and to absence 
 to make this youthful swain f )rget. 
 
 But he does not for&;et , neitner does the 
 professional lady he met in New York, do- 
 ing the Hying trapeze, For one day, some 
 two months latter, in pulling out her band- 
 kerchief, he pulled a letter out of his pocket, 
 and quit the toom without noticing it. It 
 is hiu mother who chances to pick it up. The 
 peaky, school -girlish looking scrawl sur- 
 prises her. 
 
 ' Dear old Georgie,' it begins, and the sig- 
 nature is ' Your ever loving little Jumping 
 Jack ! 
 
 Madam Valentine, inexpressibly horrified 
 reads it through, her face flushing with 
 haughty amaze aud disgust. Then another 
 feeling — fear — comes, and turns her white to 
 the very lips. Illy spelt, illy written, vulgar 
 in every word, it is yet a love-letter — a love- 
 letter in which a promised marriage is spoken 
 of. The signature puzzles her. George has 
 told his beloved Mrs. Tmker's fancy name 
 for her, and it has tickled the erratic humour 
 of the vivacious Mimi. She has adopted it. 
 
 ' Some horrible pet name, no doubt,' the 
 lady thinks.. ' Gracious Heaven 1 what a 
 strange infatuation for George !' 
 
 Nothing is said. Mr. Valentine is con- 
 sulted, is shocked, is enraged, is panic 
 stricken, but his wife is convinced it is not 
 yet too late. She will take him away, and 
 at once— at once ! They will go to Europe ; 
 he shall make the tour of the world, if 
 necessary, with Sir Rupert ; he shall never 
 return to Toronto. What a mercy — what a 
 direct interposition of Providence — that this 
 letter fell into her hands when it did ! 
 
 George is told that the wish of his heart 
 shall be gratified. He shall throw up study 
 and travel for the next three years. Uncle 
 Rupert wishes it so much I She will go 
 with him to Spa, where Sir Rupert at pre- 
 sent 18, will spf^ud the winter in Italy, aud 
 
 return home 
 delighted ? 
 
 George d 
 months ago 
 change in si: 
 and a good c 
 room and v 
 takes it to t 
 
 Preparatii 
 week they \ 
 two ditya be 
 blow falls, 
 night and — 
 moonlight fl 
 well filled ] 
 border and 
 trapezist, tl 
 girl gradual 
 back slums i 
 
 He is gon< 
 for two wee! 
 marriage is t 
 a copy of th( 
 notice, heav 
 petitioning I 
 of his beaute 
 ress — ho wa 
 come to the 
 It matters n 
 — as stiiinles 
 been, it wot 
 has befalldn 
 d ning can I 
 in these ga 
 youth, and i 
 but still bn 
 been cherisb 
 feet thing 
 That radiau 
 Now there c 
 ruin, utter 
 them as a gi 
 curse him in 
 He is worse 
 worse. Th( 
 his name fr( 
 from sight . 
 ever belong* 
 to atoms — t] 
 ashes, and ^ 
 them to for J 
 stirred to it 
 a nine days' 
 baled breatl 
 patrician fan 
 a day. 
 
 And BO Gi 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 27 
 
 ntly. He 
 picture he 
 c while he 
 
 ks for her 
 But she's 
 ia all the 
 
 ck 1' cries 
 )S8 of her 
 ig Jack at 
 
 goes, too, 
 (ia her tell 
 loyalty to 
 mot bring 
 I she says 
 ts to time 
 to absence 
 b. 
 
 !r does the 
 York, do- 
 day, some 
 
 her hand- 
 lis pocket, 
 ing it. It 
 it up. The 
 icrawl 8ur- 
 
 id the sig- 
 Jumpiug 
 
 horrified 
 iiDg with 
 another 
 sr white to 
 en, vulgar 
 Br — a love- 
 ;e is spoken 
 jreorge has 
 aucy name 
 tic humour 
 adopted it. 
 luubt,' the 
 
 I what a 
 
 ine is con- 
 is panic 
 ed it ia not 
 
 away, and 
 ;o Europe ; 
 
 world, if 
 shall never 
 y — what a 
 — that this 
 lid ! 
 
 ' his heart 
 w up study 
 rs. Unole 
 \he will go 
 )ert at pre- 
 
 Italy, aud 
 
 return home in the spring. Is not George 
 delighted ? 
 
 George does not look delighted. Six 
 months ago he would have done t.o, but we 
 change in six months. He looks reflective, 
 and a good deal put out, and goes up to his 
 room and writes rather a long letter, and 
 takes it to the post himself. Then he waits. 
 
 Preparations begin, go on rapidly ; in a 
 week they will be ready to start. But just 
 two days before the week ends the terrible 
 blow falls. He goes up to his room one 
 night and — is seen no more ! He makes a 
 moonlight Hitting, with a knapsack and a 
 well tilled pocket-book. He is * o'er the 
 border and awa' wi' — Mimi Trillon, the 
 trapezist, the tight-rcpe dancer, the ' fair 
 girl graduate with i^olden hair' from the 
 back slums of Ndw York 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 *:■. .'■•■■'' .-• 
 LOST FOR ^A WOMAN. .lii. Ir^.j 
 
 He is gone ! They do not hear from him 
 for two weeks, and long days before that the 
 marriage is an accomplished fact. He sends 
 a copy of the Herald containing the marriage 
 notice, heavily inked, and a lengthy letter 
 petitioning forgiveness — a long pean of praise 
 of his beauteous bride. He calls her an act- 
 ress — ho wants to let them down gently, and 
 came to the circus and the trapeze by degrees. 
 Ic matters not — were she a queen of tragedy 
 — as stainless as some queens of tragedy have 
 been, it would still matter not. Utter ruin 
 has hef.-illdn, disgrace so deep that no con- 
 d ning can be possible. He might have died 
 lu these gallant and golden days of his 
 youth, and their hearts might have broken, 
 but still broken proudly, and his memory 
 been cherished as tbe one beautiful aud per- 
 fect thing of earth— too perfect to last. 
 That radiant memory would have consoled. 
 Now there can be nothing of this. Black 
 ruin, utter misery, deepest shame, covers 
 them as a garment — it is in their hearts to 
 curse him in the fi.-st frenzy of their woe. 
 He is worse than dead, a thousand times 
 worse. They burn his portrait, they erase 
 his name from the family Bible, they hang 
 from eight and existence everything that 
 ever belonged to him, they tear his letters 
 to atoms — they would cover their heads with 
 ashes, and wear sackcloth if it could help 
 them to forget. The world of Toronto is 
 stirred to its deepest depths ; it is more than 
 a nine days' wonder -it is whispered with 
 baled breath, and awe-stricken faces, in very 
 patrician families indeed, for many and many 
 a day. 
 
 And so George Valentine gives the world 
 
 for love, and his pkce knows him no more. 
 
 His father and iiother live and bear their 
 misery and shame, and after the first blow 
 show a brave front to the world. It is in 
 their nature. They hold themselves more 
 defiantly erect if possiblo, but he W( uld be a 
 brave man who would venture to name their 
 son to either of them. And years go by, and 
 richer and still richer Austin Valentine 
 grows, and Sir Rupert wri';es from Nice in a 
 despondent strain, that hf is breaking fast 
 and that the actresn st'mds a chance of 
 w.riting herself Lady Valentine all too soon. 
 Lady Valentine she may be — curse her ! 
 Austin Valentine mutters, for he, too, is a 
 broken man — but never h»'r to his millions. 
 He bethinks him all at once of a youthfnl 
 cousin, also a Valentine, half forgotten until 
 now, very poor, and living in a remote part 
 of Cornwall, and sends for bim at once, with 
 the ansurance that if he pleases him he shall 
 be his heir. 
 
 Vane Valentine comes, wondering, and 
 haraly able to realize his fairy future. He 
 has been brought up in poverty anil obscurity 
 — has never expected anything else. Three 
 lives stand between him and the baronetcy. 
 Sir Rupert, Austin, George— what chance has 
 he ? Take away these three lives and give 
 him the title— what is tl ere for him to keep 
 it upon? No, Vane Valentine has hoped 
 for nothing, and Fate vbrusts fortune in a 
 moment into his hand». 
 
 He comes — a slim, dark youth of twenty, 
 with good manners, and not much to say for 
 himself. A little stiff and formal, his uncle 
 (so he is told to term Mr. Austin Valentine) 
 finds hii^^^ — a contrast in all ways to the heir 
 who 'i lost. All the better for that, perhaps; 
 no chance trick of resemblance will ever 
 make their hearts bleed. It is a young man 
 this, who will never do a foolish, or a gener- 
 ous, or a reckless, or an unBel6»)h thing ; who 
 will weigh well the name and status of the 
 lady he marries, whose heart will never run 
 away with his head. 
 
 'The heart of a cucumber fried 
 snow,' quotes contemptuously. Madam 
 
 'We need not be 
 a pompous young 
 
 afraid of 
 prig the 
 
 m 
 
 Valentine, 
 him. What 
 little fool is ! 
 
 But Vane Valentine never dreams of 
 the estimate these rich relations of his 
 hold him in. He thinks exceedingly 
 Will of himself, and infers, with the 
 complacent simplicity ot extreme con- 
 ceit that all the world does the same. The 
 Valentine blue blood runs in his calm veins, 
 hid manners and morals are of the beat, his 
 temper well under aontrol, his taste in dress 
 verging on perfection, his health good with- 
 out being vulgarly robust, his education 
 
 
 0. 
 
 n 
 
28 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 leaves nothing to be desired — what more will 
 you ? * 
 
 He accepts with complacent ease the gold- 
 en showers Fortune rains upon him, does not 
 oppress his benefactress wich words of grati- 
 tude, feels that Destiny has come to a sense 
 of her duty, and that the ' king has got his 
 own again.' 
 
 He writes long letters to Ccrnwall to hi*; 
 sister Dorothea, who has trained hiin since 
 the death of his parents in early boyhood, 
 and to a certain Cousin Camilla, of whom he 
 is very fond, and whose picture he wears ip 
 a locket. 
 
 And Austin and Katherine Valentine ac- 
 cept him for what he is, and make the most 
 of him ; and kll the time the aching void is 
 there in their hearts, and achea and acheb 
 wearily the long year round. 
 
 Mr. Valentine visibly droops, breaks, re- 
 tires from business, and begins that other 
 business in whose performance we must all 
 one day engage — the business of dying. 
 
 The name of the lost idol is never spoken 
 between this father and raother. If the 
 waters of Lethe were no fable, thay would 
 drink of it greedily, and so forget. But they 
 remember only the more, perhaps, for this 
 unbroken silence. 
 
 Six months after the arrival of Vane Val- 
 entine his twentieth birthday occurs, and for 
 the first time since the thunderbolt had 
 riven their heart-i, a party is given at Valen- 
 tine House, in honor of the occasion. Ic is a 
 dinner party, to which, in addition to the 
 young people invited to meet the heir, muny 
 very great personages are bidden and come. 
 It is a dinner party "that Mrs. Tinker for one, 
 never forgets. Something ocours that night 
 that is marked with a white stone forever 
 after in her life. 
 
 No one has mourned the lost heir more 
 deeply, more despairingly than she. Hers 
 is gentler grief than that of the parents, it is 
 unmixed with anger or bitterness — her tears 
 flow at first in ceaseless streams. 
 
 She has loved her boy almost as dearly as 
 his own mother, only with a love that has in 
 it no pride, no baser alloy with its pure 
 metal. She has loved and she has lost. 
 
 She is a stout, unromantic-looking old wo- 
 man, but to love and lose is as bitter to her 
 faithful heart, it may be, as though she were 
 a slim, sentimental maid of sixteen. 
 
 Her handsome Mastei George, her bonny 
 boy, the apple of her eye and the pride of 
 her life —what was the world without him I 
 
 And on this night of the birthday fete 
 some bitter drops rain from the royal old 
 eyes at the thought of the days and the heir 
 forever gone. 
 
 She has reseated the coming of this young 
 
 usurper from the first, but she has resented 
 in silence, of course — she has never liked 
 him, she would feel in as trea^ ou to her lost 
 darling to like him even if he were likeable. 
 
 But be is not, he is black- a- vised, he is 
 'aughty, he has a nasty stiff way with 
 servants, he is stingy, he loves money. 
 
 Yes, he loves money Mrs. Tinker decides 
 with disgust, he has been brought up to 
 count every penny he spends, and he counts 
 them yet. He will not let himself want for 
 anything, but he never gives away, he never 
 throws a beggar a penny, nor a servant a tip. 
 He is profuse in bis 'Aw thanks,' but this 
 politeness is the only thing about him that he 
 is lavish of. 
 
 So on this night of the dinner party, when 
 Mr. Vane is twenty', and all the city is called 
 upon to feast and rejoice, Mrs. Tinker sits in 
 her own comfortable little room, and wipes 
 her eyes and her glasses, and looks at the fire 
 and shakes her head, and is dismally retro« 
 spective. 
 
 It is a March night, and the wildest of its 
 kind. It is late in the month, and March is 
 going out like a lion, roaring like Bottom, the 
 weaver, ' so that it would do any man's heart 
 good to hear him.' 
 
 It might, if the man were seated like 
 Susan Tinker at a cheery coal fire, a cup of 
 tea, and a plate of buttered toast at her elbow, 
 but ifhe were breasting the elemental war, as 
 was the man who slowly made bis way to the 
 side entrance of the great house— it also 
 might not. 
 
 A tall man, in a rough great-coat, and fur 
 cap, striding along in the teeth of the wind 
 and sleet, over tb'^^ slippery city pavements, 
 and who rang the bell of the side-door, and 
 shrunk back into the shadow as it was an- 
 swered. 
 
 One of the nien-seivants opened it, and 
 peered out into the wild 'wackuess of the 
 night. 
 
 •Well, my man,' he said, espying the tall, 
 dark shadow, and ' what may yuu want, you 
 know ?' 
 
 ' I want to see Mrs. Tinker. She lives 
 here, doesn't she ?' the shadow replied. 
 
 ' Well, she do, ' the footman admits, lei- 
 surely ; • but whether she'll want to see you 
 — what's your business, my good follah ?' 
 
 •My business is v ih Mrs. Tinker. Just 
 go and tell her I have a message for her, I 
 think she will be giad to hear — my good 
 fellah,' in excellent itnitatior of the pomp- 
 ous tone of Plush. ' And look sharp, will 
 you. It is not exactly a balmy evening in 
 June. * 
 
 • Well, it's not,' says Plush, reflecting as 
 if that fact strikes him now for the first 
 time. 'I'll tell her,' and gues. 
 
 w 
 
 The shadj 
 door and 
 stairs, and n 
 tion are on. 
 where, long 
 moment, jtai 
 and looks w 
 these gleamii 
 
 "I note the 
 
 Like the flo\ 
 But deal iu n 
 
 Forever and 
 For never a, In 
 
 No eye looks 
 On ! aweut be 
 dreanid, 
 
 Undt r the b 
 The sweet-see 
 
 A strange, 
 ^Oh, God 
 forgotten ! 
 and I — well, 
 mother— but 
 hearts are wr 
 always more 
 both her lov 
 Forgotten 1 
 than to be foi 
 
 * You want 
 gentle voice, 
 well, and a so 
 it again aftei 
 under the viso 
 Tinker. She 
 man has been 
 No one is neai 
 
 ' Hush !' he 
 not scream, 
 forgotten me, 
 
 He lifts bis 
 upon his face, 
 never, never ! 
 a worldless sol 
 stands with di 
 utterable, mafc 
 
 ' Dear old f r 
 It is your 
 Master Georgii 
 
 ' Oh, my des 
 Mrs. Tinker c 
 wrinkled chee 
 beyond all woi 
 own dear, deai 
 
 He takes t! 
 worn, and kiss 
 
 •(Always my 
 old friend 1 T 
 bers me. It i 
 —more than I 
 
 ' Oh, my owi 
 bright, beautif 
 that ! Don't'e« 
 ieart. Oh, Ma 
 
LOST FOR A WOMA^. 
 
 29 
 
 resented 
 er liked 
 her lost 
 likeable. 
 ;d, he is 
 ay with 
 
 'y- ., 
 
 r decides 
 it up to 
 le counts 
 waDt for 
 he never 
 mt a tip. 
 ' but this 
 a that he 
 
 ty, when 
 ia called 
 er aits in 
 nd wipes 
 it the tire 
 Uy retro- 
 
 leett of its 
 March is 
 ttom, the 
 in 'a heart 
 
 ited like 
 a cup of 
 ler elbow, 
 ^1 war, as 
 ay to the 
 —it also 
 
 and far 
 
 the wind 
 
 vementa, 
 
 oor, and 
 
 was an- 
 
 it, and 
 of the 
 
 the tall, 
 v&nt, you 
 
 5he lives 
 
 led. 
 itp, lei- 
 see you 
 
 ah?' 
 
 r. Jnst 
 
 ar her, I 
 
 my good 
 pomp- 
 
 w 
 
 ill 
 
 arp, 
 (reniug in 
 
 ectinc as 
 the first 
 
 The shadow le<»n8 wearily against the 
 door and waits, Dinner is over above 
 Btaira, and music, and cotfee, and conversa- 
 tion are on. Some liner he has read, some- 
 where, long before, and for>;otten until this 
 moment, dtart up in his mind, as he stands 
 and looks with tired, haggard eyes, up at 
 these gleaming and lace draped windows : 
 
 "I note the flow of the weary years 
 
 Like the flow <«f this flowiiii; river, 
 But deat in my heart are its iiopea and fears 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 Fur never a light in the distance gleams. 
 
 No eye looks out for the rover. 
 Oh ! Bweet be jour sleep, luve, sweet be your 
 dieanid. 
 
 Undt r the blossoming clov< r. 
 The sweet-scented, beu-hauuted clover I" 
 
 A strange, sudden pang rends his heart. 
 
 ' Oh, God !' he cries out, ' am I indeed 
 forgotten ! They feast and make merry, 
 aud I — well, I have earned it all. Even my 
 mother— but mothers forget too, when their 
 hearts are wruug aud broken, and she had 
 always more pride than love. And through 
 both her love and piide, I stabbed her. 
 Forgotten ! what other fate have I deserved 
 than to be forgotten.' 
 
 • You wanted me, my friend ?' says a 
 gentle voice, a dear old voice he remembers 
 well, and a sob rises in his throat as he hears 
 it again after long years. He looks from 
 under the viaor of his fur cap, aud sees Mrs. 
 Tinker. She is alone, the tall, plush young 
 man has been summoned to upper spheres. 
 No one is near. He takes a step forward. 
 
 ' Hush !' he says ; ' do not be alarmed — do 
 not scream. Look at me — have you, too, 
 forgotten me, Mrs. Tinker?' 
 
 He lifts his fur cap ; the gas-flare falls 
 upon his face. Forgotten him !l Oh ! never, 
 never, never ! 8he claps her hands, there is 
 a worldless sobbing sound, not a suream. She 
 stands with dilated eyes, and joy— joy un- 
 utterable, making the old face beautitui. 
 
 ' Dear old friend, yes, I see you remember. 
 It is your suane-grace — your runaway 
 Master Georgie come back.' 
 
 ♦ Oh, my dear I my dear I my dear !' is all 
 Mrs. Tinker can say. And now down the 
 wrinkled cheeks tears roll — tears of joy 
 beyond all words. ' Oh 1 my own boy ! my 
 own dear, dear, dearest Master Georgie 1' 
 
 He takes the old hand, wrinkled, toil- 
 worn, and kisses it. 
 
 •[Always my friend— my true, good, loyal 
 old friend ! Thank God ! some one remem- 
 bers me. It is more than I deserve though 
 —more than I ever expected.' 
 
 ' Oh, my own love ! my owh dear, brave, 
 bright, beautiful boy I don't'ee talic like 
 that ! Don't'ee, now— it do nigh break my 
 heart. Oh, Master G-iorge ! Master George ! 
 
 I'm fit to die wi' joy. I know'd you'd come 
 back to see the mother some day — 1 always 
 said 80. Thanks and praise be I But come 
 in, come in. It's your own house, and I'm 
 keepin' you here.' 
 
 ' My own house, Mrs. Tinker !' he says, 
 with a dreary laugh. ♦ xdy gooil soul, I h *ve 
 not a garret in the world I can call my 
 own.' 
 
 But he lets her lead him, and shivers as he 
 passes out of the bleak bleety uighc. 
 
 • Oh, my dear, how wet you are, and how 
 pale, aud thin, and fagged-out like, now that 
 1 see you in the li«ht ! My dear, my dear, 
 my own Master Gdorge ! how changed you 
 are 1' 
 
 ' Changed I' he says. ' Good heaven, yes I 
 
 If you knew the life I have led But we 
 
 canuoc stand talking here — some of the ser- 
 vants will be passing, and 1 must not be 
 seen. Take me somewhere where we can 
 talk undisturbed, aud where I mav get 
 warm ; I am chilled to the bone.' 
 
 Her eyes are luuniug over again. The 
 change in him ! On, the change ;u him ! — 
 so worn, so jaded, so hollo\« -eyed, ao poorly 
 clad, ho utterly fallen from his high estate ! 
 
 S^e leads the way to her liccie sitting- 
 rooi.\, aud he sinks wearily into the easy 
 chair she places for him beioro the fire, aud 
 places his hand over his eyes as if the leap- 
 ing cheery light dazzled aud blinded him. 
 
 'Sit thee there Master George, and don't 
 'ee talk for a bit. Best and get warm, and 
 I'll go and fetch summat to eat.' 
 
 Ho is well disposed to obey ; he is worn 
 out m body and mind. He has been recent- 
 ly ill, he has eaten scaioely anything all day, 
 he h«s hardly a penny in his pocket, and 
 ' the world is all before him where to chose.' 
 
 He sits and half sleeps, so utterly weary is 
 he, so sweet to him are the rest and the 
 waraith of the tire. But he wakes up as 
 Mrs. Tinker returns laden with hot cotitse, 
 chicken, meats, bread and wine. His eyes 
 lignt with the gladness of " hard grinding 
 hunger. 
 
 * Thanks, my dear old woman I you have 
 not forgotten my tastes. By Jove I I am 
 glad you brought me something, for I am un- 
 commonly sharp set.' 
 
 She watches him eating and drinking with 
 the keen delight women feel in minister- 
 ing to the bodily wants of men they love. 
 He pushes the things away at last, and laughs 
 at her rapt look. 
 
 ♦I wonder if Ne'er-do-well ever had such a 
 loving old heart to cling to him before," he 
 says ; 'the world is a better place, Mrs. Tin- 
 ker, for having such women as you iu it. 
 I wonder if 1 might smoku in this matrou- 
 ly bower without deseoraticn now t ' 
 
 
 a 
 
 •■■N 
 
30 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 It is aa anci-climax, bat it does Mrs. 
 Tiaktti-'a htiart Kood. Smoke! Yea, from 
 now UQtil Bunriae if he likes. 
 
 • Weil, not quite so loug as that. By sun- 
 rise 1 expect thiit I and the Belle O'Brien will 
 be wtill ou our way to — but never mind where 
 — ^f you don't know you can't tell. I've a 
 berth as fore mast hand, being a friend — 
 after a fashion— of the captain's, and am ^o* 
 iug lo work my passage out to— never mind 
 Where again, Mrs. Tinker. If I live and 
 prosper, and redeem the past one there, 1 11 
 come bauk and see you one day, and make a 
 clean bieasD of it. If not— and it is more 
 than likely not— I will have seen you to-uii{ut 
 at least. But I'm off in an hour or two, and 
 that is why I am here — to take away with 
 me a last look of your good, plump, mother- 
 ly old face — bless it 1 Because you bee, in 
 the words of the song," it may be for years, 
 and it may be forever." And very likely 
 it \* id be forever, for I'm an unlucky beg- 
 gar, and like Mrs. Gummidge, 'thinks >;o 
 couciary with me.'" 
 
 He laui^hs ; it is almost like the mellow 
 laugh of old, but it makes faithful iSuuan 
 Tinker's heart ache. 
 
 • Oh, my dear ! my clear 1 You a sailor ! 
 You in want of anything, and hun — that 
 there young upstart — ' 
 
 • Ah ! 1 know about that,' George says, 
 quickly, ' I heard down yonder in the town. 
 It is his birthday, and' there are high jinks 
 in consequence up stairs. What's he like — 
 this successor of mine ? ' 
 
 ' He's black and stiff, and that high* 
 stomached, and proud of himself, and I can't 
 abide the sight of him. He's not fit to black 
 your shoes, that he ain't, Master George. 
 Oh I my d*iar, it is not too late to come 
 back and do well. Let me go up and tell 
 my mistress — ' 
 
 But he stops her with a motion of his 
 hand. 
 
 *No, Tinker, you shall tell no one. I 
 have not returned to whine and beg. Not 
 that I would not go down on my knees, 
 mind you, to crave their pardon for the 
 heart-break I have caused them if that were 
 all. But it would not be all— it would be 
 misunderstood. I might be repulsed, and 
 — and I know myself — that might awake 
 the devil within me. I would be thought 
 to have returned for the money — a comfort- 
 able home — I could not stand that. I wrote 
 again and again that first year to ask their 
 forgiveness — I never asked, nor meant to 
 ask for anything besides, and they never 
 answered me. A man can't go on doing 
 that sort of thing forever. iSome day — 
 months from this — you will tell them if you 
 like, and if you think they would care to 
 
 hear. Tell my mother I ask her pardon 
 with all my soul ; tell her I love her with 
 all my heai-i;. Tell her I would give my 
 life — ay, twice over, to undo the past. 
 But tell nothing to-night. I was home- 
 ficK, Mrs. Tinker ; I wanted to see you — 
 I really think I wanted to see you most of 
 all. Think of that — a fellow being in love 
 with you — and you fifty-five, isn'c it ? ' 
 
 Ue laughs aKain, but the dark bright eyes 
 that look at the fire see it dimly, as if 
 through water. In the pause comes the 
 sound of singing from up stairs — a man's 
 voice — a tenor, tolerably strong and tuneful, 
 but Mrs. Tinker listens with a look of much 
 distaste, and makes a face, as though she 
 were tasting something very nasty indeed. 
 
 ' It's him i' she says, iu explanation, and 
 George smiles ; he knows she means Vane 
 Valentine. 
 
 ' Le roi est mut — vive le roi,' is evidently 
 not your motto- you foolish old person,' he 
 remarks ; ' don't you know a live dog is 
 belter than a dead lion ? Be wise in your 
 advancing years, my dear old nurse, and 
 cultivate Mr. Vane Valentine. He is to be 
 a baronet, and a mdlionaire, and a very 
 great personage one day, let me tell you.' 
 
 He rises, puts his pipe in his pocket, and 
 stretches out his hand for his hat. She 
 rises, too, with a sort of cry. 
 
 * Not going ! Not like this I Oh, Master 
 George, uear Master George, not like this 1' 
 
 ' Like this, my friend. See 1 I am weak 
 as water already — don't unman me altogether 
 — don't make it harder foi. rae than yon can 
 help. It uiust be. I have seen you. and I 
 am satisfied. Tell them by and by — ' 
 
 He stops, for she is crying as if her very 
 heart would brekk. 
 
 ' Ah, me 1 ah, me !' she sobs, ' how shall 
 I bear it? How can I ever let him got 
 Master George, Master George! Oh, my 
 boy, that I have rocked in these arms many 
 and many a time — that has gone to sleep ou 
 my breast, that 1 love like my own tlesh and 
 tlood ! Oh, my heart ! how will I let him 
 go?' 
 
 She cries fo dreadfully that he puts down 
 his hat and takes her in his arms, and tries 
 to soothe her. His own eyes are wet. She 
 cries as if indeed her old heart were break- 
 ing. 
 
 ' I muat go,' ^he says, at last, almost 
 wildly. ' My dear, dear nurse, have a little 
 mercy ! Stop crying, for Heaven's sake ! I 
 can't stand this.' 
 
 There is such desperate trouble in his 
 tone, in his face, that it pierces through all 
 her sorrow, and checks its flow fur a moment. 
 In that moment he snatches up his hat. 
 
 ' Good by, good by !' he exclaims, ' God 
 
 "688 you, 
 come ^'Hck 
 »ny one «!» 
 A(jii liio 
 iug down t 
 of Vaue ^ 
 door opens, 
 
 'Forfhefer 
 vale. 
 
 And there's 
 la 1 
 With a' F 
 
 But thei 
 Tnn ling dc 
 and shuttin 
 is alone, a 
 against the 
 through tt 
 there is the 
 murmur of 
 Valentine h 
 The dim 
 does the n 
 pose of mai 
 and consid 
 training. 
 
 Mrs. Tin! 
 
 keeps her b< 
 
 face very j 
 
 observes, wl 
 
 tioued as t( 
 
 turns her : 
 
 silently flow 
 
 The stori 
 
 day ; there 
 
 along the co 
 
 days after. 
 
 narrated th 
 
 O'Brien, ant 
 
 Tt is item 
 
 below stairs 
 
 s electrified 
 
 women, who 
 
 Tinker, to 
 
 Mrs. Tinker 
 
 led with Wi 
 
 and I r ju^ht 
 
 when she it 
 
 a mad won 
 
 is, sciea 
 
 hand 
 
 out for her n 
 
 self generaljj 
 
 Htr misu 
 turned out 
 Tinker nevet 
 is told. 
 * hands ' whe 
 the ill fated 
 
 Blood tell 
 Madam liste 
 wide, horror- 
 famts nor scr 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ii 
 
 r pardon 
 her vfith 
 give my 
 iie past, 
 aa hume* 
 lee you — 
 a most of 
 iiz iu love 
 it?' 
 
 •ight eyes 
 ily, as if 
 3omes the 
 — a mau'a 
 d tuaef ul, 
 t of much 
 hough she 
 indeed, 
 ation, aud 
 eana Vaue 
 
 evidently 
 person,' he 
 ive dog ia 
 ae in your 
 nurae, and 
 He IB to be 
 nd a very 
 ill you.' 
 locket, and 
 
 hat. She 
 
 Oh, Master 
 
 like this r 
 
 am weak 
 
 altogether 
 
 lau you can 
 ^ou, and I 
 
 >y— ' 
 
 ,t her very 
 
 how shall 
 st him got 
 Oh, my 
 irms many 
 to sleep on 
 ■a desh and 
 11 1 let him 
 
 puts down 
 , aud tries 
 wet. She 
 irere break- 
 last, almost 
 Lave a little 
 ^'b sake ! I 
 
 ible in his 
 through all 
 ' a moment. 
 
 lis hat. 
 tins. ' God 
 
 less you, faithful, loving old friend. I'll 
 come ^'Hck t<i aeo yuu if I never oome tfl tee 
 any one else.' 
 
 Ami thou he is gone. There comes float- 
 ing down the stairs the last melodious worda 
 of Vaue Valentine's hunt' "^ song, us the 
 door upena. 
 
 * For the fences run strong In the Leicestershire 
 
 vale. 
 And there's bellows to mend, and a lengthening 
 
 tal. 
 With u ' Forward! Away !' in Ihe morning.' 
 
 But there mingles with it a quick step 
 Tan ling down the stairs, and the opening 
 aud shutting of a street door. And then she 
 is alone, aud outside the sleet ia beating 
 agaiuat the glass, and the wind is shrieking 
 through tbe black streets, and up stairs 
 there is the sound of faint applause, and a 
 murmur of pleasant voices. And George 
 Valentine has been, and is gone. 
 
 The dinner party goes off well, and so 
 does the new heir. People admire his re- 
 pose of manner and modest good breeding, 
 aud conaider him a credit to his slater's 
 training, 
 
 Mrs. Tinker is indisposed next daj', and 
 keeps her bed. Her eyes are very red, her 
 face very pale and troubled, her mistrees 
 observes, when she visits her. Being ques- 
 tioned as to these symptoms, Mrs. Tinker 
 turns her face to the wall, and her tears 
 silently How again. If she only Knew ! 
 
 The storm continues all night, all next 
 day ; there are many disafiters and wrecks 
 along the coast chronicled in the panera for 
 days after. And among them there is 
 narrated the total wreck of the bark Belle 
 O'Brien, and the loss of every soul on board. 
 Tt.isitemof shipping news is read aloud 
 below stairs by the butler, and that magnate 
 s electrified by a shriek from one of the 
 women, who drops in a dead faint. It is Mrs. 
 Tinker, to the surprise of every one , and 
 Mrs. Tinker is laid on the floor, and sprink- 
 led with water, and slapped on the palms, 
 and 1 rjught to with infinite difficulty. And 
 when site is brought to, she ' goes on ' like 
 a mad woman, beating the air with her 
 hands, scieaming hysterical screams, calling 
 out for her mistress, and miscOi^ductrng her- 
 self generally in a way perfectly frenzied. 
 
 Her mistress comes ; every one else is 
 turned out of the room, and then— Susan 
 Tinker never knows how— the terrible truth 
 is told. Grdorge Valeutine is one of the 
 ' hands ' who has ^one down to his death in 
 the ill fated Belle O'Brien. 
 
 Blood tells, pride tells, training tells. 
 Madam listens with blanched cheeks, and 
 wide, horror-stricken eyes, but she neither 
 faints uor screams. She is deadly still, deadly 
 
 cold ; but almost the calmness of death, too, 
 ia iu her face. She makes no couimenC 
 whatever ; she liateus to the end — to the 
 narrative of the visit and all chat passed— 
 and rises and seeks out her husband. 
 
 He comes iu honor to the old servant'ti 
 bedside, his hands trembling, his mouth 
 twitching, far more agitated, in seeming 
 than his wife, and listena to the story sobbed 
 out Ai^aiu between ever-flowing tears. 
 
 ' You — you did not ask him anything 
 about — about her V the father says, tremu< 
 loudly. 
 
 * No ; I forgot. There wasn't time to 
 ask him anything. And I was so taken up 
 with him,' Mrs. Tinker sobs. 
 
 She understands Mr. Valentine refers to 
 the wife. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear master, you are not angry 
 with me, are you V 
 
 ' You should have spoken sooner — that 
 night,' he says, still tremulously; 'all— all 
 might have been well.' Then he breaks down 
 for a moment, and la3S his head on the 
 table, and Suaau Tinker is silent before a 
 grief greater and more sacred than hei own. 
 ' But I am not angry,' he adds, rising slow- 
 ly. ' You did aa he told you. I am not 
 angry with you, Mrc. Tinker,' he says, with 
 strange pathos and gentleness for that stern, 
 proud man. ' Gdorge loved you I' 
 
 It is the first time that name has passed 
 his lipa for years. As he speaks it he turns 
 and hurries out of the room. 
 
 He goes to the little sea-coast village 
 
 where the bones of the luckless bark rest, 
 
 and the crew — snch of them as have been 
 
 washed ashore, lie buried. One or two of 
 
 the bodies have been identified and claimed ; 
 
 others were oast up by the sea with every 
 
 trace of humanity beaten out by the ruth. 
 
 leBS waves. The clothes and other i elius are 
 
 preserved. Among them is a jacket, and on 
 
 the lining, which is black, there is. marked 
 
 in small, distinct red letters a name, ' G. 
 
 H. Valentine.' The body on which this 
 
 garment, tightly buttoned, was found, was 
 
 that of a tall young man with dark hair 
 
 and a moustache ; a fine-looking, muscular 
 
 young fellow, so far as could be discovered, 
 
 after some days in the water. He is buried 
 
 yonder. The father goes and kneels by the 
 
 little mound of snow-covered sod, and what 
 
 passes in his heart ia known only to heaven 
 
 and himself. 
 
 Five months after that, Austin Valentine, 
 the merchant prince, dies. He has never 
 held up his head again ; the sight of his 
 heir becomes insupportable to him . That 
 young gentleman is sent on his travels 
 and the funeral is over before he re- 
 turns. 
 
 
32 
 
 L03T FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 For Madam Valentine -well, she 
 
 goea on with the burden of her life some- 
 ow. It is an old etory, ' The heart may 
 break, yet brokenly live on.' The world 
 does not aee much difference. Only the 
 Toronto home is broken up forever ; life 
 there, all at oute grows hateful, and she 
 becomes a wanderer. She will have no 
 fixed place of abode, a siuftular reatlesaness 
 poasesHtiS her — she resides here, there, every- 
 where, as the fancy sjizes ner. Vane Valen- 
 tine waits dutifully on every whim. *Wnat 
 comfort he muat be to you ; such a good 
 youni;mau,' everybody says, and she agrees, 
 and trits to think it is so — but he is a comfort 
 to her. 8 be has a cold sort of liking for 
 him, a respect for faia judgment and good 
 sense, but love — Ah ! well, she has loved 
 once, and once suthues. And so existence 
 goes on for still three years more. Mrs. 
 Tinker accompanies her always ; she oliugs 
 to this old servant, she is a link that binds 
 her to the past — the only one. She comes 
 with Vane Valentine to the cottage in the 
 suburbs of this dull little NewEnglandtown 
 of Clangville, because it is a pleasant place 
 tor a few autumn weeks, and one place U 
 much the atmn as anotlier. 
 
 Life goes on— almost stagnant in its quiet; 
 she grows old gracefully ; she is a woman 
 of fine presence and commanding mien scill 
 her teilih i^i unbroken, only — she has almost 
 forgotten to smile. 
 
 Her face is set like a flint to all the world ; 
 she is chill and hard, self repressed and self- 
 centred, a woman sufficient unto herself. 
 
 And here — where peace and a sort of for- 
 getfulness seem to have found her, the widow 
 of her dead son appears, the miserable low- 
 born cause of her life's woe and loss, and de- 
 stroys it all. 
 
 Comes with her fair, mocking face, her 
 fresh, insolent young beauty, her bold, evil 
 blueeyes,her coarse defiant taunts, and threat- 
 ens to tear bare her half-healed heart, cud 
 show it bleeding to all the gaping world. 
 
 And this is the danger Vane Valentine has 
 gone to-night to avert, this is the wretched 
 story bf passion and pain, and loss, and death 
 and shame, she thinks out, as she sits with 
 clasped hands gazing at the cold, white Oc- 
 tober moonlight — all wrought by this one 
 woman's hand I 
 
 CHAPTEil IX. 
 
 WHICH RECORDS A TRAGEDY. 
 
 ' Jemima Ann I ' says Mile. Mimi. She is 
 lying in her customary afternoon lounging 
 attitude upon the parlour sofa; occupied 
 in her usual afternoon fashion in smoking 
 
 cigarettes, and teaching her little girl 
 a new ballet step, ' Jemima Ann, are you 
 happy ? ' 
 
 ' Lor ! ' says Jemima Ann. 
 ' Yes, I know— that is your favourite ex- 
 pletive. You say it when you step in and 
 sorunoh a black beetle ; you would say it 
 if the whole six and twenty were blown up 
 in their boiler shop, foundry-shop— whatever 
 it is, to morrow. 1 swear myself sometimes 
 when things so wrong, but not in such mild 
 fashion. " Lor " is no auswer, Jemima Ann, 
 are — you — hippy I' 
 
 'Wei'— railly ' — begins Miss Hopkins 
 modestly, but Mimi waves her white hand 
 and cuts her short. 
 
 'Oh, if It requires reflection, say no more, 
 you're not. Neither am 1, Jemima — I 
 never was. Ho, never,' says Mimi, 
 biting her cigarette through with her 
 little sharp, white teeth, ' nut even when 
 I was tirsc married, and I suppose most 
 girls who marry for love are hippy theu 
 — for a month or so at least I Did I 
 marry for love, I wonder — did I ever 
 care for him, or any one else, really — really, 
 in my whole life ? ' 
 
 Mimi is evidently retrospective. She 
 rolls a fresh cigarette between her 
 deft lingers, and looks with sombre 
 blue eyes at the graceful capers of 
 Mademoiselle Snowball. 
 
 ' I like Petite, there — she amuses 
 me ; but so would the gambols of a 
 little white kitten. She is pretty, and 
 i like to dress her prettily, but I would 
 tie ribbons round the kitten's neck, and 
 trick her out just the same. Is that 
 love ? If she died I would be sorry — 
 I expect her to be a comfort and com- 
 panion to me by and- by. 1. quarrel with 
 most people— I have no iriends, and 
 I am lonely sometimes, Jemima Ann. 
 Bat — ^is that love ? And her lather — ' 
 
 The darkest, most vindictive look 
 Jemima Ann has ever seien there, sweeps 
 like a cloud over the blonde face. 
 
 ' I hated her father,' she says between 
 her teeth. ' I hate uim still.' 
 
 ' Do tell r exclaims shocked Jemima 
 Ann. 
 
 Mimi laughs — her transitions are like 
 lightning, her volatile nature Hash- 
 es to and fro, as a comet. Miss Hopkins' 
 rouud-eyed simplicity amuses her always. 
 
 ' Listen here, Jim,' she says, 'your aunt 
 calls you "Jim ' sometimes, doesn't she? 
 What would you say of a poor girl, a gri- 
 sette of .New York, born in poverty, breu lu 
 poverty, in vice, in ie,..oranoe, with only her 
 lace for her fortune, what would you say of 
 such a one, when a gentleman, young, hauu- 
 
 •ome M ot 
 tall, dark, 
 of millioG 
 •way fron 
 mjuribs he 
 
 •That 
 happiest 
 promptly, 
 the love i 
 him too? 
 
 ' Ah I ' 1 
 
 never been 
 
 She didn't 
 
 hate somei 
 
 him to loc 
 
 him to h 
 
 atory end 
 
 you have 
 
 here, little 
 
 She risei 
 
 little to dis] 
 
 the step 
 
 makes her 
 
 performanc( 
 
 Then she fli 
 
 Jemima Ai 
 
 this erraticl; 
 
 been her pu 
 
 more than e 
 
 ing of the tr 
 
 band, who I 
 
 words still o 
 
 Snowball a 
 
 Jemima Am 
 
 ' No,' sayi 
 
 ing point, • 
 
 are wretche< 
 
 loaded, won 
 
 melancholy i 
 
 pathetic eyei 
 
 looking beas 
 
 mud, surrou: 
 
 piglings, is a 
 
 Pity 1 If in 
 
 that is a corr 
 
 to return an 
 
 dwelling, 1 1 
 
 porker and I 
 
 and I am not 
 
 ball, Jemima 
 
 dinner to-da^ 
 
 hotel, and he 
 
 SjShe spring! 
 
 * Tell him t 
 
 be ready in h 
 
 Miss Hopk 
 
 bears Suowba 
 
 Mr. Lacy t 
 
 dow, calling f 
 
 stairs to tittiv 
 
 rest are waitii 
 
 for five sharp. 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ss 
 
 e girl 
 le you 
 
 rite ex- 
 I in and 
 d aay it 
 awn up 
 hatevtr 
 netimes 
 ih mild 
 la Auu, 
 
 Sopkins 
 u hand 
 
 10 more, 
 nim* — 1 
 
 Mimi, 
 th her 
 en when 
 086 musC 
 ^py theu 
 
 Did 1 
 
 I ever 
 
 — really, 
 
 ve. She 
 
 sea her 
 
 sombre 
 
 tpers of 
 
 I amuaea 
 
 ot a 
 
 tty, and 
 
 would 
 
 eck, aud 
 
 la thaC 
 
 Borry— 
 
 lad uum- 
 
 rel wiiu 
 
 ds, and 
 
 ia Auu. 
 > 
 
 /e look 
 ), BWeepa 
 
 between 
 
 Jemima 
 
 ■ome as one of the heroes of your novelg — 
 tall, dark-eyed, finely educated, and tie heir 
 of millionB, falls in love with her ; runs 
 away from home and friends for her ; 
 marribs her. What would you say ? ' 
 
 ' That she was the very luckiest and 
 happiest creeter on airth,' responds 
 promptly, Jemima Ann. ' But was 
 the love all on his side ? Didn't she love 
 him too? 
 
 ' Ah I ' says Mimi, ' that is what I have 
 never been abletofindcut. I — don't — know . 
 She didn't act as if she did ; it was more like 
 hate sometimes, but she never could bear 
 him to look at one else. She drove 
 him to his death any* way. The love- 
 story ended in a tragedy. Snowball, 
 you have got that pas all wrong. Look 
 here, little dunce ! ' 
 
 She rises lazily, draws her skirts up a 
 little to display two trim feet, and executes 
 the step to which Snowball aspires, 
 makes her little daughter repeat the 
 performance until she has it quite correctly . 
 Then she flings herself again on the lounge . 
 Jemima Ann looks on in perplexity — 
 this erraticly acting and talking Mimi has 
 been her puzzle from the first — puzzles her 
 more than ever to-day ; in one breath talk- 
 ing of the tragical death of the young hus- 
 band, who felt all for her, and with the 
 words still on her lips, absorbed ia teaching 
 Snowball a ballet step ! The simple soul of 
 Jemima Ann is upset. 
 
 ' No,' says Mimi, going back to the start- 
 ing point, ' no one is happy. Kven animals 
 are wretched. Look at the horse — beaten, 
 loaded, worn out — look at the cow — what 
 melancholy meditation meets you in her big, 
 pathetic eyes. The pig is the only con teuted 
 looking beast I know of ; a pig wallowing in 
 mud, surrounded by ten or so dirty little 
 piglings, is a picture of perfect earthly feli- 
 city 1 If in the transmigration of souls — if 
 that is a correct big word — mine is permitted 
 to return and have its choice of a future 
 dwelling, I think we will be a fat little white 
 porker and be happy ! Oh 1 there is Lacy, 
 and I am not dressed. Take away Suow- 
 ball, Jemima, like a good girl. I'm due at a 
 dinner to-day — Mr. Lacy gives it at the 
 hotel, and here he comes after me.' 
 jgJShe springs to her feet and runs up stairs. 
 ' Tell him to wait, Jim, ' she calls ; 'I will 
 be ready in half an hour. ' 
 
 Miss Hopkins delivers the message, and 
 bears Suowball to the regions below. 
 
 Mr. Lacy takes a seat at the parlour win- 
 dow, calling familiarly to Mile. Trillon, up 
 stairs U tittivate and be quick about it for 
 rest are waiting and the banquet is ordered 
 for five sharp. 
 3 
 
 It is late when Mr. Vane Valentine 
 reaches the circus. He has dined leisurely 
 and well, as it is in his nature to do all 
 things, and the brass band is banging away 
 inside the monster tent, whep he leaches it, 
 and the first of the performance is over. Still 
 he is not the only late arrival — a few others 
 are still straggling in, and one man leans 
 with his back against a dead wall, his hands 
 in his coat pockets, waiting at his ease for his 
 turn. Something familiar in the look of 
 this man, even in the dim light, arrests 
 Vane Valentine's attention ; he looks again, 
 looks still again, comes forward, with a sud- 
 den lifting in his dark face, and lays his 
 hand on the man's shoulder. 
 
 ' Farrar 1' he exclaims. ' My dear fellow, 
 is it yon or your wraith ?' 
 
 The man looks up, regards the speaker a 
 moment, after a cool fashion, and holds out 
 his hand. 
 
 ' How are you, Valentine ? Yes, it is I. 
 You wouldn't have thought it, would you I 
 But the world is not such a big place as we 
 are apt to think it, and Fayal, though some 
 distance off, is not absolutely out of the 
 universe.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm uncommonly glad to see you, 
 old boy.' says Vane Valentine, and really 
 looks it. * Have you come all the way from , 
 the Azores to go to the circus ?' 
 
 • What would you say if I should say 
 yes?' 
 
 • Kegret to finding you falling into your 
 second childhood at fiveand-twenty, but no . 
 end glad to see you again all the same.' 
 
 ' I should think, after a very few weeks of 
 this place, you might be no end glad to see 
 almost any one,' says Mr. Farrar. * Fayal i 
 may be dull, but at least-it has beauty to re- , 
 commend it- But this beast of a town * i 
 
 • It is a beastly place,' asserts Vane Yalen- j 
 tine, 'but I am not staying in thetowa> 
 itself. We live in the superbs, my aunt and « 
 
 I not half a bad spot in the month of Sep- i 
 
 tember. We go to Philadelphia next week. ;•/ 
 Madam Valentine has a house there that she 
 likes rather, and where she stays until she I 
 goes south in the winter.' 
 
 • She is well, I trust ?' 
 
 • She is always well She 1 a woudtrful 
 old lady in that way — no headaches or 
 hysterics, or feminine nonsen:o8 of any kind 
 about her. But are you reaLy going to the 
 circus, you know V inquires Mr. Valentine, I 
 smiling. t 
 
 •Most undoubtedly. Behold the opea-r 
 sesame,' showing his tickets. ' And yon — 
 it is about the last place of all places I 
 should expect to find the fastidious Vane 
 Valentine. ' .-.m 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 n 
 
34 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 Vale Valentine shrug* hii shoulderi, but 
 looks rather ashamed of himself, too. 
 
 • I don't come to see the thing, don't you 
 know ; I come on — business. I want par* 
 tioularly to see one of the performers.' 
 
 ' Ah I' remarks, in deep bass, Mr. Farrar. 
 
 • Pshaw ! my dear fellow, nothing of the 
 •ort. You mii{ht know me better. I have 
 never set eyes on one of these women yet.' 
 
 •Austere young aristocrat, I ask pardon I 
 If we are go-ngto see anything of it at all, 
 we had better not linger longer here, for the 
 rare-eshow is half over by this time.' 
 
 ' Where are you stooping ?" young Valen- 
 tine asks, as they turn to go in. 
 
 ' They put me up at the AVashington— not 
 a bad sort of a hostelry. Have I ever spoken 
 to you of my friend, Dr. Maodonald, of Isle 
 Perdrix ? 1 am on my way to give him a 
 week or two of my deieotable society.' 
 
 ' Somewhere in Canada, among the French, 
 isn't it 7 Yes, I remember. Stay over to- 
 morrow, though, won't you, and come and 
 dine with me ? I haven't seen a soul to 
 ■peak too for three weeks I A civilized face 
 is a godsend here among the sooty aborigines 
 of Clangville. 
 
 ' You are a supercilious lot, upon ray 
 word, Valentine,' observes Mr. Farrar. *You 
 always were. Here we are at last, in the 
 thick of the tumblers and merry-go-rounds. 
 I fell like a boy again. I have not been in- 
 aide a circus tent for fifteen years. They 
 were the joy of my existence then.' 
 
 They take their seats, and become for the 
 flpace of five seconds the* focus of several 
 hundred pnirs of exaiii^'uog eyes. Madame 
 Olympe is oavortina; round the ring on four 
 bare-backed chargers at once, ' hi-ing,' leap- 
 ing, jumping through lighted hoops, startl- 
 ing the nervous systems of everybody, and 
 the several hundred eyes return to the saw- 
 dnat circle. The two new-comers look suffi- 
 ciently unlike the generality of the crowd 
 around them, to attract considerable atten- 
 tion, if it could be spared from the perform- 
 ance. 
 
 Vane Valentine, dressed to perfection; with 
 just a suspicion of dandyism; very erect, 
 very stiSf, and contemptuous of manner ,glanc- 
 ing with a sneer he takes no trouble to con- 
 oeial, ^t the simple souls around him; all agape 
 at the amazing doings of the magnificent 
 Olympe. Mr. Farrar, tall, broad-shoulder- 
 ed, with a look of great latent strength, that 
 lends a grace of its own to his well-knit 
 figure; a silky brown-black beard and 
 mustache, hair olose-oropped and still darker, 
 atraight heavy eyebrows, and a pair of 
 brilliant brown eyes. He is also a man of 
 commanding presence, looking far more 
 thoroughbred than his companion, distinctly 
 
 a handsome man — a man at whom most 
 women look twice, and look with interest. 
 He laughs, and strokes his brown beard, as 
 he watches the astonishing evolutions of 
 Olympo. 
 
 f Is it she ?• he asks ; ' if you want to take 
 lesions in rough li.ling you could hardiv 
 have a more accomplished teacher. A hana> 
 some animal too.' 
 
 ' Which V asks Vane Valentine, '. the 
 woman or the horse ?' 
 
 'Both. How does she oall herself? Ah, 
 Olympe, the daughter of the Desert Which 
 desert — this is vague. Wliew — that was a 
 leap — what superb muscles the creature 
 must have. Now she has gone. What have 
 we next ?' 
 
 •Mile, Mimi on the tightrope,' reads 
 Vane Valentine. ' Aatoniahiug feats on the 
 wire — sixty feet in the air 1 Oh, here she 
 is!' 
 
 He looks up with vivid interest, and 
 levels his plass. Far above, a shining small 
 .igure is seen, all white gauze, spangles, 
 gilded hair, balancing pole. A shout of 
 applause greets her. Mimi has beootae a 
 favourite with the circus-going public, in the 
 last two or three days. Vane Valentine looks 
 long and intently— his glass is powerful, and 
 brin£ out every feature distinctly. He 
 lowers it at last, and draws a deep breath. 
 
 ' Take a look,' he says to his companion, 
 ' and tell me what you think of her.' 
 
 Mr. Farrar obeys. He, too, looks long 
 snd steadily at the fair Mimi, balancing far 
 up in that dizzy line — going through a per- 
 formance that makes more than one nervous 
 head swim to look at. He also drops the 
 glaas after that prolonged stare, in silence. 
 
 ' Do you think her pretty ?' Valentine 
 asks. 
 
 ' There can be no two opinions about that, 
 I should think. She is exceedingly pretty.' 
 
 Vane Valentine shrugs his shoulders. 
 
 ' Who knows ? These people owe so much 
 to paint and powder, and padding and wigs, 
 and so on. In this case, too, distance lends 
 enchantment to the view. I dare say nearer, 
 with her face washed, and half these blonde 
 tresses on her dressing-table, we should find 
 our ;fair one a blowsy beauty, with a greasy 
 skin and a pasty complexion. She does her 
 tight-rope business well, though. By Jove, 
 it looks dangerous 1' 
 
 ' It is dangerous,' the other answers, ' and 
 — I may be mistaken — but there is something 
 the matter. She nearly lost her balance a 
 moment ago. Good I good t there 1 she 
 nearly lost it again 1' 
 
 CPThe words nave scarcely passed his lips 
 when a hoarse, terrible cry arises simultane- 
 ously from a hundred throats. There is a 
 
 ludden up 
 t.ieir feet 
 never to b 
 rings — thei 
 every he;ir1 
 ful, siokui 
 glittering 
 the air, a 
 broken, se 
 and rilihoi 
 and hhattui 
 And no' 
 a stampede 
 Above it i 
 imploring t 
 disperse, 
 only chanc 
 leave her 
 
 in any caa 
 the perforr 
 
 The aud: 
 obey, but 
 confusion, 
 chilly night 
 heap is lift< 
 er, and th 
 one has aln 
 Valentine, 
 pushed his 
 
 ' This gei 
 physician, 1 
 ml. Farra 
 see if anytb 
 
 Mr. Farij 
 and Vane 
 sight of bl( 
 ing quite 
 maoh that 
 moment hie 
 what a lot 
 money it w 
 
 There is 
 looks pale 
 moment, io 
 Mr. Farrar 
 when he lo( 
 fair, so ful 
 mangled, di 
 feebly at t 
 heart. 
 
 'She is3 
 9ays ; ' she 
 It is utterl 
 With all ti 
 concussion 
 never reco\ 
 
 meut. 
 He 
 grave, 
 looks 
 
 She 
 prono 
 
 lie 
 do^pn 
 
 stretcher. 
 — -j^lances at 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 35 
 
 n mmt 
 interest. 
 e»rd, as 
 tioDB of 
 
 ; to take 
 . hardly 
 A haad- 
 
 e, 'the 
 
 If? Ah, 
 Which 
 kt was a 
 creature 
 hat have 
 
 I, ' reads 
 bs ou the 
 here she 
 
 sat, and 
 ng amall 
 spaDgleSi 
 shout of 
 )eoottie a 
 ic, in the 
 :ine looks 
 irful, and 
 dy. He 
 breath, 
 mpauion, 
 
 >ok8 long 
 kncing far 
 gh a per- 
 Q nervous 
 drops the 
 iileuoe. 
 Talentine 
 
 >out that, 
 y pretty.' 
 era. 
 
 so much 
 
 and wiga, 
 
 ace lends 
 
 ly nearer, 
 
 se blonde 
 
 ould find 
 
 a greasy 
 
 does her 
 
 By Jove, 
 
 ers, 'and 
 lomething 
 balance a 
 )re 1 she 
 
 d his lips 
 imultane- 
 There ia a 
 
 nndden upheaval of the whole multitude to 
 t.ieir feet. Over all, pierciug, frightful, 
 never to bu forgotten, a woniaa'a nhriuk 
 rings — then a nilenoe, a pauiM s» awful that 
 every heart stands still. Then— a dull, drea«l> 
 fnl, aiokuiiing thud, something white aud 
 glittering hao whirled like a leaf through 
 the air, aiul lies now, crushed, bleeding, 
 broken, aenaeless — a tumbled heap of gauze, 
 and rilihoua. and tinsel, aud shiring hair, 
 and (^hattured flesh and blood. 
 
 Aud now there rises a chorus of aoreama, 
 a atampede of feet, coufuaion, uproar, chaoa. 
 Above it aounda the voice of the manager, 
 imploring them to be orderly, to be silent, to 
 diaperae. M'Ue Mimi iaaenoualy hurt. Uer 
 otdy chance is for the audience to go, and 
 leave her to the care of her f rienda. Hera, 
 in any caae, was to have been the close of 
 the performance. 
 
 The audience are aoiry and horrified, and 
 obey, but alowly, aud with much talk and 
 confusion. Tbey pour out into the bright, 
 chilly night ; and that crushed and bleeding 
 heap is lifted somehow, and laid on a stretch- 
 er, and the company crowd around. Some 
 one haa already gone for a doctor, | when Vane 
 Valentine, who, with Mr. Farrar, has already 
 pushed hia way into their midat, apeaka : 
 
 ' Thia gentleman, although not a practising 
 physician, haa etudied medicine, aud is akilU 
 ml. Farrar, look at the poor creature, and 
 aee if anything can be done.' 
 
 Mr. Farrar is already bending over her, 
 and Vane Vsdentine, who has a horror of the 
 eight of blood and wounds, turns away, feel- 
 ing quite sick and giddy. But it is hia sto- 
 mach that is tender, not his heart. In this 
 moment hia firat thought ia, ' If ahe ia dead, 
 what a lot of trouble, and what a pot of 
 money it will save, to be sure 1' 
 
 There is a profound silence ; even Olympe 
 looks pale and panic-stricken in thia first 
 moment, in the face of this direful tragedy. 
 Mr. Farrar is quite paie with tho pity of it, 
 when he looks up at last. A moment ago, so 
 fair, so full of life and youth ; now, this 
 mangled, dully moaning mass. For it moans 
 feebly at times, and the sound thrills every 
 heart. 
 
 ' She iaj insensible, in spite of that,' he 
 9ays ; ' she is terribly, frightfully injured. 
 It is utterly impoaaible for her to recover. 
 With all theae compound fractures, there is 
 concussion of the brain. She will probably 
 never recover consciousness, even tor a mo- 
 meut. She will die.' 
 
 He pronounces the dread fiat, pale and 
 grave. He stands with folded arms, and 
 looks doien at the motionleaa form on the 
 stretcher. Olympe — a judge of a fine man 
 —glances at him, even in thia tragic moment, 
 
 with an approving eye. Time and opportun* 
 ity favouring.Bhe would like to cultivatttMon* 
 sitiur lu Medicun'a acquaintance, she thinks. 
 * Can ahe be moved ? ' the manager asks. 
 ' Poor little Mimi 1 poor little aoul I I'm 
 sorry for this. I've known her for years, 
 and in spite of her little failings I always 
 like<l her. Poor little soul.' 
 
 The manager is a personage of very few 
 words. He rarely commits himself to a 
 aptouh as long as thia. He looks sorry as he 
 says it. 
 
 ' Poor little Mimi I he repeats ; 'poor little 
 woman 1 poor little aoul I 
 
 ' Where doe^ ahe live ?' Mr. Farrar asks. 
 ' Yes, ahe can bo removed — she feula no* 
 thing ; and it had better be done at once. I 
 will go with you uutil the doctor comes, but 
 neither of ua will be of any uae. I will re- 
 main if there is anything that can be done,' 
 he anya to the manager, * as long aa you like.' 
 ' Tnauk you I I shall taiie it aa a favour. 
 You Boe I have known her ao long ; and, 
 poor little thing, hers might have been anoh 
 a different fate if ahe had chose. It has 
 been a strange life and death. Poor little 
 Mimi ! ' 
 
 ' How long do you give her to hold out, 
 you know ? ' Vane Valeotime asks his 
 friend, in a subdued tone, as he too turns to 
 follow. 
 
 Something in his voice, a latent eagerness, 
 a sort of hope, makes Farrar look at him 
 suddenly. The browu eyes are keen and 
 quick to catch and read. 
 
 'She will hardly live— hold out, as you 
 call it — until morning,' he answers, coldly. 
 • Why ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, except that I too would like to 
 wait for — ^for^the end. It is all very sud- 
 den and shocking.' 
 
 ' Mr Farrar says nothing. The sympathy 
 sounds forced aud unmeant. 
 
 Vane Valentine ia neither aorry nor 
 ahocked ; he thinka, indeed, it is a very 
 tit and natural ending for such a life, alto- 
 gether to have heen expected. And what an 
 easy solution of the problem of the day ! 
 No fear of exposure or blackmail now. 
 
 ' Will ahe ever speak again ? ' he asks, 
 thinking his own thoughts, aa they alowly 
 follow the sad cortege that bears poor Mimi 
 home. 
 
 ' Have I not said she would not ? She 
 will never recover consciousness. She will 
 lie moaning like that for a little, and then 
 life will go out.' 
 
 There is silence. It has chanced to Mr. 
 Farrar to see a good deal of death aud the 
 darker sides of life, but habit has not hard* 
 ened him. Theie is that in his face which 
 tells Vane Valentine he is in no mood to an- 
 
 o. 
 
A6 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 swer idle qneationi. So h« diiorMtly holdi 
 hia tongue, «nd followa throngh the itarry 
 darkneM to Mn. Hopkins' home. 
 
 Jemimft Ann and Annt Samanth* are 
 waiting up at uaual, sewing in ailenoe, a 
 kerosene lamp between them. 
 
 Snowball had not been taken to the circus 
 this evening, but as she has a profound dis- 
 belief, in her small way, of the early-to-bed 
 syntem, she is still up, singing gleefully, and 
 playing with a couple of kittens in front nf 
 the stove. Her song, sun^ at the full pitch 
 of her powerful little lunas, is her favourite 
 ballad of the ' Ten Little Injun Boys' 
 
 The door-bell is rung by the messenger, 
 who runs on ahead ; the direful news is 
 broken, and in a moment all is confusion. 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins is acid of temper, but pitiful 
 of heart. A great remorse and compassion 
 seizes her. She has spent the evening in 
 wordy abuse of her boarder — her smokine, 
 her drinking, her flirting, her general^ 
 shameful goings on ; and now — a bleeding 
 and mangled creature is borne in to die in 
 her house. 
 
 ' I wouldn't a-said a word if I'd thought,' 
 she Hays, crying, to Jemima Ann. ' I kinder 
 feel as if she oughter haunt me for all the 
 things I've up and said of her. Poor little 
 oreatur ! she was only young and flighty, and 
 knowed no better, likely, when all is said 
 and done.' 
 
 Jemima is crying too, very sincere tears. 
 She has learned to like, has always liked 
 the light, insouciant, devil-may-care little 
 trapezist. But then Jemima Ann would 
 have cried for any one in pain or trouble as 
 freely as she weeps over her heroines in 
 weekly instalments. She prepares the bed, 
 and sees Mimi laid upon it, still faintly 
 moaning, and assists in removing as much as 
 can be removed of the flimsy, tinseled dra- 
 pery. The beautiful fair hair, all clotted 
 and sticky with blood, is gathered up in a 
 great knot. The face seems the only part of 
 her uninjured— it is drawn into a strange, 
 dreadful expression of fear and pain— the 
 look that froze upon it in the instant of her 
 fall.- The features are not marred, but the 
 face is ghastly — the blue eyes seem half 
 open, a little stream of blood and foam 
 trickles from her lips. Jemima Ann wipes 
 it and her own tears away, as she stands 
 looking down. 
 
 Down in the parlour is Mr. Lacy, like a 
 man distraught. He has been in love with 
 Mimi, off and on, siHce he saw her first ; he 
 has followed her about from place to place 
 like her shadow ; he has offered her mar- 
 
 erratic, has liked her freedom and her 
 wandering life, has persistently laughed at 
 him, and taken his presents with two 
 greedy littlr hands, and eaten his dinners, 
 and drank his wines, and smoked his cigaret- 
 tes, and driven behind his high-steppers, 
 and said No. 
 
 ' I've had enough of marriage. Lacy,' she 
 has said in her reckless fashion ; 'it's no end 
 of a humbug. I wouldn't marry the Prince 
 of Wales if no came over and asked me. ' 
 
 ' Which would be bigamy if you did,' 
 says Mr. Lajy ; 'but you might marry me, 
 Mimi— I've not got a Princess Alexandra a^ 
 home. Yon could leave off the flying 
 trapeze, and have a good time as Mrs. Au- 
 gustus Lacy. ' 
 
 ' I have a better time as Mile. Mimi Tril- 
 Ion. Thanks old fellow, very much, but not 
 any I ' laughs Mimi. 
 
 And she has adhered to it. No later than 
 this very day after dinner, a-Hush with 
 ohampaKue and tnrkey, Mr. Lacy has re- 
 newed his honourable proposals, and for the 
 twenty-Hfth time been refused. Mimi too is 
 elate with the fizzing beverage, which she is 
 but too fond of, and it is this thought that 
 adds the sting of poignant self-reproach to 
 Mr. Lacy's grief. She bad taken too much 
 wine, she was in no condition to mount that 
 fatal wire when she left his hotel, and he 
 should have told the manager so. But how 
 could he tell ?— and she would never have 
 
 forgiven him if he had, and now . Hb 
 
 lays his head on the table and cries in the 
 deepest depths of misery, and remorse, and 
 despair. So Mr. Fsrrar finds him later, and 
 standH looking at him, with that grave, 
 thoughtful face of his in silent wonder. 
 
 ' 1 was 80 fond of her,' the poor young man 
 says wiping his eyes, ' I was awfully fond uf 
 her always. I would have married her if 
 she'd have ha'^ me. But she wouldn't. 
 And now to thin. j. ^>f her lying up there all 
 crushed and iistigured. It's too horrid. 
 And it's dneced hard on me, by George I 
 Ain't there no hope, doctor ? You are the 
 doctor, ain't you ? ' 
 
 'I am not a doctor,' Mr. Farrar answers, 
 * but the doctor is with her. No — there is 
 no hope. ' 
 
 He does not look contemptuous on these 
 womanish tears, and this foolish little 
 speech. A sort of compassion is in the 
 glance that rests so gravely on poor love- 
 stricken, grief- stricken Mr. Lacy. 
 
 ' How — how long will she ' 
 
 Mr. Lacy applies his handkerchief to his 
 
 riage again and again— and he is rich. That eyes and walks away abruptly to one of the 
 
 she has not married him has surprised every- windows. 
 
 body ; but Mile. Trillon has always been j ' She may last the night out. She will 
 
 not know 
 that. Sh 
 He pau 
 A litth 
 dress the 
 flaxen hai 
 rsaebud fi 
 
 • Sehen 
 ben,' singi 
 wide open 
 
 She esp] 
 oariously. 
 
 • What 
 • Want yo 
 
 Mr. Lac 
 
 • Want 
 Snowball, 
 conscious € 
 
 • Oh I Si 
 Mr. Lacy, 
 knew I ' 
 
 • Where 
 unmoved 
 wants her J 
 
 ' It is hei 
 silent Fan 
 know. I h 
 of this litti 
 like her. j 
 He is ove 
 Mr. Fan 
 child. 
 ' Come h( 
 She looki 
 a moment, 
 over, clinibt 
 bearded lips 
 ' You is I 
 ball likes 
 where is mj 
 ' She wii 
 up stairs. ' 
 
 He puts 
 the baby fac 
 'Yes, yo 
 ' you are ' 
 Snowball.' 
 Snowball 
 she cuddles 
 confidingly 
 the blue 03 
 He |sits an 
 long pretty 1 
 in search 
 cot. 
 
 It is a nigl 
 Hotel Hopki 
 the six-and-t' 
 abnormal hou 
 rebuked. 
 
 Mrs. Hopk 
 hersalf for th 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 87 
 
 and h«r 
 i(llhed at 
 ith two 
 dinnflrt, 
 
 I ci^iret- 
 stepperi, 
 
 loy,' she 
 'a no end 
 le Prince 
 me.' 
 
 ou did/ 
 arry me, 
 andra a*' 
 le flying 
 Mrs. Au- 
 
 [imi Tril- 
 I, but not 
 
 ater than 
 i8h with 
 r has re- 
 id for the 
 imi too is 
 ich she is 
 i^ht that 
 preach to 
 too much 
 iount that 
 1, and he 
 But how 
 ever have 
 
 He 
 
 iea in the 
 lorse, and 
 later, and 
 at grave, 
 der. 
 
 oung man 
 ly fond uf 
 ed her if 
 wouldn't. 
 
 there all 
 horrid. 
 
 George I 
 a are the 
 
 answers, 
 —there is 
 
 on these 
 ish little 
 [B in the 
 )oor 'love- 
 
 ief to his 
 one of the 
 
 She will 
 
 not know yon or any one — she is past all 
 that. 8ho will never apeak again.' 
 
 He pauses. 
 
 A little child comes in, a fairy in a blue 
 dreis the colour in its ««yes, with fluffy, 
 flaxen hair, falling to its waist, and a lovely 
 rsaebud face. 
 
 * Sehen ittle Injuns nebba board ob heh- 
 ben,' ain({8 the fairy, looking about her with 
 wide open, fearless eyes. 
 
 She espies Mr. Lacy, and peers up at him 
 oariously. 
 
 ' What yau oryin' ffor, Lacy ? "she 'asks. 
 • Want your supper ? ' 
 
 Mr. Lacy is too far t(one to reply. 
 
 • Want go to bed ? ' persists inquisitive 
 Snowball, the two sole wants she is ever 
 conscious of uppermost in her mind. 
 
 ' Oh I Snowball, Snov/ball 1 ' says poor 
 Mr. Lacy. 'Little Snowball, if you ouly 
 knew I ' 
 
 ' Where Mimy Ann ?' Snowball demands, 
 unmoved by this apoRtrophe. ' Noball 
 wants hor Mimy Ann. Want go to bed. ' 
 
 ' It is her child,' Mr. Lacy explains to the 
 silent Farrar. 'She was a widow, you 
 know. [ haven't an idea what will become 
 of this little mite now. And she is very 
 like her. It's dueced hard, by George 1 ' 
 
 He is overcome again. 
 
 Mr. Farrar holda out his hand to 
 child. 
 
 ' Come here, little Snowball,' he says. 
 
 She looks at him after her fashion 
 a moment, then still quite fearlessly 
 over, climbs upon his knee, and kisses 
 bearded lips. 
 
 'You is a pritty man,' she says. 'No- 
 ball likes pritty men. Does you know 
 where is my Mimy Ann ? ' 
 
 ' She will be here presently. She is busy 
 up stairs. ' 
 
 He puts the flaxen hair back from 
 the baby face, and gazes long and earnestly . 
 
 ' Yes, you are like her,' he says, 
 'you are very like her, my poor little 
 Snowball.' 
 
 Snowball is sleepy, and says as much ; 
 she cuddles closer, lays her fair baby head 
 confidingly against his breast, closes 
 the blue eyes, and instantly drops asleep. 
 He Isits and holds her, lifting lightly the 
 long pretty hair, until Jemima, coming down 
 in search of her, bears her off to her 
 cot. 
 
 It is a night never to be forgotten in the 
 Hotel Hopkins. No one goes to bed. Even 
 the six-and-twenty hands stray afield until 
 abnormal hours, and ireander in and out, un* 
 rebuked. 
 
 Mrs. Hopkins retires, it is true, to freshen 
 heriidlf for th<) labours of the dawning new 
 
 the 
 
 for 
 
 goes 
 
 his 
 
 day, which promises to be one of the busiest 
 of her busy life. Jemima Ann retires not. 
 She is up stairs, and down sMirs, and on her 
 feet the weary night through. Mr. Lacy 
 cannot tear himself away. Mr. Vane Valen- 
 tine sends a message to the cottage, and he, 
 too, lingers to see how the poor creature 
 fares, and wins golden opinions from hero- 
 worshipping Miss Hopkins. So much good- 
 ness of heart, so much condesueniion in so 
 great a personage, she wouldn't a-thought it, 
 railly. She falUi partly in love with him in- 
 ueecf, in the brief intervals she has for thut 
 soft emotion, during her rapid skirininhing 
 up and down stairs ; would do so wholly but 
 that her admiration is about equally divided 
 between him and his friend Mr. Farrar. 
 
 This latter gentleman remains without 
 offering any particular reason, but in a 
 general way, in case he can be of auy further 
 aRsistance. 
 
 For Mimi, she lies prone, not v-)pening 
 her eyes, not stirriufr, only still moaning 
 feebly at intervals. Up in her cot, in Jemi- 
 ma's room, little Snowball sleeps, her pretty 
 cheeks flushed, her pretty hair tossed, and 
 dreams not that the fair frail, young mother in 
 drifting out further from this world, with 
 each of those dark, sad, early hours. 
 
 The night-light burns low, the sick- 
 room is very still, the street outside is dead 
 quiet ; Jemima Ann sits on one side of the 
 bed, her numberless errands over for the pre- 
 sent, dozing in the stillness, spent with 
 fatigue; Mr. Farrar paces the corridor with- 
 out, coming to the bed at intervals to feel 
 the flickering pulse, and see if life yet lingers. 
 Mr. Lacy slumbers in a chair in the parlour, 
 and Mr. Valentine has stretched his slender 
 limbs on the sofa, where poor Mimi was wont 
 in after-dinner mood to recline, and smoke, 
 and cbaff Jemima. The belated sixand. 
 twenty have clambered up to their cots at 
 last ; only the black beetles, the mice, and 
 Mr. Paul Farrar are thoroughly awakj in 
 the whole crowded household. 
 
 Four strikes with a metallic clang, from 
 the big wooden clock in the hall, and is 
 taken up by a time-piece of feebler tone, far 
 down in the underground kitchen. He 
 pauses in his restless walk, enters the sick- 
 room, glances at the quiet figure on tho 
 bed, walks to one of the windows, draws the 
 cu .-tain, and looks out. The moon has set, 
 she morning is very dark, a wild wind 
 hudders down the deserted street, with a 
 whistling sonnd, inexpressibly dreary. 
 
 He remembers suddenly it is the first of 
 November, the eve of All Souls' Day ; the 
 moaning of the sweeping blast sounds to him 
 like the wordless cry of some of these dis- 
 embodied souls, wandering up and down for- 
 
 o 
 
38 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 -#- 
 
 lornly, the places that knew them once. 
 Another houI will go to join that ' silent 
 maji»rity ' before thv? new day dawnu. The 
 thought makes him drop the curtain and 
 sends him back to the bedside. 
 
 Tne change has come. A gray shadow, 
 not there a moment since, lies on the white 
 face, a clammy dew wets it, the Hutttriug of 
 the heart can hardly be detected now, a? he 
 bends his ear to listen. 
 
 Jemima Ann, waking from some uncom- 
 fortable dream, starts up. 
 
 He lifts one warning hand, and still bends 
 his ear downward, his lingers on the flicker- 
 ing pulse. 
 
 ' Oti ! what is it ? Jemima says, inaterri' 
 fied whisper ; * is she worsft ?' 
 
 ' Bush — she is dying. No !' he cries out, 
 'she is dead !' 
 
 The shock of sudden emotion is in his 
 tone. He drops the wrist and stands quite 
 white, looking down upon the marble face. 
 A shudder has passed through the shattered 
 iimbg, through the crushed frail, pretty little 
 body ; then, with a faint, fluttering sigh, 
 she is gone. 
 
 ' Dead !' says Jemima Ann. 
 
 She drops on her knees with a sobbing cry, 
 and looks piteously at the rigid face. 
 
 ' Oh, dear 1 oh, dear 1 oh, dear 1 she sobs, 
 under her breath ; • dead ! and only this 
 afternoon, only this very afternoon, she lay 
 on the sofa down stairs talkin' to me, and 
 laughin', so full of life, and health, and 
 strength, and everything ; so pretty, so 
 pretty, so young ! Oh, dear 1 oh, dear ! and 
 now she is dead — and such a death ! 
 She was talkin' of years ago, and of 
 her husband — poor, poor thing !' says Je- 
 mima Ann, rocking to and fro, through her 
 ) lining tears, ' tellin' me how handsome he 
 V !is, and how he loved her, and how he ran 
 away with her from his home and riches and 
 ail. And now, and now, she is there— and 
 dead — and never, never, will I hear her 
 pretty voice again !' 
 
 Mr. Farrar lifts his eyes from the dead 
 woman, and looks across at the homely, tear- 
 wet, honest countenance of Mrs. Hopkins, 
 niece, and thinks that beauty is not the only 
 thing that makes a woman's face lovely. 
 
 • You are a good girl,' he says. ' You are 
 sorry for this poor creature. You do well. 
 You*"? will be the only tears shed over her — 
 poor t. 'fortunate little soul 1' 
 
 ' Did you know her, sir ?' asks Jemima. 
 
 ' I know of her. Hers has been a pathetic 
 life and death — the saddest that can be con- 
 ceived. Poor pretty little Mimi 1 And she 
 talked to you of her early life — and her hus- 
 band ? What of him ?' 
 
 •Oh, he is dead— drowned — so sho said. 
 
 But I guess he treated her bad— at least I 
 think it w&a that, I ain't sure. Mr. Lacy 
 wanted to marry her, but she wouldn't. Ah I 
 poor little dear. She'd had a dose already, 
 I reckon. What's to be done next, sir ?' 
 
 There is so much to be done next, it seems, 
 that .I'emima Ann is forced to call up her 
 aunt. Monsieurs Lacy and Valentine, aroused 
 from their matutinal nap, are informed, and 
 start up to hear the details. 
 
 ' Gone, is she ?' says Mr. Lacy, the first 
 sharp edge of his affliction a trifle blunted by 
 slumber. ' It's -it's deuced hard on me, by 
 George ! I'll never be so fond of any one 
 again as long as I live. ' 
 
 ' Did she speak at all ?' inquires Valentine, 
 with interest. 
 
 ' No, she has not spoken. ' 
 
 Mr. Fai.-ar turns abruptly away as he an- 
 swers, but lOoks over his shoulder to speak 
 again as he goes. 
 
 • I see no reason why you should linger 
 longer,' he says, roughly, to the heir of many 
 Valentines. 'She is dead. There is nothing 
 you can do.' 
 
 ' Are you sure — nothing ?' 
 
 'Nothing. You had better go. I suppose 
 they will lay her out in this room. She will 
 be buried I infer from this house.* 
 
 Vane Valentine is not used to being thus 
 summarily dismissed, but he wants to go, and 
 does not resent it. Bat why Mr. Paul Far- 
 rar should speak and act asone having author, 
 ity is not so clear, except that his masterful 
 character is rather apt to assert itself where- 
 ever he goes- 
 
 'And you,' he says : 'I mast see you 
 again, Farrar, you know, before you leave. ' 
 
 ' I shall not leave for a day or two. I 
 shall wait until after the funeral. I am in nu 
 particular hurry.' 
 
 ' At the Washington put up ? Very well, 
 I will go now, and look in on you later. You 
 ought to turn in for an hour or two — you 
 look quite fagged with your night's watch. 
 Good- morning.' 
 
 Through the bleak chill darkness of the 
 the dawning day, Vane Valentine hurries 
 home, full of his news. It is a very bleak 
 and nipping morning, it tweaks Mr. Valen- 
 tine's thin aquiline nose rosy led, and pow- 
 ders his weak young mustache with white 
 rime. The blast he faces seems to cut him 
 in two, a sleety rain begins to pelt frequent- 
 ly, and he has no umbrella. He cannot but 
 think that it is rather hard he should have to 
 undergo all this, for a trapeze performer, and 
 the consummate foolery of his cousin George 
 seven long years ago. But he has slept well, 
 is a good pedestrian, and gets over the ground 
 with rapid strides, not willing to admit even 
 to himself how thoroughly well satisfied he 
 
 nser. 
 He 
 
1— at least I 
 Mr. Laoy 
 luldu't. Ah I 
 ,08e already, 
 xt, sir ?' 
 xt, it seems, 
 I oall up her 
 tiue, aroused 
 iformed, and 
 
 ,cy, the tirst 
 
 e blunted by 
 
 rd oa me, by 
 
 of any one 
 
 BB Valentine, 
 
 v&y as he an- 
 der to apeak 
 
 should linger 
 heir of many 
 ;re is nothing 
 
 ;o. I suppose 
 )m. She will 
 
 to being thus 
 nts to go, and 
 Ir. Paul Far- 
 aving author- 
 his masterful 
 ; itself where- 
 
 nast see you 
 re you leave. ' 
 ly or two. I 
 A, I am in nu 
 
 ? Very well, 
 3U later. You 
 r or two — you 
 light's watch, 
 
 rkness of the 
 jntiue hurries 
 } a very bleak 
 ks Mr. Valen. 
 led, and pow- 
 he with white 
 ois to cut him 
 pelt frequent- 
 ~e oannot but 
 hould have to 
 lerformer, and 
 cousin George 
 las slept well, 
 rer the around 
 to admit even 
 1 satisfied he 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 39 
 
 
 is with the way in which fate has cut for 
 him his Gordian knot. It has all been very 
 shocking and tragical, and of course it is all 
 very sad. poor creature, but then — but then, 
 on the whole, perhaps it is as well, and it 
 simplifies matters exceedingly. Hure is the 
 child, of course, but the child will be easily 
 disposed of. With Mimi huf. died probably 
 all trace of that one blot in the spiitlees 
 Valentine shield. Yes, on the whole it is as 
 well. 
 
 He lies down for an hour when he gets 
 home ; then rises, has his bath, his morning 
 coffee and chop, and then sends word to his 
 aunt that he will like to see her at her earli- 
 est convenience. Her earliest convenience 
 is close upon noon, for she is not an early 
 riser. 
 
 He finds her in the sitting room of last 
 evening seated ia front of the fire, wrapped 
 in a puffy white shawl, and with the remains 
 of a breakfast of chocolate and dry toast at 
 her side. 
 
 She glanci!S indifferently up at him, mur- 
 murs a slight greeting, and returns to the 
 fire. 
 
 'Good morning, my dear aunt,' Mr. Vane 
 Valentine says, with unusual briskness of 
 manner. 
 
 He looks altogether brighter and crisper 
 than is his high-bred went. 
 
 • I trust you slept well. I hope the — aw 
 — unpleasant little recontre of yesterday did 
 not disturb you at all ? ' 
 
 • You have something to say to me,' she 
 responds, abruptly. ' Have you seen that 
 woman ? ' 
 
 I have ee^n her. That woman will 
 never trouble you or me any more.' 
 
 She looks up at him again, quickly. Some- 
 thing in his look and tone tell her a surprise 
 is coming. 
 
 • What do you mean ? ' sharply and im- 
 periously ; • fiiieak out.' 
 
 •Shois dea.l.' 
 
 There ia a pause. Even Madam Valen- 
 tine—cold inipeuetrable, hard- ia dumb for 
 a moment. Dead ! and only yesterday so full 
 of strong, insolent young life. She catches 
 her breath and looks at him with eyes that 
 dilate. 
 
 • Dead ! ' she repeats incredulously. 
 
 ' Dead ; and after a very sudden and dread- 
 ful manner ; and yet, after a manner that 
 might easily have been expected.' 
 
 And then he begins, and in his slow, for- 
 mal way, but with a quickened interest he 
 cannot wholly suppress, tells the story of the 
 tragedy at the circus. 
 
 ' And so it ends,' he concludes ; • and with 
 t all the trouble for us as well.' 
 
 And so it ends. Ay, as troubles of life 
 
 and the glory thereof shall one day end, 
 even for you, Mr. Vane Valentine — for us 
 all, O my brothers— in the solemn wonder of 
 the winding sheet. 
 
 In the warmth and glow of the fire he sees 
 his aunt shiver, and draw her white tloecy 
 shawl close. 
 
 And so it ends — in another traji^edy. 
 G(H)rge, lying benenth the bleak, sandy hil- 
 locks, in hJM wind-swept, sea-side grave — his 
 wife lying with life maigled and beaten out 
 of her, aoout to be laid by strangers far from 
 him in death as in life. So it ends, the 
 pretty love idyl, as so many other love idyls 
 of a summer day have ended — in ruin and 
 disaster, and death. 
 
 ' It is very sad — it is terrible,' she says, a 
 sudden huskiuess in her voice — all the wo- 
 manhood in her astir. ' Poor creature — 
 she had a beautiful face.' 
 
 There is pity, very real, very womanly in 
 her tone. 
 
 ' And George loved her,' she thinks. 'Oh ! 
 my son, my son.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is sad,' breaks in the hard metal- 
 lic tones of Mr. Valentine ; ' but not sur- 
 prisir.g. She will be buried from the house 
 where she has been boarding — a wrenched 
 place rilled with grimy working men. My 
 fiiend Farrar was with her at the last.' 
 
 She looks up once more. It is ho very un- 
 usual to hear the young man apply the term 
 friend to any human being, but a faint, angry, 
 incredulous smile crosses her face. 
 
 ' Who is your friend Farrar ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, no one you know. Man I met in 
 Fayal last year — manager of an immense 
 place there, VPiy good sort of fellow, a Bo- 
 hemian rather, but a thorough gentleman. 
 Stopping here for a couple of days on hi-s way 
 to Canads*. Capital company, Farrar — no 
 end a riue fellow, but not distinguished in 
 any way. 
 
 Except by the notice of Vane Valentine — 
 And the child,' After a pause, ' what of it ?* 
 
 * Oh— aw— the child. Exactly. What I 
 was about to ask. But need we trouble ? ' 
 hesitatingly. 'No one knows anything — 
 aw — at least I infer not.' 
 
 Her eyes blaze cut on him for a moment, a 
 flash of black lightning. 
 
 * She is my son's child - my grandchild. 
 Do you wish her sent to th«* workhouse. Mr. 
 Vane Valentine ? ' • . 
 
 ' My dear tuut ' 
 
 The flash is but momentary. She sink) 
 back wearily in her chair, and draws her 
 shawl still closer around her. 
 
 ' It is a very cold morning, I think — I can- 
 not get warm. Throw on another log. Vane. 
 Something must be done about the child — 
 she must De provided for.' 
 
 ■■:jat1 
 
 o. 
 
40 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 Vane Valentine turns pale under his 
 swarthy skin. He bends over the fire and 
 arranges it with some precipitation. 
 
 ' What do you wish ? ' he asks, and in his 
 ^ voice there is ever so slight a touch of sul- 
 ' lenness. 
 
 'Nothing that can affect you— do not fear 
 it.' she retorts, scornfully. ' I have no de« 
 sire that the world should know that this 
 child of an unfortunate tight-rope dancer is 
 anything to me— has any claim upon the 
 name of v^alentine. At the same time she 
 must be provided for. I do not ask how, or 
 where, but you must see that she is suitably 
 cared for and educated, and wants for no- 
 thing. Have you tact enough to manage 
 this without exacting suspicion ? ' 
 
 ' I hope so,' Mr. Vane Valentine responds, 
 rather stiffly. ' It seems a simple matter 
 enough. You are a rich lady ; as an act of 
 
 fmre benevolence you compassionate the for- 
 orn condition— aw — of this little child, and 
 offer to provide for her in that — aw — state of 
 life in which it has pleased Providence to 
 
 Elace her. No one else has any claim that I 
 ear of. I will go and see about it at once. ' 
 
 * Whom will you see ? ' 
 
 Mr. Valentine strokes his youthful mous- 
 tache, and looks thoughtful. 
 
 * The manager, I infer ; it does not seem 
 quite clear to whom the little one belongs 
 now. I can find out, however. Fanar will 
 help me. He is a wonderfully shrewd fel- 
 low and that. 
 
 •Very well, go.' 
 
 Mr. Vane Valentine goes and tries his 
 hand at diplomacy. 
 
 Mr. Farrar looks a little surprised when 
 his young friend's mission is made known to 
 him, but is ready with any assistance that 
 may be needed. 
 
 They see the manager, and find that that 
 gentleman has no claim on the little Trillon, 
 aor, so far as he knows, has any one else. 
 
 * The little one is totally unprovided for,'he 
 says, 'I know that. If nothing better offered 
 I would keep her myself for her poor mother's 
 sake, and get one of our women to take 
 charge of her. But this is better. Ours is 
 but a vagabond life for a child. It is very 
 good of your aunt, sir. She is a pretty little 
 thing, this Snowball, and will grow up a 
 charming girl. Is it Madame Valentine's 
 intention : j a^lopt her, or anything of that 
 Bort, Mr. Valentine?" 
 
 ' If my aunt takes her she will be suitably 
 provided for,' says, in a stiff way, Mr. Vane 
 Valentine. 
 
 ' No doubt, sir. Well, I see no reason why 
 your aunt shouldn't. Little un's father is 
 dead ; her mother had no relatives that I 
 ever heard of ; she is as n.uch alone in the 
 
 world, poor little thing, as any waif and 
 stray can well be. Still she should never 
 have wanted. Wait until after the funeral, 
 the girl at that boarding-house is good to 
 her, then take her away.' 
 
 ' When is the funeral ? ' 
 
 ' To-morrow. No time for delay. We are 
 off Monday morning. I look after the bury- 
 ing myself ; all expenses, and so on. She 
 got her death in my service. Hope you will 
 attend the funeral, gentlemen, both. ' 
 
 They p •omise and go, both very thought-' 
 f ul and rather silent. 
 
 Mr. Farrar was the first to speak. 
 
 ' This is V iry good of your aunt,' he says ; 
 ' it speaks well for her kindness and gentle- 
 ness of heart. ' 
 
 'Well, 'Vane Valentine replies, dryly, 'kind- 
 ness and gentleness, in a general way, are not 
 Madam Valentine's ciiief characteristics, but 
 as you say, this is good of her — the more so 
 as she is not fond of children — or poodles, or 
 cats, or birds, or things of that kind. She 
 is what is called strong-minded. The little 
 one has fallen on her feet, though, all the 
 some. Best thing that could have happened 
 to her ; that trapeze woman was not fit to 
 bring up a child.' 
 
 'Don't agree with you,' says Mr. Farrar, 
 shortly. ' It is never best for a child to lose 
 its mother, unless sh3 is a monster. There 
 are exceptional cases, I grant you, but I do 
 not call this one. I hope the poor baby will 
 be happy, whatever comes.' 
 
 'Come home and dine with me,' says Vane 
 Valentine, who is in good spirits. He does 
 not much fear the child, and a large sum of 
 money has been saved. ' You will not see 
 my aunt, very likely, but I shall be deucedly 
 glad of your company — and that. After the 
 rirst flush of partridge shooting, it's confound- 
 edly slow down here, let me tell you ' 
 
 • So I should infer. But you must excuse 
 me to-day, and to-morrow you must dine 
 with me instead, at the hotel.' 
 
 ' But why, you don't pretend to say you 
 have such a thing as an engagement at Cluig* 
 ville ?' incredulously. 
 
 ' No. Still you will be good enough to 
 excuse me. You will think it queer, I sup- 
 pose, and squeamish, but the death-bed 
 scene of this morning has upset me. It would 
 be unfair xo >ou to inflict myself upon you. 
 So good day, my dear boy — here is Mrs. 
 Hopkins'. I shall drop in for a moment. 
 Will you come ?' 
 
 ' Not for the world,' says young Valentine, 
 with a glance of strong repulsion. ' It up- 
 sets me to look at dead people, and — ^that 
 sort of thing. Until to-morrow, theu, ' au 
 revoir.' ' 
 
 The two men part, and uuconscioui little 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 H 
 
 Snowball's fate is thus summarily settled, 
 and Vane Valentine goea home through the 
 melancholy autumn afternoon to tell his 
 -aont 
 
 ,, CHAPTER X. , 
 
 IN WHICH SNOWBALL IS DISPOSED OF. 
 
 There is u. f Uueral next day from the Hotel 
 Hopkins, such a funeral as the quiet little 
 town of Clang ville has rarely turned out to 
 see. The 8ix-and-Twenty attend to a man ; 
 the circus people are all there ; there, too, 
 are Mr. Farrar and Mr. Vane Valentine. 
 
 It is a gusty November day — the stripped 
 brown trees rattle in the bleak blast, an 
 overnight fall of snow lies on the ground, 
 and whitens the black gulf dow n which they 
 lower the coffin. It looks a desolate resting- 
 place, cold, wet, forlorn — Vane Valentine 
 turns away with a shudder — death, graves, 
 all things mortuary are horrible to him. 
 
 _ Perhaps they remind him too forcibly that 
 his turn too must come ; that all the wealth 
 of all the Valentines will not be able to avert 
 it one hour. Mr. Farrar stands grave and 
 pale—an impressive figure in the scene ; 
 standing with folded arms — dark and tall, 
 looking down at the wet sods, rattling rapid- 
 ly on the coffin lid. Poor little Mimi ! Poor 
 little frail, reckless butterfly I What a hol- 
 low sound the frozen clay has as it tumbles 
 heavily down on the shining plate. What a 
 tragic ending of a shallow, selfish— psrhaps 
 sinful life ! 
 
 It is over. 
 
 As the dusk of the short November'after- 
 noon shuts down, the two young men — 
 friends, as Vane Valentine terms it, though, 
 perhaps, it is hardly the correct term — finds 
 themselves back in Mrs. Hopkins' parlour, 
 with that severe lady, still moist and tearful 
 after the funeral, and Jemima Ann, with 
 eyes quite red and swollen from much sympa- 
 thetic weeping. Little Snowball is present, 
 too, and it is little Snowball, and her future 
 they are there to discuss. 
 
 The child has on a black frock and 
 black shoes — things she has never worn be- 
 fore, and she eyes both with much disap- 
 probation. 
 
 ' Narsy, narsy,' she remarks, with some 
 asperity. Narsy black dress ; narsy black 
 shoes. Noball not like 'em. Take em off. 
 Mimy Ann." 
 
 ' No, deary,' says Jemima Ann, wiping 
 her red eyes. ' Snowball must wear the poor 
 little black dress. It is for mamma, Snow- 
 ball knows.' 
 
 ' Where my mamma gone ? When her turn 
 back r 
 
 This inquiry causes Jemima's tears to flow 
 afresh. Snowball eyes them with consider- 
 able disgust. 
 
 ' What you cwyip for ? What you always 
 cwyin for ? Want see Noball dance ? 
 
 Forthwith Snowball flirts out her sombre 
 skirts and cuts an infantile pigeon wing — 
 that last ballet step poor Mimi taught her 
 bantling. If anything can comfort Jemima 
 Ann, and stem the torrent of her tears, Snow 
 ball is convinced this must. 
 
 ' Look at that child,' says Vane Valentine, 
 much amused. ' Blood tells, doesn't it ? Do 
 what you please with her that fairy change- 
 ling will grow up like her mother before her 
 — a thorough Bohemian.' 
 
 Mr. Farrar is looking, and thoughtfully 
 enough, at Snowball's performance. She 
 dances wonderfully well for such a baby, 
 every motion is instinct with lithe, fairy- 
 like, inborn grace. The cloud of pale flaxen 
 hair floats over her shoulders like a banner, 
 the black dress brings out the pearly tints of 
 the milk-white skin, the sweet baby face is 
 like a star set in jet. 
 
 'She is a lovely little creature,' Mr. Far- 
 rar says. ' She bids fair to become a beauti- 
 ful woman.' 
 
 ' Ten to one she grows up blowsy or freck- 
 led,' replies Vane Valentine, in a hold-cheap 
 voice ; ' these very blonde girls often do. 
 But yes — she is pretty at present. Let as 
 hope judicious training may eradicate some- 
 what the wild vagrant strain that flows in 
 her veins, and turn her out a civilized young 
 woman.' 
 
 Mr. Farrar looks at him — a look half 
 amused, half sardonic. ' You abominable 
 young prig !' is his thought. ' Let us hope so, 
 he says, aloud, dryly, ' to w hom do you pro- 
 pose confiding that herculean task? 
 Does Madam Valentine intend taking her in 
 hand herself V 
 
 ' My aunt ? My dear fellow, you never 
 saw my aunt, did you ? She would as soon 
 take in hand the training of a young gorilla. 
 I told you she detests pets — poodles and 
 little giris included. No ; whatever is done 
 with the waif, it will not be that. ' 
 
 'And yet, I should have thought, after 
 her offer to provide for her — adopt her, after 
 a fashion — she would like, at least, to see 
 her. We mostly are interested in that for 
 which we provide. But perhaps I have mil- 
 understood. It is your intention to take her 
 home with you to-night ?' 
 
 " My good Farrar,' retorts Vane Valen- 
 tine, with a very marked touch of impatience 
 — 'no ! My aunt has expressed no wish, none 
 whatever, to see this little girl. How could 
 it be possible for her— her — to be interested 
 
 r- 
 
 ■sn 
 
 ^ 
 
 
42 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 in the cliilrl of a strolling acrobat— '* vagrant 
 by professiou ?' 
 
 • Mile. Mimi is dead, Mr. Vane Valentine,' 
 taya Mr. Farrar, with a sudden dark Hash 
 leaping angrily from his eyes. * Your patrici- 
 an feelirgs are rather carrj ing you away I 
 
 ' Beg pardou. I speak warmly — the idea 
 is so p'^epoHterous. It was bad form all the 
 same.' 
 
 Mr. Valentine turns away, at his stiffest, 
 but decidedly discomposed. He speaks warm- 
 ly, becaube, although it is true in the letter, 
 ttiat Madam Valentine has expressed no 
 distinct desire to see Snowball Trillon — to 
 have George's daughter brought home — be is 
 perfectly conscious that she does desire it, 
 that she tlesires it strongly, that it is only her 
 pride that prevents her putting the desire in 
 words. And Vane Valentine is horribly 
 afraid of any such consummation. Who 
 knows what may follow ? This "imaU girl — 
 as George's daughter, and owned as such — 
 has a claim on the Valentine millions far 
 and away bet' er than his own. And she is 
 80 perilously pretty — so winning — so charm- 
 ing — with ail her infantile sweetness and 
 grace, that — oh ! that is out of the question, 
 quite out of the question to let Madam 
 Valentine set eyes on her at all. She is not 
 in the least like the family, that is 
 something, the Valentines are all dark and 
 dour, as the Scotch say— this chili is fair 
 aa a lily . 
 
 • It is the dickens own puzzle to know who 
 what to do with her,' he says, gnawing at the 
 and of his callow mustach.^, • she cannot stay 
 in here, I suppose, and she cannot come to 
 the cottage, that is clear. She might go 
 to a boarding-school, or a nunnery, or — or 
 that,' helplessly. ' What would you do, 
 Farrar ? You are a man of resources .' 
 
 ' It's rather like having a white elephant 
 on your hands, is it not ? Poor little 
 elephant— that a man could take up be- 
 tween his linger and thumb— to be such 
 a dead weight, such an Old Man of the 
 Sea, on any one s shoulders ! Are you really 
 serious in that question, Valentine ? I know 
 what you could do, but will you do it ? 
 It would be a capital thing for the child too.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, speak out, I will do any- 
 thing — the little thing'sggood, of course, be- 
 ing paramount.' 
 
 'Of course,' dryly. • Well— you might 
 give her to me.* 
 
 • What !' 
 
 • Not to adopt— not to bring back to Fay- 
 »1 — only to take oflF your hands for the pre- 
 sent. I will make a handsome sacrifice on 
 the altar of friendship, my boy, put your 
 ■mall white elephant in my overcoat pocket, 
 and tuke her 'over the hills and far away.' 
 
 Vane Valentine stands and stares at him, 
 half in anger at his ill-timed jesting — half in 
 doubt whether it be jesting. 
 
 Farrar is a queer fellow, full of whims and 
 odditiec, but, also, as he has said, full of re- 
 sources. 
 
 ' Don't stand there looking as if you 
 thouEht I had gone idiotic!' exclaims Farrar, 
 impatiently. ' Have I not said I don't want 
 the little one for myself. Look here, Val- 
 entine, I am going to my friends, the Mac* 
 donalds. Dr. Macdonald lives on an island 
 in Bay Chalette, if you ever heard of such a 
 place. Isle Perdrix is the name. He is an 
 old Scotchman, his wife is a young French 
 Canadian lady, and the sweetest woman that 
 ever drew breath. That is saying a good 
 deal, ain't it?" 
 
 ' 'They have two sons, little chaps of six 
 and nine. There is no girl, and the desire of 
 Madame Macdonald's heart is a little girl. 
 
 ' She will take this one, and b.-ing her 
 up in the very choicest French fashion ; 
 if there is any possibility of changing 
 and improving that Bohemian's nature, 
 you so deeply deplore, she is the lady to 
 do it. 
 
 * As they are by no means wealthy, you 
 will make compensation, of course. The 
 flourishing township of St. Gddas is over 
 the river from the island, and there is an ex- 
 cellent convent school, when she attains the 
 age for it. I start to-morrow morning ; 
 it you think well of this. Petite shall be 
 my travelling coinpanion. There is my 
 otter.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow !' cries Mi. Vane Valen- 
 tine — • my dear Farrar !' 
 
 He is not generally effusive, it is not 
 ' form ;' but he grarps his friend's hand now, 
 or tries to do so — for Mr. Farrar stands with 
 his hands in his pockets, and is slow to take 
 them out. 
 
 ' I accept with delight ; take her, by all 
 means ; nothing could be better. You 
 say you will start to-morrow. Sorry to 
 lose you, of course. These good women will 
 see that the child ie ready. The qiiestion of 
 ample, of liberal compensation, we will 
 arrange later. Nothing in the world could 
 be better than what you propose.' 
 
 ' Madame Valentine will be satisfied ?' 
 
 ' Perfectly satisfied. She will amply pro- 
 vide for the child. ' 
 
 Had youf not better put it to her ? as it is 
 she who is virtually Snowball's guardian now, 
 should you not ?' 
 
 ' My dear Farrar, I can answer for her. 
 It is not necessary ac all. I have full power 
 to act for her in this matter. She does not 
 want to see the little one, or be annoyed 
 with question B about her.' , 
 
 
 have a > 
 •Not 
 ladies 
 ready t 
 
 '"w eni 
 in cold 
 would 
 days anc 
 than my 
 
 Thus 
 page for 
 Its lights 
 ing. its 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 43 
 
 * It would annoy her, would it ? That 
 makes a difference, of course. Come here little 
 white elephant— such a poor little helpless 
 elephant 1 and tell me if you will leave your 
 Mimy Ann, and come with me V 
 
 He lifts the fairy to his knee, with infin- 
 ite tendernesb, and puts back with gentle 
 tiugera tha falling, flaxen hair. 
 
 • Will you come with me, little Snowball ? 
 I want to take you to the kindest lady in 
 the world — a pretty new mamma, who will 
 love little Snowball with all her good heart ?' 
 
 The child puts up her two snow-flake 
 hands and strokes the cheeks of her bis; 
 friend. 
 
 you,' 
 man. 
 
 she 
 
 says 
 
 You 
 
 IS 
 
 Foball will give you 
 
 'Noball like 
 a pritty, pritty 
 a kiss. ' 
 
 Which she docs, au emphatic lit*;lc smack 
 right on the bearded lips. ' 
 
 * Flattering, upon my word,' says Vane 
 Valentine. ' Don't you like me oo, Snow- 
 ball ?' 
 
 ' No,' says Snowball, curling her mite of a 
 nose. * You is not a pritty genpyman. You 
 is very narsy.' 
 
 * By Jovel' says Mr. Valentine, and stands 
 discomtited. , . .. ,^^ 
 
 Mr. Farr&r laughs. ^ 
 
 ' And you will come riih me, Snowball V 
 
 * Yes,' nods Srjowball. ' Noball tum wiz 
 yoQ. May my Jklimy Ann tum, too ?' 
 
 * Well — no — not unless you wish it very 
 much. Miss Trillon. And you Mimy Ann, 
 I take it, cannot be spared.' 
 
 * You will want some one,' suge;e8ts Valen- 
 tine. * You cannot travel with that child 
 alone, Farrar ; think of the dressing and un- 
 dressiui?, and feeding and sleeping, and all 
 that. Y^'ou couldn't manage it. You must 
 have a woman. ' 
 
 * Not if I know it. There are always 
 ladies travelling — nice matronly ladies, 
 ready to interest themselves in helpless 
 manhood and childhood. They will attend 
 to Mademoiselle Snowball's infantine wan'^s 
 and wardrobe. St. Gildas is only two days 
 off. I am willing to risk it. No woman, 
 Valentine, my boy, an' thou lovest me.' 
 
 * Wretched misogynist,' laughs Mr. Val- 
 entine. 'Some one must have used you 
 shamefully in days gone by, Farrar. I 
 wonder why — you are a tall and proper fel- 
 I'^w enough. You must haye been jilted 
 in cold blood. Well, as you like it, only|I 
 would mther it were you travelling two 
 days ancl nights with a girl- baby in charge 
 than myself.' 
 
 Thus it is settled, and life opens on a new 
 page for little Snowball. The circus, with 
 its lights and its leaps, its riding, its danc- 
 ing, its danger, and its wanderings, its fla- 
 
 vour ot vagabondism, is to be left behind 
 forever, and seclusion, and respectability, 
 and training in the way she should go a la 
 Francais, begins for the motherless waif, 
 afloat like a lo«t straw on life's great tide. 
 
 .\ll is speedily settled. Mr. Farrar is 
 eminently a man of promptitude and dis- 
 patch. Vane Valentine is only too anxious 
 to get it all over and have the child out of 
 the town. His aunt will shut up the cot- 
 tage, and depart in a day or tw o. Money 
 matters are arranged, and are as liberal as 
 young Valentine has promised. He shakes 
 hands with his friend late that evening full 
 of self congratulation that a knotty point 
 han been so well and easily gotten over. 
 
 ' If she had seen the youn« one,' he says 
 to himself, thinking of his aunt, ' no one 
 knows what might have happened. Shut 
 out of the world on this far-away island, she 
 she speedily forget, I trust, all about her. It 
 shall be the business of my life to compel 
 her to forgjt. Until the fortune is actually 
 mine, I am daily in danger of losing it^ un- 
 le8s she forget her son's daughter.' 
 
 Early the next morning the first train 
 bears away among its passengers Mr. Paul 
 Farrar and Miss Snowball Trillon. Jemima 
 Ann weeps copiously at the parting. A 
 glimpse of romance has come to brighten the 
 dull drab of her existence, and it goes with 
 the going of Snowball. 
 
 ' Good-by, goodby,' she sobs. ' Don't, 
 eh ! don't forget poor Mimy Ann, little 
 Snowball !' 
 
 V de- 
 tear with 
 an expres- 
 Noball don't 
 
 now 
 
 ' What you cwyin' for 
 mands Snowball, touching a 
 one minute finger, and 
 ssion of much distaste, 
 like cwyin'. You is always cwyin' 
 What ynu want to cwy some more ?' 
 
 Snowball cries not. Her small black 
 cloak is fastened, her little black bonnet 
 tied under one delicious dimple, she is kiss- 
 ed, and departs in high glee, and even the 
 memory of good Jemima Ann waxes pale and 
 dim before the first hour has passed. 
 
 Mr. Farrar has been right. All the way, 
 ladies take a profound interest in pretty 
 Snowball. Her deep mourning, her ex- 
 quisite face, her feathery, floating hair, her 
 blue, fearless eyeSj her enchanting baby 
 smile, her piquant little remarks, captivate 
 all whom she neets. 
 
 • Isn't she swcet ?' 
 
 ' Oh, what a pet 1' 
 
 Mr. Farrar hears the changes rung on 
 these two feminine remarks the whole way. 
 Snowball fraternizes with every one — she 
 does not know what bashfulness means ; she 
 flits about like a bird the whole day long. 
 Perhaps, too, some of these good ladies are 
 
 o 
 
44 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 a trifle interested in the tall, silent, bearded, 
 handsome gentleman who has her in charf;e, 
 and who is not her father, brother, uncle, 
 anythiiig to her, so far as they can find out 
 from the small demoiselle herself, whose 
 name she does not even know. She comes 
 back to him once from her peregiinations, 
 replete with cake and questions, perches her- 
 self on his knee, gives one bronzed cheek a 
 preliminary peck with her rosy lips, and 
 puts this leading question : 
 
 ' Is you my papa ?* 
 
 *No, Snowball, I don't think I am.' 
 
 ' Is you my uncle ? ' 
 
 ' Nor your untie. * 
 
 'Is you my broder?' 
 
 ' Not even your brother.' 
 
 ' What is you. den ? Tause de lady she 
 art NobalL* 
 
 * The lady had better not ask too many 
 questions. A thirst for knowledge, you 
 may inform her, has been the bane of her 
 sex. And Snowball must not distend her- 
 self like a small anaconda with confection- 
 ery. The lady means to be kind, but per- 
 haps Snowball has heard of people who were 
 killed with kindneiss ?' 
 
 To which Snowball's reply is that she is 
 sleepy. And then the flaxen head cuddles 
 comfortably over the region of Mr. Farrar's 
 heart, and the blue eyes close, and the dewy 
 lips part, and Snowball is safely in the land 
 of dreams. 
 
 The close of the second day brings them 
 to St. Gildas. Cold weather awaits them, 
 in this Canadian seaport. The snow lies 
 deep, winds blow keenly. Snowball shivers 
 under her wraps in Mr. Farrar's arms. They 
 spend the night at a hotel, and after break- 
 fast next morning, cross the St. (lildas river 
 to Isle Fedrix. There an amazed and joyful 
 welcome awaits them. Snowball's reception 
 is all Mr. Fa' rar has predicted, both from 
 the elderly Scotch doctor and the youthful 
 French wife. They accept the charge with 
 delight, the two boys of the household alone 
 eyeing the intruder with dubious eyes, as it 
 is in the nature of hoyt> . nder nine to "egard 
 small girls. But nature is sometimes out- 
 }j;rown. 
 
 Mr. Farrar remains ten days — ten days of 
 transport to the two Macdonald lads, who 
 worship him, or thereabouts, ten days of 
 gladness to their parents, ton days of much 
 caressing and infantile love-making on the 
 part of Snowball, ten happy, peaceful days. 
 Then he goes back to Fayal, out there in the 
 Azores, and ^o the monotonous life of the 
 manager of ^ large estate in that dullest of 
 fair tropical islands. And Snowball re- 
 mains, and life on its new page, a breezy and 
 
 charming and healthful life on the sea-girt 
 isle, begini. 
 
 IPA.R.T SECO'^r>. 
 
 Don Carlos.—' All things that live have 
 some means of defence.' 
 
 Lucas—' Ay, all— save only lovely, helpless 
 woman,' 
 
 Don ' Jarlos.— ' Nay, woman has her tongue 
 armed to the teeth.' 
 
 CHA-PTER h 
 
 ISLB PBRDRIX. 
 
 Far away from grimy New England manu- 
 facturing towns, from coal smoke, and roar- 
 ing furnaces and brisk Yankee trade and 
 bustle, from circuses and flying trapeze, 
 there rests, rock-bound, and bare and bleak, 
 a green dot -in a blue waste of waters 
 — Isle Ferdrix. Lonely and barren 
 it rears its craggy head- land, crowned 
 with stunted spruce and dwarfed 
 cedars, aud runs out its sandy spits and 
 tongues, like an ugly, sprawling spider, into 
 the chilly watert of Bay Chalette. Through 
 the long snow bound Canadian winter, with 
 the fierce August sun beating and blistering 
 it, with dark sea-fogs mapping it, with 
 whirling enow-storms shrouding it. Isle Fer- 
 drix rests placid, unchanged, almost un- 
 changeable, the high tides of Bay Chalette 
 threatening sometimes to rise in their might 
 and sweep it away altogether, into the 
 stormy Atlantic beyond. 
 
 Long ago, when all this Canadian land was 
 French, and the beautiful language the only 
 one spoken, it had been christened Isle Fer- 
 drix. Later with Irish, and English and 
 Scotch immigration, to confound all names, 
 it became Dree Island ; otherwise it is un- 
 altered since fifty, sixty, more years ago. Its 
 headland light burns as of yore, a beacon in 
 dark and dangerous Bay Chalette — its resi- 
 dent physician is still resident, as when in 
 that far off time it was a quarantine station, 
 and men and women died in the long sheds 
 erected in the sands of ' ship-fever ' faster 
 than hands could bury them. It is an island 
 undermined with graves, haunted by ghost- 
 ly memories. The :vorld moves, but it 
 moves languidly about Dree i^laud. It 
 is a quarantine 8tatio.n still, but its hospitals 
 have stood empty for the past decade of 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 45 
 
 sea-girt 
 
 D. 
 
 ye have 
 
 helpless 
 
 )r tongue 
 
 kd manu- 
 
 sind roar- 
 
 rade and 
 
 trapeze, 
 
 id bleak, 
 
 )f waters 
 
 barren 
 
 crowned 
 
 dwarfed 
 
 pits and 
 
 ier, into 
 
 Through 
 
 ter, with 
 
 tlisterin^ 
 
 it, with 
 
 Isle Per- 
 
 lost nn- 
 
 Dhalette 
 
 iir might 
 
 into the 
 
 land was 
 the only 
 
 sle Per- 
 ish and 
 
 names, 
 
 it is nn- 
 
 ago. Its 
 
 )eaoon in 
 
 its resi- 
 when in 
 
 station, 
 ng sheds 
 
 ' faster 
 
 ,n island 
 )y ghost- 
 but it 
 
 ad. It 
 hospitals 
 
 cade of 
 
 years ; emigrant ships oome rarely now to 
 dull St Oildaa, and Dr. Maodonald finds his 
 office pretty well a sinecure. He lives there 
 still, though, a sort of family Robinson Cru- 
 soe in his cottage, practises as he gets it over 
 in St. Gildas, and brings up his two boys in 
 their breezy homa, and would not change 
 his secluded, peaceful, plodding life to be 
 made viceroy of all Her Majesty's domin- 
 ions. I 
 Dr. Macdonald's island castle is a cottage ^ 
 — a long, white cottage, only one storey and ; 
 an attic high. But though low, it is lengthy, 
 and contains some nine or ten pretty rooms, 
 and always a spare chamber for the pilgrim 
 and the stranger within its gates. They come 
 sometimes to sketch, and tish, and shoot — I 
 bronzed and bearded pilgrims, artists f'-om [ 
 the States officers from Ottawa and Mci ;1, 
 and go away charmed with the doctor, the 
 house, the cuisine, the sport, the sea. He 
 would be difficult indeed whom Dr. Angus 
 Maodonald's genial manners, and Madame 
 Aloysia's cookery would fail to charm. Most 
 kindly of hosts, most gentle of gentlemen, is 
 the dreamy doctor, and in her way 'Ma'am 
 Weesy ' — so the children shorten her stately 
 baptismal — is a cordon bleu. 
 
 The cottage sits comfortably in a garden, 
 and the garden is shut in on the north and 
 east by craggy bluff's, that break the force 
 of the beetling Atlantic winds. Behind is a 
 vegetable garden, with currant and goose- 
 berry bushes flourishing among the potatoes 
 and cabbages ; in front is a flower-garden — 
 such flowers as with infinite coaxing will con- 
 sent to blossom in so bleak a spot. Hardy, 
 old-fashioned poppies and dahlias, London 
 pride, queen of the meadow, bachelor but- 
 tons, and lilac trees — these, with southern 
 sunshine and western breezes, brighten the 
 island-garden for three or four months out 
 of twelve. A great picturesque trail of hop- 
 vine and soarlet-runner drapes the porch, 
 and twines in pretty festoons round the win- 
 dow of the doctor's study. Take it for all 
 in all, the bearded artists, who carry away 
 so many sketches of it in their portfolios, 
 may be sincere enough in pronouncing it one 
 of the most capital little hermitages the round 
 world holds. 
 
 It is a July morning — forenoo: rather — for 
 elevenj has struck by the doctor's clock. 
 Peace roigbs on Isle Perdrix, a peace that 
 may almost be felt, a great calm of wind and 
 sea. The summer sky is without a cloud ; 
 it is blue, blue, blue, and flecked with roll- 
 ing billows of white wool — a languid zephyr, 
 with the saline freshness of the ocean, just 
 stirs the hop vines, but faintly, as if it too 
 were a-weary in the unusual heat. Little 
 baby waveletf) lap with murmurous motion 
 
 upon the gray sands— the gulls that whirl 
 and circle round the island do not even 
 shriek. 
 
 Peace reigras too within the cottage, the 
 doctor is from home, the boys are at St 
 Gildas, and the other distributing element of 
 the household is— well. Ma'am Weesy does 
 not exactly know where, but where she will 
 remain she devoutly hopes, for another hour 
 or two. Vam hope— as the thought crosses 
 the old woman's mind, there comes the sound 
 of shriJJ, sweet singing, a quick rush and 
 patter of small feet, a shout, and there whirls 
 into the cottage kitchen a girl of twelve, out 
 of breath, flushed with running, but singinff 
 her chorus still — * " 
 
 •Here's to the wind that blows. 
 
 And the ship that goes. 
 
 And the lass tbat loves a sailor.' 
 
 ' Oh, Ma'am Weesy 1 ' cries this breath- 
 less apparition, ' where is Johnny ? ' 
 
 She stands in the doorway directly in the 
 stream of yellow morning sumhine, her sailor 
 hat on the back of her head— a charming 
 head 'sunning over with curls,' and looks 
 with twc eyes as blue and bright as the 
 July sky itself, into the old woman's face. 
 
 She 18 a charming vision altogether,' a 
 tall, slim girl, in a blue print dress made 
 sailor-fashion, and trimmed with «rhite 
 braid, a strap of crimson leather belting it 
 about the slender waist. Long ringlets of 
 flaxen fairness fall until they touch this belt 
 Iheface is bewitching, so fair, so spirited! 
 so full of life and eagerness, and joyous 
 healthful youth. It matches the blonde hair 
 and sky-blue eyea— it is all rose-pink and 
 pearl-white. 
 
 „Ma'am Weesy pauses in her work' with a 
 sort of groan. She is peeling potatoes for 
 dinner, and throwing them into a tin pan o* 
 cold water beside her. The sunny kitchen 
 18 a gem of cleanliness and comfort ; Ma'am 
 Weesy herself is a little brown old person of 
 fifty, as active and agile as a young girl, and 
 housekecsper for fifteen years m the doctor's 
 cottage. She is monarch of all she surveys 
 at present, for Madame Macdonald is dead 
 and an autocratic ruler. That kitchen ' in- 
 tenor • is a picture, everything it contains 
 glows and gleams again with friction, tin- 
 ware takes on the brillance of silver, the 
 rows of dishes sparkle in the sunshine. In 
 the place of honour in a gilt frame, hangs 
 her patron, that handsome young Saint 
 Aloysius Gonzaga, to whom in all her diffi- 
 culties, culinary as well as conscientious, 
 she 13 accustomed to promutly, not to say 
 peremptorily, appeal. 
 
 She casts an imploring glance at him new, 
 for this youthful person is the one of all tue 
 family, who rasps and exasperates her 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ..-*' 
 
 1 
 
46 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 moat, but Aloyaius continues to regard them 
 with his grave smile, and responds not. 
 
 'Where is Johnny?' repeats impatiently 
 the vidion in flaxen curls and sailor suit ; ' is 
 he up stairs ? I can't tind him. He isn't 
 anywhere, and ho said — you heard him your- 
 self last night, Ma'am Weesy ' — in shrill 
 indignation — 'you heard him say he would 
 take me out in the Boule-de-ueige this fore- 
 noon. And now it is past eleven o'clock, 
 and I can't tind him. Johnny ! John-ne-ee 1 ' 
 the shrill tones rise to an ear splitting 
 shriek. 
 
 •Ah, Mon Dieu I' cries out old Weesy, 
 and covers her ears with her hands. 
 'Mademoiselle leave the kitchen — leave 
 directly, I say ! I will not be deafened 
 like this. Yuu must not come screaming at 
 me like a sea-gull, it is not to be borue ; 
 your vuice is worse than the steam whiHtle 
 down at the Point in a fog. Master Jean is 
 not here — is not here, I tell you. He went 
 to St. Gildas right after breakfast, and has 
 not yet returned.' 
 
 ' £o St. Gildas?' repeats the young per- 
 son in blue, and an expression of blank 
 despair crosses the sunny face. 
 
 Then she looks at Ma'am Weesy and 
 brightens a bit. 
 
 • I don't believe it ! ' she says, promptly. 
 
 ' It is true, nevertheless, ma'amselle. I 
 wanted coffee and sugar, and he offered to 
 go. But he must be back by now — it is 
 hours since he went. Go down to the Point 
 and call. M'sieur Kene at least is sure to be 
 there.' 
 
 ' I don't want M'sieur Rene,' says 
 mademoiselle in an aggressive tone. ' I 
 want Johnny. I think it 'is horrid of you 
 Ma'am Weesy, to go sending him for sugar 
 and things, when you might know I'd want 
 him. You might have sent old Tim. And 
 now it is fourteen minutes past eleven, and 
 the best of the day gone'. You wait until 
 you want me to shell peas for you, or rake 
 olams, and you'll see.' 
 
 With which dark threat this young per- 
 son crushes her saUor hat with some asperity 
 down on her pale gold curls, and turns 
 despondently to go. 
 
 Ma'am Weesy looks after her with a 
 chuckle ; it is not always she can get rid of 
 her thus easily, and a gad flyabout the 
 kitchen would be less of a torment over her 
 work than mademoiselle. 
 
 Mademoiselle, m<)antime, recovers her 
 spirits with great rapidity, the moment she 
 ii out of the house, and starts off at 
 racing speed, despite the blazing sun, to the 
 point. It is a lofty peak, at the extreme 
 outer edge of a projecting tongue of land, 
 overlooking the bay and the town, across the 
 
 river, and all boats passing up and down. If 
 the missing Johnny is on sea or shore, made- 
 moiselle is determined he shall know she 
 awaits him and hastens his lagging steps. 
 So standing erect on her lofty peroh, over- 
 looking the vasty deep, she uplifts her strong 
 young voice, and 
 
 Johnny I Johnny-y I Johnny-y-y !' 
 pierces the circumambient air. Even the 
 seagulls pause in constiernation as they lis- 
 ten. 
 
 ' Good heavens 1' cried a voice, at last. 
 'Stop that awful row. Snowball. Your 
 shrieks are enough to wake the dead.' 
 
 The speaker is a youth of sixteen or so, 
 stretched in the shadow of the great rock on 
 which the girl stands, his hat pulled over his 
 eyes, trying to read. Vain effort, with those 
 maddening cries for Johnny, rending the 
 summer silence. 
 
 Snowball glances down at him, and her 
 only answer is a still more ear-splitting and 
 distracted appeal for the lost and longed-for 
 'Johnny.' 
 
 'They may wake the dead if they like,' 
 she says, disdainfully, ' but they need't 
 wake you. I don't wan't you. I want 
 Johnny. ' 
 
 'Yes, I hear you do.' retorts the reader. 
 ' You always do want Johnny, don't you ? 
 You want Johiisy » good deal more than 
 Johnny ever wants you. ' 
 
 It is an uncivil speech, and, it may be re- 
 marked just here, that the amenities of life, 
 as passing between M. Rene Maodonald and 
 Mile. Snowball Trillon, are mostly of an acid 
 and acrid character. Open rupture indeed 
 is often imminent, and is only avoided by 
 the fact that the young lady is constitution- 
 ally unable to retain indignation for over 
 five minutes at any one time. Her reply to 
 this particularly ungallant speech, is one of 
 her very sweetest smiles- a smile that dances 
 in the blue eyes, and flashes out of two rows 
 of emiill pearl white teeth. 
 
 ' Look here, Rene,' she says, ' I wish you 
 would come, too. You'll make yourself as 
 blind as a bat, if you keep on over your 
 books forever and ever. I think I see John- 
 ny and the batteau coming aoroes, and we're 
 going to Chapeteu Dieu for raspberries. Do — 
 do put that stupid book m your pocket,' 
 impatiently, 'and come.' 
 
 ' It isn't a stupid book,' says Rene Mac- 
 donald, 'and berrying is much too hard 
 work this scorcher of a day. You'll inveigle 
 Johnny into a sunstroke if you don't talce 
 care.' 
 
 'Look here !' repeats Snowball, and comes 
 
 dashing down the steep side of the cUff like 
 
 a young chamois. The last five feet she 
 
 akea with a flyins; leap, and lands like a 
 
 tornado 
 Shep 
 — a ma 
 whips o; 
 tenta. 
 
 'Sand 
 ' made o 
 thin — CO 
 from Ma 
 blueberr 
 packed i 
 the raspl 
 on the B 
 and says 
 jam, and 
 cake eve 
 week — tl 
 She is 
 apeaks, 1 
 her whol 
 flusfied. 
 catches i 
 berry she 
 raspberry 
 tion stag( 
 ' Do coi 
 and lips, 
 prayer, 
 that bese 
 beauty, n 
 the obdur 
 of shortct 
 • VVelI,1 
 don't care 
 iog than 
 nie to ke 
 whenever 
 Be is I 
 French-lo 
 Canadian 
 and yet 
 broad, pa 
 nous eyes 
 ^oat behi 
 "J is quit4 
 head boy 
 Gilda«i, M 
 dents. 
 
 •There' 
 accents of 
 basket am 
 ' Johnny 1 
 looking fo 
 I am hoar 
 horrid as 
 me?' 
 
 'Hadn'l 
 resting; o^, 
 ' Boule-de 
 ceries in n 
 though ; \ 
 John Ml 
 
LOST FOR A W0MA1<. 
 
 ren the 
 aey lis- 
 
 at last. 
 Your 
 
 n or BO, 
 rock CD 
 over his 
 th those 
 ling the 
 
 and her 
 t;iDK and 
 Dged-for 
 
 By like,' 
 
 r need't 
 
 I want 
 
 i reader. 
 I't you? 
 ore than 
 
 ay be re- 
 a of life, 
 nald and 
 I an aoid 
 indeed 
 »ided by 
 ititution- 
 or over 
 reply to 
 is one of 
 at dances 
 iwo rows 
 
 wish you 
 mrself as 
 ver your 
 jee John- 
 ,nd we're 
 en. Do- 
 pocket,' 
 
 ene Mac- 
 
 00 hard 
 
 1 inveigle 
 >u't take 
 
 nd comes 
 cliff like 
 f«et she 
 
 Is like a 
 
 tornado at the lad's aide. ' Just look here !' 
 She produced from a hiding-place a basket 
 — a market-basket of noble proportions^ 
 whips off the cover, and displays the '.^oa- 
 tents. 
 
 'SandwichiS,' she says, with unction, 
 ' made of minced veal and ham, lovely and 
 thin — cold chicken pie, pound cake — all stolen 
 from Ma'am Weeay, Rene I— biscuits, and a 
 blueberry tart ! The basket ia full— full— I 
 packed it myself. It's for our lunch. And 
 the raspberries are thick — thic :, Rene, over 
 on the Banens. Johnny was there yeaterday, 
 and says so. And Weesy is going to make 
 jam, and says we can have raspberry short- 
 cake every evening for a week. For a 
 week — think of that!' 
 
 She ia fairly dancing with eagerness aa she 
 speaks, her great blue eyea flash like atara, 
 her whole piquant apirited face, aglow and 
 fluabed. Even Rene — Rene the phlegmatic — 
 catches a little of her enthuaiasm. Raap- 
 berry shortcake every day for a week— and 
 raspberry jam forever after I His resolu- 
 tion staggers — he hesitates — he is lost ! 
 
 'Do come !' reiterates Snowball, and eyes 
 and lips, and clasped hands repeat the 
 prayer. She looks lovely as she stands in 
 that beseeching attitude, but it is not her 
 beauty, nor her entreating tone that moves 
 the obdurate Rene— it is the sweet prospect 
 of shortcal'- and jam. 
 
 * Well,' he Bays, condeacendingly, ' I 
 don't care if I do. It's always easier yield- 
 ing than rowing with you, and papa told 
 me to keep you and Jack out of mischief 
 whenever I got a chance.' 
 
 He is a slender, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, 
 French-looking boy, very like his dead 
 Canadian mother — not exactly handsor.e, 
 and yet sufficiently attractive, with that 
 broad, pale forehead, and those dark lumi- 
 nous eyes. All sort of misty, dreamy ideas 
 '^oat behind that thoughtful-looking brow ; 
 ^ J is quite a prodigy of industry and talent, 
 head boy of St. Francis College, over at St.. 
 Gilda*i, where h-' and his brother are stu- 
 dents. 
 
 ' There's Johnny now !' cries Snowball, in 
 accents of exquisite delight. She drops the 
 basket and bounds away as fleet as a fawn. 
 ' Johnny ! Johnny !' she calls, ' I've been 
 looking for you everywhere, and calling until 
 I am hoarse. How could you be so awfully 
 horrid aa to go to St. Gildas and never tell 
 me?' 
 
 'Hadn't time,' responds Master Johnny, 
 resting; on the gunwale of his boat, the 
 ' Boule-de-neige.' * Weesy wanted her gro- 
 ceries in no end of a hurry. I'm here now, 
 though ; what do yon want ?' 
 John Macdonald is fourteen years old, and 
 
 is at this moment, perhaps, the handsomest 
 boy in Canada. His face is simply beauti- 
 ful. He is handsomer even, in \m boyish 
 fashion, than the pretty girl who stiiDds be- 
 side him. He is not in the least like hia 
 brother ; he is taller at fourteen than Rene 
 at sixt^en — he is fair, like his Scottish fore> 
 fathers, with sea gray eyes, and a face, per- 
 fect enough, in form and colour fur an ideal 
 god. His hair light brown, jtrofuse and 
 curling, his skin is tanned by much exposure 
 to sea and sun and wind, and a certain 
 simplicity .ind unconsciousness of his own 
 good Ivioks, lends a last charm to a face that 
 wins all hearts at sight. 
 
 ' What do I want ?' repeats Snowball, fix- 
 ing two reproachful eyes on the placid 
 countenance before her ; ' that's a question 
 for you to sit there and ask without a blush, 
 isn't it ?' 
 
 'Don't see anything to blush about,' re- 
 torts Johnny, with a grin ; ' it's too hot to 
 go to Chapeau DieUj if that's what's the 
 matter. The sun is a blazer on the water 
 :et me tell you.' 
 
 ' Oh, Johnny,' in blankest disappointment, 
 ' dearest Johnny, don't say ao. And after 
 all fcne trouble I've had, too — fixing the love- 
 liest lunch — chicken-pie, tarts, and every, 
 thing ! Oh, Johnny, don't back out at the 
 last minute.' 
 
 Tears spring into the blue, bescchin';; eyes, 
 the hands clasp again, she stands a picture 
 of heart-broken supplication before h an. 
 
 'Oh, all right,' says Johnny, v/o hates 
 tears. ' I wouldn't cry about it ;f I were 
 you. Where's Rene ? Shinning up the tree 
 of knowledge, as usual, I suppose.' 
 
 • He's coming too. Johnny, you're a 
 darling !' cries SnowbaU,in a rapture ; 'don't 
 let ua lose a minute ; the lunch basket is 
 here. It is half-past eleven — we ought to 
 have been off tM'o hours ago. ' 
 
 ' I must go UP 'uo the house with| the 
 things,' says Johnny, unmoved 'oy all this 
 adulation. ' T/ou and Rene can pile in and 
 wait. I won't be a minute. ' 
 
 ' Don't, trill Weesy where we're going,' 
 calls Snowball after him ; * she hates me to 
 go berrying, because I tear my clothes and 
 stain my stockings. And, for goodrTS 
 sake, hurry up. It will be two o'clock now 
 before we get there. Do your best. ' 
 
 ' Which I'm not going to do it, in the 
 yitsavnt state of the thermometer,' responds 
 Johnny, leisurely taking up bis parcels, and 
 leisurely departing. He is never in hurry, 
 this boy, and is thereby a strik'iig contrbst 
 to Snowball, who always is. Extremes 
 meet indeed, in their case, for they are as 
 utterly unlike in moat ways, aa boy and 
 girl can well be. In all cocflict of opinion 
 
 'C^ 
 
 k^'' 
 
 7 
 1 
 
48 
 
 LOS FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 between them, it may be added, mademoi* 
 aelle invariably cornea of victorious. It ia al 
 ways easier, as Rene haa aaiii, and as Johnny 
 knows, where ahe is ooDcerned, to yield than 
 to do battle. Not that Ptene ever yields— he 
 and Snowball Bght it out to the bitter end, 
 and Reno will be minded, or know the 
 reaaon why. 
 
 The batteau is large for that sort of boat, 
 carries a small aail, ia a beauty in her way, 
 and the idol of young John Maodonald's 
 heart. 
 
 • She walks the water like a thing of life,' 
 he is fond of quoting, gazing at her with 
 glistening eyes, and it is the only poetry he 
 18 ever guilty of quoting. She ia painted 
 virgin white, is as clean and dry as old 
 Weesy's kitchen, and carries her name in 
 gilt letters on her stern, • Boule-de-neige.' 
 Th-5 original Boule-de-neige, with Rene, 
 • plies in ' according to the skipper's orders, 
 and, with the precious basket stowed away, 
 sit and wait his return. Snowball taps im- 
 patiently with one slim, sandaled foot. 
 
 Rene impassively reads. 
 
 ' What tiresome book have you got now ?" 
 demands Snowball, ia a resentful tone. ' I 
 do think, Rene, you are the stupidest boy 
 that ever lived, and read the stupidest 
 books that ever were printed. ' 
 
 • Thanks 1 — I mean for self and books," re- 
 torts Rene,' 'you, who never open a book, 
 are a judge, of course.' 
 
 • What is that ?' 
 
 ' Shakespeare's tragedies, mademoiselle. ' 
 
 ' There will be another tragedy in this boat 
 in five minutes if you don't put it in your 
 pocket. Look at that sky, look at that sea, 
 feel this velvety wind freshening, and see 
 yourself, a great hobbledehoy, who can sit 
 and read dull old English murders in the face 
 of it all I I suppose you are at Macbeth ; I 
 think Lady Macbeth would have been a 
 splendid v,ife for you, Rene.' 
 
 Rer.e grunts, assent or dissent, as she likes 
 to take it, and reads on. 
 
 ' Stern, and sulky and horrid. Oh, Renel 
 be good-natured ' >r once— only for once — by 
 way of a change, and shut up that book and 
 talk like a Christian— do. 
 
 ' Like a noodle, if I talk to you. It is po- 
 lite to adopt one's conversation to one's com- 
 pany. And I would rather not. It is triste 
 to talk rubbish. Speech is silver, silence is 
 gold.' 
 
 ' Here is Johnny,' cries Snowball, joyfully; 
 ' now we will have a little rational conversa- 
 tion — for which Dieu luerci I I sometimes 
 wonder what I should do without Johnny. 
 If I had to live here — if I had to live on this 
 island alone with you, Rene, do you know 
 what would happen ? ' 
 
 •*■ ' That vou would drive me to jump over 
 UeadUnd Point to escape yon r everlasting 
 clatter, I dai '^ say,' say a Rene. 
 
 ' That you would drive me into melancholy 
 madness with your silence, and your dismal 
 books. Fancy youraelf stalking alxmt like 
 your favourite Hamlet in a black velvet dreas- 
 iug-gown, and me like a gloomy Ophelia, 
 with a wreath of sun-flowers and sea- weed in 
 my hair, trailing after, singing tail ends of 
 songs out of tune.' 
 
 Something in this picture tickles the not 
 too easily aroused sense of humour latent in 
 Dr. Macdonald's elder son. 
 
 Rather to the surprise of Snowball, who 
 does not mean to be funny, he throws back 
 his dark head, and laughs outright. And 
 Rene Macdonald has a wonderfully pleasant 
 and mellow laugh. 
 
 ' What's the joke ? ' asks Johnny, bearing 
 down upon them rapidly. ' Got the basket, 
 Snowball ? Yes, I see. Bear a hand, Rene, 
 old boy. Hooray, off ahe goes .' 
 
 The boat slips easily off the shelving beach, 
 and out into the shining waters of Bay Cha- 
 lette. A fresh breeze has sprung up, and 
 tempers the fierce heat of the noonday aun. 
 The sail is set, and away the pretty Bould- 
 de-neige flies in the teethfof the brisk breeze. 
 
 Johnny is past master of the art of hand- 
 ling a boat ; ne and his batteau are known 
 everywhere for miles along the coast. He 
 has been a toiler of the sea ever since he was 
 seven years old. 
 
 'You didn't tell Weesy, did you ? ' asks 
 Snowball, as they fly along at a spanking 
 rate. ' She didn't ask me,' answers Johnny. 
 ' I told her we were going out for a sail, and 
 would not be back until dark. She cast a 
 grateful look at St. Aloysins, over the chim. 
 ney, and murmured a prayernf thanksgiving. 
 Have you brought tin pails for the berries ? 
 — yes, I see — all right ' 
 
 They fly along. And presently Snowball, 
 lying idly over the side, her sailor hat well 
 back on her he^d, defiant alike of sun 
 and wind, breaki> into song, and presently 
 Johnny joins in the chorus. It is a sailor^s 
 song— a monotonous chant the French sailors 
 sing along the wharves of St. Gildas, as they 
 coil down ropes, and the two fresh young voices 
 blend sweetly, and float over the summer 
 waters. And.still a little later Rene pockets 
 his book, and his clear tenor adds force to the 
 refrain as they rapidly increase the distance 
 between themselves and Isle Perdrix. 
 
 * Where are you going to land, Johnny ?' 
 he asks at length. ' At Sugar Scoop beach, 
 I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' No, don't, Johnny,' cuts in Snowball, 
 who is nothing if not contradictory, ' land at 
 Needle's Point, like a good fellow^.' 
 
 • Shan' 
 to ntove 
 
 Nee<ll« 
 beach all 
 
 ' But I 
 sitting up 
 ment. 
 teau — av 
 you land 
 full mil( 
 — two 
 geaticulat 
 hot sun. 
 Point — 
 
 •The 
 interpose 
 Johnny, 
 
 'You 
 l%nA at ! 
 oric*! Sno 
 And 1 M 
 anyho bir- 
 thing ; 
 two o'oloi 
 got then 
 o.. ~ 'ook 
 aoain I 
 TO'i need I 
 
 .fohnny 
 When tli« 
 quence A^. 
 always gi 
 is hid pea 
 tire awakt 
 
 ' Johun 
 tone, ' 1« 
 madnmois 
 beloved 1 
 take the 
 It will be 
 those rod 
 
 Suowba 
 flashing ii 
 pipk chee 
 
 • Yes, J 
 ashore at 
 here, any 
 flaming u 
 No niatte 
 lue, 1 keei 
 
 *0h, at 
 but paciti( 
 do you wi 
 oua luni 
 alone Ran 
 her ; you 
 diev for it, 
 or on to} 
 Snowball, 
 make sucl 
 
 ' Very > 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 49 
 
 •Shan't,' returns Johnny. 'I don't want 
 to ntove a hole in the bottom of the batteau. 
 
 Needle point, indeed ! the worst bit of 
 beaoh all along Chapeau Dieu. Catch me ! ' 
 
 ' But I flay you shall t ' oriei Snowball, 
 Hitting up. nnd violently excited all in a mo- 
 ment. ' You must. Never mind the bat- 
 teau — a« least she won't get a hole in her. If 
 you land at Suj^ar Scoop wo will have two 
 full miles to walk to Rispberry Plains 
 — two — fall — milee,' says iiademoiaelle, 
 gesticulatinur wildly, * in ihis blazing 
 hot sun. Wiiereas if you land at Needle's 
 Point ' 
 
 • The Boulfl-de-neije is rained for lifs' 
 interposes Rene. ' D^a't yon mind her, 
 Johnny, she's always a little cracked.' 
 
 ' You must mind me, Johnny I If you 
 land at Sugar Scoop I— I'll sit riglit here ! ' 
 eric? Snowball, vindictively. I'll never stir. 
 And I U keep the lunch basket — it's mine 
 anyhow- T put it np. And I'll eat every- 
 thing ; I Wv,'\'t walk two miles. It's nearly 
 two o'clock nf^w ; it would be four when we 
 got there. We would just have time for 
 u.. ' 'ook at the berries, aud then march back 
 aoain I You shall land at Needle's Point ur 
 yoi needn't land at all. Theu 1' 
 
 Johnny shrugs his shoulders resignedly. 
 When ttie current of Snowball's angry elo- 
 quence dooda hiiu after this fashion, Johnny 
 always gives up. Anything for a quiet life, 
 is hid peaceful motto. But the belliiiereut 
 tire awakes withiu the leas-yielding Rene. 
 
 'Johnny,' he says, in an ominously quiet 
 tone. Met us put her ashore,' indicating 
 mademoiselle by a scornful gesture, ' at her 
 beloved Needle's Point, and you and I will 
 take the boat round to Sugar Scoop beach. 
 It will be madness to run tae batteau up on 
 those rocks.' 
 
 Snowball starts to her feet, de.fianoe 
 flashing in the azure eyes, flushing the ro^e- 
 pipk cheeks to angry crimson. 
 
 ' Yes, Johnny,' she cries out, 'put me 
 ashore at Needle's Point, put me ashore 
 here, anywhere, but mind ' — wildest wrath 
 flaming upon Rjne — ' I keep the basket. 
 No matter what you do, or where you put 
 uie, 1 keep the luuuh basket. ' 
 
 * Oh, stow all that 1 ' says the badgered 
 but pacitic Johnny. ' Sit down. Snowball ; 
 do you want to upset yourself and your pre- 
 c oua lunch basket iuo the bay? Let her 
 alone Rsne, it's never any use Hghting with 
 her ; you know she'll have her way if she 
 die9 for it. I'll land you at N.eedle's Point, 
 or on top of Chapeau Dieu, if you like. 
 Snowball, only for goodness sake,, don't 
 make such an awfill row.' 
 
 ' Very well,' says Reue, ' it is you who 
 
 will repent, not I. Tne batteau li yours. 
 
 If you like to scuttle her ' 
 
 His shoulders go up for a moment expres- 
 sively ; then he pnlla out his book, and re< 
 lapses into dignity — and Shitkespeare. 
 
 * I guess it won't be so bad as that It 
 will be high tide when we get there, and I'll 
 manage to run her up." Thus hopefully 
 SAVS -Johnny, and thus, in silence, the rest 
 of the voyage is performed. 
 
 Chapeau Dieu — ao called from its fancied 
 resemblance to a cardinal's hat~>is a moun- 
 tain of ponderous proportions, %* to oiroum' 
 feronce, though nothing remarkable as to 
 heii{ht. Its baxe is the t<)rror of all mariners 
 and ooa'Hters— rock-b'iun<1- beetling, under- 
 miued with sunken reefs ; i» spot marked : 
 dangerous on all charts ; a plac«) to be given 
 the widcHt possilde birth on a duil: night or 
 a foggy day. Many, many goo<l ships have 
 lain their bones to rest forever in the seeth- 
 ing reefs that eooircle Chapeau Dieu. But 
 the mountain ia famou'^, the nountry round, 
 as a place for picnics, kx^rrying parlies, and 
 the like, though anxious parents tremble a 
 little, even in the sunniest weather, at 
 thought of their youug people there. For 
 sudden 8(| nails have been known to rise,, 
 aud gay pleasure-boats, with their meiry 
 crews, have gone down in one dreadful 
 minute, to be seen no more. There is buc 
 one safe landing-place — Sug^rSooop Beach — 
 bu*; SnowbiU will none of it ; so, perforce, 
 they must try the more dangerous Needle's 
 Point. 
 
 They reach it — a black jigged hdge, the 
 stately clitf rising sheer above, hundreds of 
 feet — a. black, perpendicular wall of rook. 
 It is an anxious moment, as Johnny steers 
 the Boulu-de-neige between two sheets of 
 white churuiog foam, its bottom grating on. 
 the rocks as tt goes. But there is no surf, 
 aud the lad is an expert, and the pretty 
 little host slips in like a white snake, and is 
 safe inside the churning foam. 
 
 * Y'ou've done it,' says Rene, * but you're 
 a fool to have risked it, old boy, and a sweet 
 time you are likely to have getting her off- 
 with the ebb tide. However, it is your, 
 lookout. Make her fast, as far out as you 
 can. We will have a wade for it, aud she 
 will be wet to the elbows — that is some 
 oomf'Tb.' 
 
 Tbij last brotherly remaik Snowball does 
 not hear, being busy with her tin pails and 
 basket. But she overtakes him at this point. 
 
 ' Now then I hasn't he done it ?' sh*^ ex- 
 claims, triumphantly, ' anybody could io it. 
 I could do it— even you could do it,, 
 though you can't do much. Hurry 
 up, Johnny — you must be famished — 
 I am sure,' with exaggerated sympathy andv 
 
 '•.3 an 
 
 o 
 
w 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. | 
 
 affsotioo. 'Yoa've bad th« whole work of 
 bringing a» hare, end deeerve your landheoo.' 
 
 Wtiicti ia nnjutt to Rene, who hM hfllpe<l 
 maafully. A ouateroptuoos gUnoe, however, 
 if his ualy retort — he, too, is hungry, and 
 silenoe is Nafeit, until appetite ia appeaavd. 
 BnowbiiU ia queen regnant of the lunuh 
 ' banket. 
 
 ' All right.' says Johnny, ' go ahead. I'll 
 be there. Set out the prog, Snowball -I 
 "•m nacoaimoiily »harp-sel.' 
 
 *Now you see,' ooutiaues Saowball to 
 Rene, ' how much better it was to land here 
 than at the oiher place. But that is all over 
 — there is nothinv more hateful than a person 
 always trying to have his own way. Sugar 
 Sooop is two inile« from everywhere. I do 
 hope you'll not be so obstinate another time, 
 liene, bat let people judge for yon who know 
 best 1' 
 
 Snowball IS one of that exasperating class 
 who never can let well enough alone ; who 
 say, ' I told you so ' on every oooasion, with 
 a superior look that makes you long to com- 
 mit murd( r. Rene could throw her over the 
 vlitf at the present moment, with the utmost 
 pleasure, but still she holds the basket, and 
 atill he holds his tongue. 
 
 ' Hand ns thoi>e pails,' he aays, gruffly, 
 and rather snatches them than otherwise. 
 Bat there is no time Saowball feels for re- 
 bake ; Johnny is boauding up the diffd in 
 agile leaps. 
 
 * Here is a place,' says the small vixen, 
 * perhaps you'll stop being sulky, M'sieu 
 Bene, and help me to lay the tninga. ' 
 
 Rene obeys in dignified silenoe, the twain 
 work with a will, and spread obicken pie, 
 and pound cake, arid sandwiches in a tempt- 
 ing way. Here is a twinkling tin cop to 
 dnnk out of, and a spring of ice cold water 
 bubbles near, so theirs is a feast for the 
 gods. 
 
 They fall to, with appetites natorally 
 healthful, and set painfully on edge by two 
 hours and a half of salt sea air. 
 
 Ijancheon has the soothing effect of clear* 
 iog the moral atmosphere — they eat and 
 drink, and lau^h, and talk in highest good 
 humour. Indeed, lest you should think too 
 badly of Mademoiselle Snowball — that tte 
 have c(ot hold of a youthful virago in fact, 
 it may be said, that she only quarrels with 
 Rene on principle, and for his good. She 
 feels he needs pulling down, and she puts him 
 down aooordiagly. It is rather a motherly 
 — a grandmotherly if you like — sort of thine. 
 And she never (hardly ever) quarrels with 
 anyone else. And her wildest outburst of 
 inaignation never last, as has been stated, 
 more than five minutes at any one time. It 
 is a constituiioual impossibility for Snowba 
 
 to retain anger. For Johnny — she loves him 
 and bullita him— is his ohuin and comrade, 
 would die for him, or box|hia ears with equal 
 readiness. She ia nev«r ahouether h»ppy 
 away from him, while Master Jean in a gen* 
 eral way sees her no with a sense 
 of profound relief, and nev«r wholly dare 
 call his soul his own in hur whirlwind pre- 
 sence. At the present stage of his existence 
 he feels her overpowering atTeotiou a little 
 too much for him, and oi>ultl cheerfully dis- 
 pense with — say two-thirds of it, with all 
 the plessure in life. 
 
 ' Now, I call this splendid,' save Snowball, 
 gatheriufi up the fragments of the feaat. 
 ' Rene, yeu have a watch, what'a the time T' 
 
 ' Quarter past three,' answers Rune, lazily, 
 lookiiig at his gold repeater, a last birth day 
 gift from hia father. * If you intend to get 
 any raspberries to-day, it strikes me it is 
 time you and Johnny were at it 1' 
 
 ' Me and Johnny I' crieit Snowball, shrilly, 
 ' and you, for example — what of you, my 
 friend ?' 
 
 ' I,' says Rene, pulling out the obnoxious 
 Shakespeare, * will lie here and look at you, 
 and improve my mind with Richard the 
 Third.' 
 
 Snowball makes one flying leap, pounces 
 upon Shakespeare, and hugs him to her 
 breast. 
 
 * Never I' she cries, ' never, while life beats 
 ia this bosom I Johnny, you help me. Will 
 you oome and pick, sir, or will you not ?' 
 
 * Not,' say* Rene ; much rather not. Qive 
 me back my book, Snowball !' in quick 
 alarm. ' Stop 1' 
 
 She stands on the dizzy edge of the oliff, 
 and Shakespeare is poised high — perilously 
 high— above her head. 
 
 ' Promise,' she exclaims, ' promise to pick, 
 else here I vow over the ciilf Stiakespeare 
 goes, full fifty futhoms under Buy Cbalette. 
 Promise, or never see him more. 
 
 ' Snowball I You would not dare V in angry 
 
 would dare — has 
 And 
 
 •or 
 
 eyes 
 •If 
 
 alarm : for he knows she 
 
 dared more darins deeds than this. 
 
 Johnny stands ana grins approval. 
 
 ' Chuck it over Snowball,' he says, 
 make him help us— I'll back you up.' 
 
 * One I — two 1 * cries Snowball, 
 
 and cheeks aglow with wicked delight. 
 
 I say three, over it goes. One I— two t 
 
 Do you promise, or ' 
 
 ' Oh, confound you I yes, I promise. 
 Give me my book I ' says enraged Rene. ' I 
 woald like to throw you over instead— I 
 will, some day, if you exasperate me too 
 far.' 
 
 ' The spirit is w.lling, but the flesh is 
 weak. You daren't, Rene, dearest,' laughs 
 Saowball. She hands him the book as she. 
 
LOST FOB A WOMAN. 
 
 61 
 
 ) lovM him 
 1 oninr»de, 
 with eqaal 
 tier httppy 
 1 in A g«n- 
 • ■eoaa 
 holly dare 
 Iwind pre* 
 I exiiteooe 
 ion • little 
 irfully dis- 
 >, with all 
 
 Saowball, 
 the feMt. 
 the time 7' 
 ine, lizily, 
 birth day 
 end to get 
 I me it ia 
 
 Jl, shrilly, 
 ; you, my 
 
 obnnzioui 
 ok at you, 
 jhard the 
 
 p, pounces 
 m to her 
 
 9 life beats 
 me. WiU 
 I not Y 
 not. Give 
 in quick 
 
 f the oliff, 
 perilously 
 
 le to pick, 
 akespeare 
 Cbatette. 
 
 in angry 
 are — has 
 And 
 
 18. 
 
 la 
 
 p, 
 
 or 
 
 all, eyes 
 iht. 'If 
 wo 1 
 
 promise, 
 .ene. ' I 
 istead— I 
 me too 
 
 flesh is 
 
 ' laughs 
 
 ok as she 
 
 ■peaks, knowinK well ha will not break his 
 
 word. 
 
 " ' Come on. mr merry men all. 
 We will to tae tfreun wood hie t ' " 
 
 ■he sings, fi^.eefully, and snatches up one of 
 the tin p&ils and bimatis away. 
 
 Rene ooaiif^ns hi« cherished volume to his 
 pocket, picks up a tin pail, and prepares to 
 follow, when a cry from Johnny — a low, 
 hoarse, agonieed cry —makes him stop. Ha 
 looks. His brother stands, every trace of 
 oolour fading from his faofl, his gray eyes 
 wide with dismay, one llickerinK finger 
 pointing seawartl. llene follows the Anger, 
 and gszen, and sees— yards away, floating 
 oat with the turning tide, farther and 
 farther every second — tbe Boule-de-neige ! 
 
 ' Mon Dieu 1 ' he cries, and stands stun* 
 Bad. 
 
 It is a moment before he can take in the 
 fall magnitude of the disaster. The boat is 
 gon^, past all recall, and they are here, lost 
 on Ohapeau Dieu. 
 
 ' Good Heaven ! ' R)ne exclaims, under 
 his breath ; 'Johnny, how is this ? ' 
 
 ' I did not make her fast,' Johnny 
 answers, huskily. ' I thought I did, but it 
 was a hard place, and Suowoall was calling. 
 I did not make her secure— and now she is 
 gone, my Baule-de-neige, and I may never 
 see her cgain ! ' 
 
 There is agony, real agony, in hi' voice. 
 Not for himself, in this Hrsc momeut^ does 
 ha care — not for the misfortune that has 
 come upon them that may end in darkest 
 disaster — but for his darling, hia treasure, 
 the joy of his heart, his white idol, Boule-de- 
 neige. 
 
 Bene says nothing ; ha feels for his bro- 
 ther's bereavement too deeply, and coaster- 
 nation is in his soul. So they stand and 
 gaae, and farther, and farther, and farther 
 away, with the swelling tide, flv>ata the faith* 
 less Boule-de- neige ! 
 
 •f CHAPTER II. ■ !! 
 
 CHAFEAT7 DIE0. 
 
 « And it is all Snowball's fknlt !' 
 It is Rane who speak* ihe words, passion- 
 ate anger in his voice— the first words that 
 break the long silence. Far o£f, the batteau 
 is but a white drifting speck, after which 
 they strain their eyes until they are half 
 blind. Johnny's eyes are dim. 
 
 ' It is all Snowball's fault 1' oassiouately 
 repeats Rene. Far away ancl faint, her 
 ■weet singing reaches them, broken now and 
 then as the fruit sba picks finds its way be- 
 tween her rosy lius, instead o£ into the 
 
 shining pail. The sound is to his wrath, as 
 ' vinegar upon nitre.' 
 
 ' It is all her fault. She would coma to 
 Chapeau Dieu, she would land here and no- 
 where else. Johnny, it serve* you right I 
 You yield to her in everything. Yuu should 
 not have let her force you to land hare.' 
 
 Johnny says nothing. * His heart is with 
 his eyes, and that is far away ' — far away, to 
 where Boule-de*neige, beautiful, traitoroua 
 tioule-de-uetge, floats out to the open sea. 
 
 *She is a tyrant. E veryone spoils her — 
 you all do— papa, Weesy, and yon, Johnny, 
 worst of alL You let het^ have her way in 
 everything, and noaood ever can come of it. 
 Now, we are here, and here we may remain. 
 And it's all her doing from first to last.' 
 
 'It's no use talking now,' says Jonnny, 
 huskily, ' the batteau's gone— gone 1' 
 
 'Yes, I see it's gone,' bitterly, 'and I 
 hear her singing over yonder still I You had 
 better go and tell her, and see if she will 
 not change her tune 1' 
 
 Johnny turns away — not to tell Snowball, 
 however. The boat is quite out of sight 
 now, gone forever it may be, and Johnny 
 feels hia voice is not to be trusted, with 
 this great lump rising and falling in his 
 throat. 
 
 The is a pause. Rene stands, a statue of 
 angry grief and despair, and still strains his 
 eyes over the blue shining sea. No boats are 
 to be seen ; far off on the horizon there are 
 sails, but none of these sails will eyer come 
 near. All craft steer wide of fatal Ohapeau 
 Pieu. 
 
 P' What are we to do f ha bursts oat at 
 length ; ' look here, Johnny, it's no time to 
 sit down And cry. ' 
 
 * I'm not crying 1' retorts Johnny, angrily, 
 looking up, but his eyes look red as he says 
 it, and hia voice breaks short 
 
 ' The batteaa's gone,' pursues the relentless 
 Uene, ' and wa are here. Now, how are wa 
 to get off?' 
 
 * Wait until lomething comes along and 
 takes us off, I suppose.' 
 
 ' And how long may that be ? Nothing 
 ever comes this way— no one in their seuite 
 ever lauds atj Needle's Point. You know 
 that. Unless a storm drives a fishing boat 
 or a coaster oat of their coarse, nothing will 
 ever come within miles of us. Then what 
 ate wa to do f 
 
 'They will miss us, and search for as,' 
 says Johnny, waking ap somewhat to a 
 sense of personal danger. 
 41* Will they ? No one knows where we 
 are. More of Snowball's doing — she wouldn't 
 let you tall Ma'am Weesy. Weesy will not 
 mias us until bedtime— then who is to 
 search ? She and old Tim are alone on the 
 
 ") 
 
02 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 island, and be can't leave the Light. If he 
 feels ia the humour, he may go to St. 
 Gildai to-morrow, and give the alarm. Then, 
 by noon, some one may be ready to start in 
 the search, but where are they to look? You 
 and Snowball go everywhere, up and down 
 the coast for twenty miles— a wide circuit 
 to search over — and no one will think of 
 Chapeau Dieu until every other place has 
 been given up. That may be for days, and 
 in three days papa will be back again. How 
 do you suppose he will feel ?' 
 
 * By George !' says Johnny, blankly. 
 
 ' I suppose we will not starve,' goes on 
 Bene, suil bitterly ; ' there are the berries 
 we came for, and here is a spiing. Anu it 
 won't hurt us to sleep on the ground. We 
 can rough it. But our father — it will about 
 kiUhim.' 
 
 ' And Snowball,' says Johnny, pitifully, 
 ' poor little Snowball. She can't rough it. 
 What will become of Snowball ? 
 
 * Nothing she does not richly deserve. Let 
 us hope that it will be a lesson to her — if 
 Bhe — we— aiiy of us leave this mountain 
 alive. It is her doing from first to i ast. 
 Let bnr take the consequences ! I, for one, 
 don't pity her.' 
 
 'Poor little Saowball,' repeats Johnny, 
 softly. He never argues, but he is not easily 
 convinced. Even the loss of Boule-de neige 
 is forgotten, in this new state of things. 
 ' I'm awfully sorry for Snowball.' 
 
 ' You're an idiot, Johnny 1' savagely ; 
 think 01 yourself.' 
 
 ' Well — I do. I can't help thinking of 
 her, though, too. Poor little thing, how is 
 she to sleep on the turf? And she is not 
 strong. And she never meant any harm. 
 Don't be so hard, old fellow.' 
 
 The gentle sea gray eyes look wistfully 
 up - the brown, bright, angry eyes look 
 down. 'Have a little pity,' the gray eyes 
 say. And * You're a good fellow, Johnny,' 
 the brown eyea answer. They soften as 
 they turn away. ' It's an awful tix, though !' 
 he mutters, and L oks seaward again, and 
 I e 'ins to whistle. 
 
 There is a stifled sob behind, but neither 
 hear it. Then like a (guilty thing. Snow- 
 ball creeps away. It is not her went to ad- 
 vance unheard — she can ma^e noise enough 
 at any time for a dozen — but the turf has 
 muffled her steps, and raspberries have stop- 
 ped her mouth. And she has come upon 
 them, unfelt, unseen, and overheard all. 
 All 1 Kene's scathing words, Johnny's re- 
 gretful pleading. An awful panic of re- 
 morse falls upon her. The whole situation 
 as exposed by Roue opens before her, and it 
 is all her doiug— hers — her willfulness, 
 obsiiucy, seltishuesB, ircm first to las t 
 
 They may perish here. And Dr. Macdooald' 
 will break his heart. And she is the cause 
 of it alL She would come, she would land 
 at Needle's Point, where no boat could be 
 safely moored ; she would call to Johnny 
 to hurry ! Kene is right— it is all her fault, 
 from beginning to end. 
 
 She nings herself on the ground, and 
 hurries her wicked face in the grass. AH the 
 misdeeds of her life — neither few nor far be- 
 tween — rise up before her in remorseful 
 array, but pale into insignificance before 
 this crowning crime. She licj prone, be- 
 dewing the dry furze with her despairing 
 tears, and so, half an hour after, when he 
 quits his brother, Johnny finds her. He 
 looks at her ruefully and uncomfortably — 
 even at fourteen he has a genuine masculine 
 ho/ror of crying — and touches her up gently 
 with the toe of his shoe. 
 
 ' I say !' he nay a, with an attempt at 
 ^ruffaess, ' stop that, will yon ?' 
 
 'I'wo lovely, blue eyes look np at him, 
 pathetic with heart-broken despair. 
 
 ' Oh, Johnny 1 ' she cries out in anguished 
 tones. 
 
 Johnny has nothing to say to this; indeed, 
 the situation qui^e goes without saying. He 
 stands gnawing a raspberry branch, and 
 looking still more uncomfortable. Bu^ Snow* 
 ball must talk — if death were the penalty, 
 Snowball would talk ; talking is hrr forte, 
 and she has been silent now for over an hour. 
 So she sits up, wipes her eyes, sobs a last 
 sob, and looks at him solemnly. 
 ' Johnny ! ' 
 •Yes.' 
 
 'This is awful, isn't it?' 
 * Pretty awful,' dismally ; ' the batteaus 
 gone.' 
 
 fI'Mever mind, she won't go far — some- 
 ody will pick her up. Everyone knows the 
 Boule-deneige. She's all right, Johnny I" 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Rene feels awfully, don't he ? ' 
 
 'Pretty aw fully SodoL* 
 
 ' But it isn't so bad as he makes out. If 
 there is any chance of seeing the blackest 
 side of things' — the innate spirit of contra* 
 riety rising at the bare, mention of Rene's 
 name— 'he is sure to see it. It isn't half 
 BO bad.' 
 
 'I hop6 not, I'm sure,' still dismally; ' it's 
 bad enough, I reckon. We've got to stay 
 here all ni>/ht. What do you call that ?' 
 
 ' Oh !— one night— that makes nothing ! ' 
 loftily. • And we will be taken oil to mor^ 
 row. I am sure of it.' 
 
 'I wish I was, by George. I ain't 
 though. And papa will be home in a day 
 or two. That is what Rene — both of us— 
 feel bad about.' 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 fi3 
 
 Vfacdoaald 
 the cause 
 rould land 
 ,t could be 
 3 Johnny 
 her fault, 
 
 )tiDd, and 
 B. All the 
 lor far be* 
 'emorseful 
 ce before 
 prone, be- 
 lespairing 
 when he 
 her. He 
 ortably — 
 masculine 
 up ((ently 
 
 btempt at 
 
 p at him, 
 
 inguished 
 
 i; indeed, 
 l^ing. He 
 Qch, and 
 >u* Snow- 
 penalty, 
 irr forte, 
 an hour. 
 \a a last 
 
 batteans 
 
 -some- 
 aows the 
 )huQy I " 
 
 >ut. If 
 
 blackest 
 
 contra- 
 
 Hene'a 
 
 Wt half 
 
 ly; • it's 
 to stay 
 latr 
 thing ! ' 
 tomor^ 
 
 I ain't 
 n a day 
 of us — 
 
 . 'And don't }'ou think I do ? ' indignant- 
 ly — ' would, I mean, only I <*,m ' ertain we 
 will be safe home long before he comes. 
 Now look here. Ma'am Weesy 'vill miss us, 
 won't she, and be so soared s le won't be 
 able to sleep a wink all night ? 
 
 ' I dare say. ' 
 
 ' Then to-morrow morning, the first 
 thing, she will rout out old Tim , and make 
 him row her over to St. Gildas, Do you 
 know who will be the first person she will go 
 to see there ? ' 
 
 • No. I don't.' 
 
 ' Vou might, then, if you ever thought at 
 all. She will go to Pere Louis. She goes 
 to him first in every worry she has. And 
 you know what he is. Old Tim may take it 
 easy, and let the grass grow under his feet, 
 but Pere Louis won't. He'll never rest until 
 we're found.' 
 
 • By George !' says Johnny brightening. 
 
 ' He'll move heaven and earth to find us,' 
 pursues Snowball, more and more excited, 
 ' and there isn't a man in St. Gildas isn'c 
 ready to fiy if Pere Louis but holds up his 
 fin&;er. You know that. And besides — ' 
 
 • Well?' 
 
 ' I told Innocente Desereaux only yester- 
 day wewere coming to Chapeau Dieu for rasp- 
 berries this week, I wanted her to come, 
 but she couldn't, Rane says. It shows all 
 he knows about it ! ' resentfully. ' They'll 
 never think of Chapeau Dieu ! Don't you 
 suppose luno will hear of our being missing, 
 and will tell what I said T And then won't 
 they come straight here and take us off? 
 Kene indeed 1 lie thinks hd knows every- 
 thing ! He isn't so much wiser than other 
 people, after all, in spite of his big books!' 
 
 ' You had better go and tell him so,' 
 says Johnny, with a grimace of delight. 
 
 He has quite come over to Snowball's 
 view of the question, and his spirits rise 
 proportionately. 
 
 ' I would in a minute,' retorts Snowball, 
 with fine defiance. 
 
 She does not, however ; she glances over 
 at him, aud her courage, like Bob Acres' 
 cozes out ai the palms of her hands. Ti uth 
 t J tell, he does look rather unapproachable, 
 st'inding slim, and straight, and dark, with 
 folde<1 arms, his back against a rock, 
 his pale, rather stern face set seaward. 
 
 ' How will you stow yourself for the 
 night ? ' asks Johnny after a pause. 
 
 ' Ob, any where— it doesn't matter. I 
 will lie under those bushes on the moss — it 
 is soft and dry. Besides, I don't expect to 
 sleep. Johnny, if Rene wasn't so grumpy, I 
 would enjoy tni^.' 
 
 ' Would you, by 3eorge ? ' 
 
 ' Aud you,' says Sao w ball, with some re- 
 
 sentment, ' if I've heard you say once, 
 I have heard you ten hundred thou- 
 sand times say you envied Robinsoa 
 Crusoe — that you would fairly love to be 
 wrecked on a desert island. And now— 
 isn't this as good as any deser* inland, only 
 we'll get taken off sooner, and you don't 
 look pleased one bit I You look as sulky as 
 sulky.' 
 
 ' It's not half as good as Crusoe's island,' 
 says Johnny ; ' we have nothing to eat but 
 raspberries, aud a fellow gets tired of rasp- 
 berriei as a stea^^y diet. He had goats and 
 grapes, and Kriday — ' 
 
 * He didn't eat Friday. I,* smiling 
 radiantly, ' will be your Friday, Johnny.* 
 
 ' And savages^' 
 
 ' Rene will do for the savages. And talk- 
 ing of eating ' — briskly — ' we hare enough 
 left in the basket for supper. Suppose we 
 have supper, Johnny ? It must be six 
 o'clock, aud eating will be better than doing 
 nettling.' 
 
 ' All right,' responds Johnny, who is al- 
 ways open to anything in this line; 'fix 
 things, and I'll go and tell Rene. ' 
 
 He tells Rene all Snowball has told him, 
 ending with a fraternal invitation as sent by 
 that young person to come to supper. 
 
 ' Tell her to eat it herself, ' says Rene, 
 shortly. 'I don't want any of her supper. 
 And you had better not take much either, 
 Johnny ; pick berries if you are hungry. 
 Snowball may be glad of the leavings of her 
 luncheon before we get off yet.' 
 
 'Why? Don't you believe what she 
 says ?' 
 
 ' I believe she believes it. I have not 
 much faith in Snowball's rosy predictions.' 
 
 'But it seems likely enough,' says the 
 perplexed Johnny. *Pere Louis will search 
 for us high and low, and — ' 
 
 ' Ay, if Pere Louis is at home. Half the 
 time, as you know, he is awav on missions in 
 the outlying parishes. And July and 
 August are his mission months. I am 
 positive he is not in town.' 
 
 Johnny stands blankly, his new-born 
 hopes knocked from under him at one fell 
 blow. To Pere Louis all things are possible 
 — wanting him. Ma'am Weesy and old Tim, 
 the light house keeper, are but rickety 
 reeds. 
 
 'For which reason,' continues Rtne, the 
 relentless, * you had better tell Suowball to 
 keep the contents of the basket for herself. 
 I want none of it, at least.' 
 
 The dusk face, fine as a cameo, looks at 
 this moment as if out in adamant. Snow- 
 ball, glancing across, thinks she has never 
 before seen Rene look so hatefully cross. 
 
 There is a long pause ; the brothers stand 
 
 : *^ 
 
64 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. ' 
 
 and gaze far and vainly over the sea, Johnny 
 with the old patient, wistful light in his 
 most beautiful eyes. Bene with knitted 
 brows, and dark, stern, resolute gaze. 
 
 ' It's an awful go I' says Johnny, at last, 
 under his breath. ' I wish yon wouldn't be 
 so tremendously hard on Snowball, though. 
 She oouliin't help it. It isn't fair, by Oeorge ! 
 Yon make the poor little thins feel miser- 
 able, Bene. She was trying her eyes out a 
 little while ago.' 
 
 ' Let her ory !' savagely. 
 
 * She heard every word you said.' 
 
 * Let her hear ! Too much of her own way 
 will be the ruin of that girl. She is spoiled 
 by over*indulgenoe. You all pet her — I 
 shnll not.' 
 
 'No,' says Johnny, turning away, 'yon 
 will never spoil anybody in that way, I think. 
 Wnat a fellow you are. Bene — as hard as 
 nail*.' 
 
 With Mbich he goes back, with laggine 
 steps, his newly>lit hopes ruthlessly snuffed 
 out. He feels himself a sort of shnttlecook 
 between these two belligerent battledotes, 
 and would lose his temper if he knew how. 
 
 Fortunately, John MaodoDald outof temper 
 is a sight no mortal eye has ever yet seen — 
 so he only looks a tride blank and rueful, as 
 he returns to Snowball now. 
 
 * Well,' that small maiden demands, im- 
 periously, * he wouldn't come.' 
 
 ' No,' slowly, ' he wouldn't come.' 
 ' Of course he wouldn't 1' in a rising key ; 
 * it's exactly like him. I think if Bene ever 
 does a good-natured thing the novelty will 
 be the death of him. Now, why wouldn't 
 he come?' 
 
 ' Oh— he says he's not hungry. He says 
 to eat it yourself. Now, Snowball, don't 
 nag — I've had enough of it — let a fellow have 
 some peace, can't yoo. I haven't done any- 
 thing.' 
 
 * What else does he say ?' with pursed-up 
 lips and brightening eyes. 
 
 ' He says tliat Pere Louis is away on mis- 
 sions, and may not be home when Weesy 
 gets there. He says you'll be hungry 
 enough to want that cake you're crumbling 
 •11 to pieces, maybe, before you get another.' 
 
 * Have one, Johnny V says Snowball, 
 politely, tendering one of those confections. 
 
 But Johnny shakes his head gloomily, and 
 declines. 
 
 'Keep it for yourself. He won't touch 
 anything but berries he says — no more will 
 I. Eat it yourself— or better still, keep it 
 for Toar breakfast to morrow.' 
 
 Without a word, mademoiselle puta back 
 cakes, pie, sandwiches, etcetera, in the 
 basket, covers these provisions with exag- 
 gerated cr.re, then iiits down a little way off, 
 
 her sailor hat tilted well over her nose, her 
 hands folded in her lap. So she sits for a 
 lonff time, Johnny extended in a melan- 
 choly attitude on the grass near by. So 
 long she sits indeed, that hia suspicions are 
 awakened ; he rises on his elbow and peers 
 under the hat. Big, silent tears are raining 
 down — big, clear, globular drops, chasing 
 each other, and falling almost with a plash ! 
 — they look large enough — on the folded 
 hands. 
 
 * Hello !' cries master John, taken aback, 
 'you aint at it again, are yon? What is 
 there to ory for now ? 
 
 Silence — deeper sobs — bigger tears. 
 
 ' Stay — can't you.' fretfully. ' I wish you 
 wouldn't You never used to be a cry baby, 
 Snowball. Stop it, can't you. What's the 
 matter now ?' 
 
 ' Johnny I' a great sob. ' Jo'ohn-ny 1' an- 
 other.' 
 
 ' Yes,' says Johnny, • all right. What ?' 
 
 'Johnny I— I hate Rene !' 
 
 The vindictive emphasis with which this 
 is brought out, staggers pacific Johnny. 
 There is a pause. 
 
 ' Oh 1 I say. You musn't, you know. 
 Not that tl ere is any love lost,' sotto voce. 
 
 ' I — I,' iitorease of sobbing. ' I always did 
 hate him. . I always shall. I would like to 
 get a boat, and go away, and leave him here 
 forever, and ever, and ever I' 
 II,' By George !' 
 
 And then, all at once, Johnny throws 
 himself back on the fuize, and laughs long 
 and loudly. 
 
 ' So,' he gasps. ' it is crying with rage yon 
 are, after all. Wasn't ic Dr. Johnson who 
 liked a good hater ? He ought to have known 
 Snowball Macdonald . 
 
 ' My name isn't Macdonald ; I wouldn't 
 have a name he ' — ferociously pointing — 
 ' has ! If ever I get off this horrid, abomin- 
 able place, Johnny, do you know what I 
 mean to do ?' 
 
 ' Not at present,' returns Johnny, who is 
 immensely amused. 'Something tremend- 
 ous, I guess. What ?* 
 
 * I mean to write to Mr. Farrar, Monsieur 
 Paul, to come and take me away. I belong 
 to him — he brought me here . I wish he 
 hadn't now. Anywhere would be better 
 than where he is. Atid I'll go away, and 
 I'll never, kever, NEVER speak to Rene 
 again 1' 
 
 All this is, as the reader must know, long 
 anterior to the days of ' Pinafore,' else 
 Johnny might have a<ked just here, with 
 his customary gnn, ' What, never T' And 
 Snowball, with a relentine inflection, might 
 have safely responded, ' Well, hardly ever,' 
 and so truthfully expressed her feeMn^s ; JFor, 
 
LOST FOE A WOMAN. 
 
 65 
 
 hioh this 
 Johnny. '^ 
 
 having reached this powerful climax, and 
 gotten to the very tip top of the mountain 
 of her iadignatiuD, she piooeeds, with great 
 rapidity and compuuctioa, to come down. 
 
 ' Not that I wouldn't be dreadfully sorry 
 to le^tve papa, and you, Johnny, and even 
 old Wee»y and Tim — and Pere Louis, and 
 Mere Maddeieua, and Soeur Ignatia, and 
 Innocente Deseruaux, and 
 
 ' Ota, hold on 1' cries Johnny. ' That list 
 won't end until midnight if you name all the 
 people you kuow.'Besidea, it will ha all of no 
 uae — you will only waste a sheet of paper 
 and a stamp for nothing. Monsieur Paul 
 will not tt.&e you.' 
 
 * Why won't he ?' But she asks it as if 
 the asBurauce were rather a relief. 
 
 ' Bacauxe you don't belong to him — not 
 really, you know. Tn point of fact, old girl,* 
 says Johnny, smiling sweetly upon her, 
 * you don't soetn to belong to any one. I 
 guess you sprung up one night somewhere, 
 all by yourself, like a mushroom.' 
 
 ' I must belong to the people who pay for 
 me,' says Snowball, rather crest-fallen, 
 'whoever they are.' 
 
 'Yea— whoever they are] I should ad- 
 mire to know. So would you, I dare say. 
 Papa doesn't belont; to him. and he won't 
 take yott away. You're a fixture ot life on 
 Isle Perdrix, like old Tim and the light- 
 house. When Wemy dies — ^she can't live on 
 living forever — and I grow and get rich. 
 And am captain of a ship, I'll take yoa with 
 me as cook. You ain't half a bad cook, 
 ijaowbail- your apple-dumplings are *' things 
 to dream of." I wish Had a few now.' 
 
 'Are you hungry, J»linny ?' — eagerly. * If 
 
 you are ^ U.ec hand is in the basket in 
 
 « raomeut. 
 
 ' i.'fls not hunfrry for anything yon have 
 there. No. thanks, I won't take it. You 
 will k«e{> all that for yourself, as Bene 
 aays.* 
 
 'Johany,' — in a drooping voice — ' please 
 'dop't mentioa JOLaue. I can't bear the sound 
 of his naiae. Ub« dear me 1'— .• deep, deep, 
 deep sigh— ''I dou'c see why some people 
 ever were born i' 
 
 " Wha.t shall T be at fifty, 
 
 Should nature keep me alive. 
 If I fiud ltd world so weary 
 Wheii iam but twenty-five." 
 «hattts Johouy, and laughs. It iit a physical 
 imjsosstbility tor the boy to remain despond- 
 «ut. After a fashion, he is trying to eu joy 
 beiag siii^wrecked ou the top of this big, 
 bar-e mouutain Rene glances round in 
 wonder at the singing and laughing. 
 
 -* Would anything make these two serious 
 for five minutes?' he thinks, with a contemp- 
 tuons shrug. ' Singing t and they may never 
 leaira this hideous desert alive.' 
 
 'Let us sing some mor ,' says Snowball, 
 waking up promptly ti badness. 'Eene 
 looks as if' he didn't like it. Let us.sing-«- 
 let us sing the evening hymn.' 
 
 ' Pious thought — let us,' laughs Johnny. 
 And so to aggravate further tne dark and 
 silent M, Rene, these two uplift their fresh 
 young voices, and send them in unison oyer 
 the diarkeuiug waters. , <; if> 
 
 " Ave SaTtcUaaima ! 
 We 1 f c our bouis t j ihee, 
 
 Ora pro nob a, 
 'l°i<t uiKbtfalt on thesea! 
 
 Watch uii while sliadows lie 
 Far o'er the w*terd spre^id : 
 
 Hear tho hearl'tt lonely siifh^ 
 Thine, too. taaih bled." 
 
 Snowball glances at her foe. Ha stands 
 and makes no sii^n, and his dark thoughtful 
 face is turned away. A little pang of re- 
 morse begins to shoot through her, but she 
 finishes her hymn. 
 
 "Ora pro nobU, ^ .1 
 
 The waves luusi rock our sleep ; 
 Ora, Mater, ora, 
 
 citar of the dfsep !" 
 
 "Tis nightfall on the sea,' It is indeed 
 nightfall now. The sun has dipped long 
 since into the waters of Bay Chalette, and 
 gone down— the long, star-lit northern twi- 
 light is paling to dull drab. The evening 
 wind comes to them with all the chill of the 
 wide Atlantic in its salt breath. 
 
 • And you have no wrap,' says Johnny, 
 compassionately. Snowball has shivered in- 
 voluntarily in her thin dress, and he sees it. 
 He is in blue fiannel himself, and is the best 
 provided of the three, Rene being clad m 
 white linen, which he greatly affects in sum- 
 mer time. , „ 
 
 •It doesn't matter,' Snowball answers. 
 
 ♦ Never mind me.' 
 
 But her voice sounds weary, and she leans 
 spiritlessly enough against the rough bole of 
 a big tamarack. ,, 
 
 ' Suppose you lie down, and take a nap» 
 suggests Johnny, ' it will rest you, and Ua 
 of no use sitting up. We're in for it» to- 
 night, anyhow— lietter luck to morrow.^ I U 
 fix you a bad before it gets any darker." 
 
 But there is nothing much to ' fix," aa ha 
 fiodp. There is only the dry, rough iuiae, 
 and long marsh grass and hard peneteatial 
 branches of spruce and cedar. With these 
 he does the best he can; he piles «p the , 
 furze, strews it with the long tough grass, , 
 twists the little spruce branoben into a sort; 
 of arbour, and the rest he can do is done. 
 
 •Ttaere you are,' he says, 'there's a bedl 
 and board for you. Rosi nond's Bower-«- 
 Boffin's Bower— not to be named in ;he mt»» 
 day. Turn in, and doa't open your peepers 
 till to morrow mornings Let us hope it iKiAL 
 
 ■") 
 
 J. 
 
Be 
 
 L01T FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 be yonr last, as well as yonr firot night, 
 rtairipin^ out. I'll g;o and shake np I^ene. be- 
 f re be is transn n ,'rified into the rock a, a'nst 
 which he has leaued so long. Good-uight, 
 yjUDg'un 1" 
 
 ' Good-night, Johnny,' responds Snowball, 
 falteringly. 
 
 She 18 afraid, but she wonld die rather 
 than say so. Afraid of snakes, of bears, of 
 ghosts, of the wind in the tree-topp, the 
 sound of the sea, the awful silence, and 
 loneliness, and majesty of night. 
 * She creeps into her bower, but sits peer- 
 inj< out — 6uch a pale, anxious, pretty little 
 face, in the dim starlight. 
 
 She can see the boys atandinf; together, 
 and still ever gszitig over the bay. 
 
 * Will Rene ever stir ? ' she thinks. ' He 
 looks as if he could stand there forever. 
 And how crons he did look. I — wish — I— 
 hadn't made Rene mad I ' 
 
 The admission comes reluotautl/— teven in 
 her own mind, but having made it, she is 
 disposed to descend to still deeper depths 
 of the valley of humiliation. 
 
 'It is all my fault— Rene is right -it is 
 always my fault J I must be horrid. I 
 wonder everybody don't hate me as w*^ll as 
 him. M lybe they do, only they don't like 
 t(> nhi^vr it. Yes, I always do want my own 
 way, ;iud make a, time it I didn't get it. I 
 giya .lo'jnpy uo paace of his life. I fight 
 with R-ine from morning till night And I 
 don't belong to anybody — I suppose I am 
 too hateful even for that ! I wonder why 1 
 ever was born— I wonder if I will alwa> s be 
 horrid as lonp as I live I I wonder.' drag- 
 pngly, * if— Rene— would forgive me, if— I 
 begged his pardou, and promised never to do 
 it any more ? ' 
 
 The ' it ■ ia rather vague, bu<k in Sno\tr- 
 ball's penitent mind it, it stands for all the 
 enormities of her life, too many to be par- 
 ticularized, so she 'lump»' them I The 
 brothers meantime stand, with that sea- 
 ward gaz", that takes il the blue black vorld 
 of waters. 
 
 The night wind sighn around them, the 
 surf laps, with a hoarse ceaseless moan and 
 weshes ever the sunken surf, far below. Rene 
 is very pale in the light of the stars, 
 
 'You look used up already old chap,' 
 J( hnny says ; ' take a snooz) v hy doii'tyou 
 acd forget i|? It's no use fretting, fciorrow 
 may abide lor a night, but joy cometh with 
 • the morning I Something like thai was 
 Pere Louis' text last Sunday. It His in now, 
 I think— make a meditation on it, old man, 
 and cheer up ! ' 
 
 ' If we get off before our father comes 
 iome I shall not care,' returns Rene, moodily; 
 ' it u that that worriiiB me, Johnny 1 ' 
 
 * Oh f we will — never fear. We are sure 
 to get ofif to-morrow — something tells me so. 
 Don't cross your bridges before you come to 
 them. Turn in like a good fellow, and let us 
 try to forget it. I'm as sleepy as the muse!' 
 
 A great yawn endorse s the statement. 
 Rene glances behind him. 
 
 * What have you done with Snowball f ' 
 'Rigged her up as well as I was able. 
 
 Twisted some boughs to break the wind, 
 and gathered moss end grass for a bed. 
 It's the best I could do.' 
 
 ' Has she anything to eat ? ' 
 
 ' Wouldn't eat anything when you 
 wouldn't,' says Johnny, maliciously; 'nearly 
 cried her eyes out into the bargain. Feels 
 pretty bsdly let me tell you, about the way 
 you take it. Now don't say again it serves her 
 right ! It doesn't.' 
 
 ' I am not going to say it. She mu^t not 
 be foolish, however ; if she wants to be 
 friends with me she must eat what there is 
 left to morrow morning. We boys are re- 
 sponsible for her. We must * take oare of 
 her to — to the last.' 
 
 ' That means until we are taken off I Of 
 course we will,' says hopeful Johnny ; ' now 
 let us turn in and go to sleip.' 
 
 ' Turn in — where ? ' 
 
 * Oh, anywhere. You pays you* money, 
 and you takes your choice. All the beds in 
 the ' hotel de la belle etoile ' are at our 
 service. Here is mine. A demain ; good- 
 night.* 
 
 ' Good-night,' responrls Rene, and looks at 
 his brother almost in envy. 
 
 Jotinny has thrown liimself down just 
 where he stood, and in less than a minute 
 seems to be sound asleep. But it is a lon^; 
 time before Rene follows ; he bits there besit e 
 his big rock, his face stiil turned sea warn, 
 his head resting against its mossy side, his 
 eye closed. 
 
 The night is far advanced; it is long 
 prst midn trht, im'e d,'and he is half a^leip 
 half awake, when a light chiii touch falls on 
 bis hand, and awakes him with a great ner- 
 vous start. A slim figure, with loosely 
 blowing hair. pale, pleading face and pathetic 
 eyes stands by his side. 
 
 ' Rene 1 '—a pause — ' Rene! ' tremulously. 
 'Dear Rene ! forgive me.' 
 
 ' Snowball ! You ! I thought you were 
 asleep hours ago.' 
 
 * I could not sleep, Rene !' lam sorry ! ' 
 — a suppressed sob. ' 1 know I'm horrid. 
 I don't wonder yen hate me. It does serve 
 me right. Nothing is too bad to happen to 
 me. It's all my fault. I— I— I'm awfully 
 sorrv, Rene I ' 
 
 * Snowball—' 
 
 ' I want yon to forgive me,' in a sobbiDg 
 
 whisper, 
 an't hel] 
 mean to| 
 never ooi 
 thing yoi 
 angry wi^ 
 repressed 
 • Oh 1 Ri 
 • Soowl 
 And al] 
 and puts 
 a hearty, { 
 kiss he hi 
 I'erhaps 
 have somj 
 full ffood^ 
 her arms 
 shoulder, | 
 quite dar 
 erally, in I 
 like a ju 
 Rene has 
 his lovely 
 ♦ There 
 more ; it 
 not know 
 all. Got 
 tit for not 
 night cryi 
 And th 
 of the nig 
 morning, 
 finds the ' 
 night bef<: 
 ing. He ii 
 the face v 
 Saowball 
 ^either of 
 mains of i 
 existence 
 
 ♦ Then 
 beginning 
 
 Rene li 
 
 * la thi 
 severe yc 
 Belle's he 
 the bas^Li 
 throat, ai 
 
 The n 
 yesterda: 
 its promi 
 long wea 
 pick ben 
 even Sno 
 Rene rea 
 and catcl 
 at Snowl 
 him stori 
 All her 
 reader, <i 
 in her « 
 oonaiden 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 «T 
 
 e are sure 
 tells me to. 
 roo onme to 
 
 *, and let us 
 
 the muse!' 
 
 atatement. 
 
 Jwball t ' 
 
 was able, 
 the wind, 
 'or a bed. 
 
 hen you 
 y; 'DMrly 
 Q. Feels 
 it the way 
 eervea her 
 
 mu^t not 
 ts to be 
 li there is 
 8 are re- 
 i oare of 
 
 loflFl Of 
 ly ; ' now 
 
 I* money, 
 I beds iu 
 re at our 
 n ; good- 
 looks at 
 
 wn just 
 minute 
 8 a Jontf 
 re beej) e 
 eawarfi, 
 Bide, his 
 
 is long 
 ^ a^lctp 
 falls on 
 eet iier- 
 loosely 
 >athetic 
 
 ilously. 
 
 >u were 
 
 orry ! ' 
 horrid. 
 I serve 
 >en to 
 wfolly 
 
 obbing 
 
 whisper. * Oh ! Rene, don't be mad I I— I 
 an't help being hateful, but I'll try. Oh 1 I 
 mean to try ever so hard after this. I'll 
 never oontradict you attain 1 I'll do every* 
 thing you say. Only I can't bear you to be 
 angry with me ' (great sobbing here, sternly 
 repressed, for slumbering Johnny's sake.) 
 * Oh I Rene, forgive me ?' 
 
 ' Snowball, you dear little soul I ' 
 
 And all in a moment obdurate Rene melts, 
 and puts his arms around her and gives hev 
 a hearty, forgiving, fragrant smack— the first 
 kiss he had ever favoured her with in his life. 
 Perhaps the hour, the scene, the loneliness, 
 have something to do with it. It opens the 
 full floodgates of Suowball's tears ; she puts 
 her arms around his neck and cries on his 
 shoulder, until that portion of his raiment is 
 quite damp through. Conducts herself gen- 
 erally, in short, fur the ep oa of five minutes 
 like a. juvenile Niobe. Then she recoveis. 
 Rene has had enough of it, and rather lilts 
 hia lovely burden otf his neck. 
 
 'There now. Snowball, do not cry any 
 more ; it is all right ; I am not angry.' 1 Jo 
 not know that it was your fault, much, after 
 all. Go back and try to sleep. You will be 
 fit for nothing to-morrow, if you spend the 
 night crying like this.' 
 
 And thus m the ' dead waive and middle 
 of the night,' peace is proclaimed, and next 
 morning, to his great amazement, Johnny 
 finds the twain he has lett mortal foes the 
 night before, excellent friends* in the moru> 
 ing. He is puzzled, but thankful, and acoei^ti 
 the face without too many questions. Ouly 
 Snowball nearly has a relapse when she finds 
 neither of tne boys will touch the hoarded re- 
 mains of the basket, and propose to sustain 
 existence on berries. 
 
 ' Then the things may go uneaten 1 ' she is 
 beginning vehemently, 'I shan't touch theml' 
 
 Rene looks at her. 
 
 * Is this your promise of last night ? ' the 
 severe young eyes demand. And ma<Umoi« 
 Belle's head droops, and the hand goes into 
 the basket, and she swallows a lump in her 
 throat, and*- the last of the sandwiches, 
 
 The morning is fiue — promises to equal 
 yesterday in suntshine and warmth, and keeps 
 its promise. But it is a long day ■ a long, 
 long weary day. They lie aUtut listlessly, 
 pick berries, talk in a perfunctory fashion ; 
 even Snowball's fine flow of tittle-tattle fla^g 
 Rene reads ; Johnny tries t6 rig a fishingl n9 
 and catch something, but fails. He reclines 
 at Snowball's feet mostly, and lets her tell 
 him stories — sna stories, if she knows any. 
 All her life she has been an omnivorous 
 reader, devouring everything that has come 
 in her way. Her repertoire, therefore) is 
 oonaiderable. She sings to him, too. Johuuy 
 
 always likes to hear her sing. She feels it a 
 point of honour to keep her boys' spirits up. 
 It is all her fanlt, but tuey are here ; that 
 fact keeps well uppermost in her mind, and 
 she does her dear little best. It is easy 
 enough with Johnny, who is cheery and san- 
 guine by nature ; but Rene looks so pale, so 
 '.roubled, sits so sileut, so grave, it is depress- 
 ing only to look at him. 
 
 The long day wears on. Afternoon comes, 
 and evening, and ninht, and still no boat, 
 no rescue. Still nothing but the hoUow, 
 monotonous moan of the sea. the whisiling of 
 the wind, the whispering of the branches, 
 the white flash of a seapnll's wing, the 
 circling swoop of a fish-hawk and far off. 
 far. far ofiF, white sails that never draw near. 
 
 The stars shine out,a little, bUm new moon 
 cul 1 sharply and cleanly the blue waste of 
 sky and a second night finds these castaway 
 mariners high and dry on top of Chapeau 
 Dieu. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 in ;.i *«*»»* . FOUR DAYS. 
 
 ■ ■ -vU 
 
 Another night, another dawn, another day 
 — niwht, a third time, and still the lost ones 
 are lost in the wild mountain si'^e ! 
 
 With the breaking of the third day, there 
 breaks, also, the fiue weathier that up to this 
 time has served them. This third -^ay 
 dawns with a coppery sky, a lurid, angry- 
 looking sun rises redly over the water, a 
 dead calm holds land and sea locked in an 
 ominous hush. The heat is iutolerable. A 
 sultry cloud rises slowly, at d gathers and en- 
 larges, grows and aiivanLO-t, and slowly, 
 surely, the whole red sky glo -ms over. The 
 surf breaks down b^low, iu a dull, threaten- 
 ing whisper, there are fitful soughs «.f wind, 
 from every quarter of tne compass, it seems, 
 at once. Sea-birds whirl and scream, white 
 sails, hull down on the horiaon, iurl and 
 vanish, the sky lowers, until its dark pall 
 (Sims to rest on the mountain top. All 
 nature is gathering her forces to hurl out, 
 &ud meet, the coming storm. 
 
 These three weary days have brought 
 little change that can Ue written down, to 
 the hapless trio left stranded. Tiiey have 
 dawned and darkened, and between morning 
 and night nothing more exciting than rasp- 
 berry puking and reading Shakespeare have 
 gone on. Nothing can possibly happea 
 here ; no boats approach, tbere are no wild 
 animals, nq reptiles more deadly than garter 
 snakes and grasshoppers, no sj^vages, no any* 
 ttiiug I And they dare a »t leave where 
 they ate ; it it the oue spoti acoesBible ^^ 
 
 •"1 
 
08 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 all the mountAin ; the rest it a howling, 
 nntroddea, iaaccesaible wrilderneBS. 
 
 The most important event has been the 
 improvetneut and enlargement of Snow* 
 ball's bower From that iaexhaustable re- 
 oeptacle, a boy's pocket, Johnny has exhum- 
 ed a ball of string and half a dozen of nails. 
 With theae he and Rene have widened and 
 tightened the bower, twisted more supple 
 branohes, until the little shelter is compara- 
 tively strong, and prepared to keep out bleak 
 night blasts, and even withstand a tolerably 
 stroni; gale It stands with its baok to a 
 gretbt bowlder, the north wind thus out off, 
 and the brAOcties closely enough locked to 
 exclude at all times the nya of the tierct 
 sea-side Qun. Here Snowball has already 
 learaed to sleep on her turfy bod as deeply 
 and soundly as ever in the little white cot 
 at home. There is room enough in the 
 bower for her to lie at full length, but de< 
 cidedly none of her superfluous turning 
 round, or f>tandiug up. Sne crawls in on 
 her hands and knees, and backs out— as 
 people do from the presence of royalty — but 
 always on hand. Here, too, the boya, who 
 remain alternately on the look out at night, 
 take turns duruinc the d«y, to woo balmy 
 slumber. And there is nothing else to be 
 done. No fishing, snaring, shooting — noth- 
 ing but to pick tue everlasting raspberry, of 
 which their sonla long since wearied, and 
 lie on the furze, and gaze with longing, 
 haggard eyes over the pitiless sea. Sails 
 come and go, but always afar off. They 
 have hoisted their handkerchiefs on trees, 
 they light tires during the day on the hii! 
 side— all in vain. They dare not burn bea- 
 cons at night, lest vessels should mistake 
 the signal for Dee Island Light, and so be 
 lured on the fatal reefs. And it is the after- 
 noon of the third day, aci rescue oometh 
 not. 
 
 They rest in different positions on the 
 grass, all silent and sad, and watch, with 
 vague fear, the rismg storm. It promisei to 
 be a very violent one— a tempest of thunder 
 and lightning— a tornado of wind and rain — 
 a swift summer cyclone, dealing death and 
 destruction upon land and. sea. 
 
 * And Suowbaii la ao afraid of lightning 
 and thunder/ thinka Rene, ' ard the bower, 
 that we have tried so hard to ri^, up for her 
 — will it stand five minut::; in the teeth of 
 this rising gale ?' 
 
 His languid gaze turns to where Snowball 
 lies, prone, and listless, and mute, and pale, 
 with closed eyes, her fair head pillowed on 
 one wasted arm. Yts, wasted, although 
 the remains of the luooheon and the chief 
 share of the raspberries have been hers. 
 She has passionately protested and 
 
 appealed for an equal division, but Kcne^ 
 the inflexible, haa nut yielded a jot. 
 
 ' You will take ^hat we give you ; do as 
 tell you, or we will ndver be friends again !' 
 hs says, in his meet obstinate voice, and sha 
 has sobbed and succumbed. Bat he is very 
 good to her in all elss, very gentle, sarpria* 
 ingly tender, amazingly yielding — altogether 
 unlike the self-willed, domineering Rene she 
 has hitherto knowD . ]So other quarrel has 
 followed that niemorable reoonoiliation , she 
 may be fietful and irritable at timea — she is 
 indeed —but this patience with her never 
 flags. Johnny himself is not sweeter of 
 temper, in these disastrous days. But it is 
 an unnatural state of goodness on bath sides, 
 not in the least likely to last, if they only 
 get off with life, But Rece has made up his 
 mind it shall last during their stay ou 
 Chapean iJien, and Rene's resolutions are as 
 those of the Mede and the Persian. His 
 Shakespeare is as a diamond mine to them 
 all. The volume contains four of the 
 tragedies, and Rene, a fins reader both of 
 English and French, reads alc.<ud to them, 
 and never tires. He dips, too, into the 
 depths of his memory and brings forth such 
 store of anecdote, story, fable, poetry — 
 Victor Hugo's and Beranger's, mostly — that 
 his two hearers can only listen in gratitude 
 and admiration, and wonder if this most 
 entertaining compisnion can be the silent, 
 and somewhat grim Eene they have hitherto 
 had the honour of knowing. 
 
 ' I never would have thought yon had it 
 in you,' Snowball says to him, with that 
 charmiag candor, which is a distinguishiDg 
 character of their intimacy. ' No out woald. 
 You always seemed to me about as silent 
 and stupid as a white owl. Didn't he to 
 you, Johnny ? I dare say he may grow up 
 to be quite a credit to us yet — mightn't he, 
 Johnny ?' 
 
 ' He won't grow up much if he had to 
 spend three more days ou Chapeau Dien,' 
 responds Johnny, languidly. ' He Uoesn't 
 look good for over twenty*four mope hours 
 of it. You don't eat enough, Rene, old boy. 
 You keep all you pick for Sn -I mean you 
 are slowly starving. Lat me go and gather 
 you a cupful of berries.' 
 
 He makes a weary motion to rise — tmth 
 to tell, he — they all — are almost too w<>ak to 
 stir. The raspberries are not to very plenti- 
 ful, and an uttet* distaste for their insipid 
 sweetness has seized them all. Rene looks 
 decidedly the worst. His dark, thin face, 
 pale at all times, is blanched to a dull, 
 clayey hne^-its outline against the darken- 
 ing sky has the sbrank, pinched look that 
 only starving gives. He is worn with anx- 
 iety ; he hardly sleeps , he gives, as Johnny 
 
 says, the 
 gathers to 
 it. His gl 
 twice theil 
 dry, feevei 
 the light tl 
 brother, is | 
 
 * Never 
 I haven't 
 we black 
 est. Loolj 
 you and Snl 
 nothing eh 
 Then tl 
 weak too 
 and spirit^ 
 talking. 
 It is husk] 
 With a ti 
 hillock, hii 
 laced tinge 
 aimlessly ( 
 He neve 
 wishes, au 
 has a dul 
 waiting, 
 hunger anc 
 raspberriet 
 day or twc 
 He neve 
 but once, 
 philosophy 
 And then 
 papa — bad 
 and grief, 
 down on tl 
 long time. 
 * Johnny 
 herself, ii 
 dose to ] 
 bees, with 
 For her, 
 the best < 
 at times, 
 the hardt 
 stupidity 
 all St. Oil 
 Perhapi 
 thing to c 
 ranee ; bi 
 and the 
 vigorous ) 
 Still n 
 berries, a 
 eats what 
 said, the 
 fuoes, Re 
 severe ey 
 *Youi 
 youpg lii 
 And til 
 her masti 
 
but Kcne^ 
 
 iot. 
 
 ^ou ; do M 
 tnda Again I' 
 IC6, and she 
 i he i» very 
 le, sarpris* 
 —altogether 
 )g Rene she 
 [^aarrel has 
 liatioD , she 
 DQes — she is 
 
 her never 
 sweeter of 
 . Bat it is 
 bath aides, 
 they only 
 lade up his 
 r stay ou 
 tioD8 are as 
 rsian . His 
 e to them 
 >ur of the 
 ier both of 
 1 to them, 
 , into the 
 forth such 
 
 poetry — 
 >atJy— that 
 1 gratitude 
 this most 
 the silent, 
 re hitherto 
 
 yon had it 
 with that 
 inguishing 
 «•) would . 
 i as silent 
 n't he to 
 y grow up 
 ghtn't he, 
 
 he has to 
 lau Dien/ 
 e lioesn't 
 lOfe hours 
 ,old boy. 
 mean you 
 ad gAther 
 
 •e — truth 
 
 wak to 
 
 ry plenti* 
 
 insipid 
 
 !ue looks 
 
 bin face, 
 
 a dull, 
 
 darken- 
 
 ook that 
 
 ith anx< 
 
 B Johnny 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 9 
 
 says, the lion's share of all the fruit he 
 gathers to Snowball, and compels her to take 
 it. His great dark eyes luck hollow, and 
 twice their natural size — they shine with a 
 dry, feeverish glitter not well to see. But 
 the light that looks out of them now, on his 
 brother, is very sweet. 
 
 * Never mind me, mon ami, I am all right. 
 I haven't much Hesh to lose, you know, and 
 we black people show this sort of thing soon* 
 est. Look out for yourself. If I can take 
 you and Snowball back in tolerable condition, 
 nothing else mattera. ' 
 
 Then there is silence again ; they are too 
 weak too speek to thoroughly worn out 
 and spiritless in mind and body to care for 
 talking. And Rene's voice is past reading. 
 It in husky and broken, and prety well gone. 
 With a tiled sigh Jobnn)' relapses on his 
 hillock, his brown, curly head clasped in his 
 laced Hngerp, his blue, gsntle eyes wandering 
 aimlessly over the bay. 
 
 He never complaias, never is crovs, never 
 wishes, audibly, evon for rescue. His face 
 has a dull, slow, patient look of pain and 
 waiting. He is consumed with grinding 
 hunger and tilled with dire forebodings. For 
 raspberries are giving out, and, after another 
 day or two, if help does not come — ' 
 
 He never gets farther. A fellow can Are 
 but once, he says to himself, with forlorn 
 philosophy. Only this is such slow dying. 
 And then there is papa— always there is 
 papa— back by now, and fraatio with fear 
 and grief. At this point Johnny's face goes 
 down on the turf, and he lies very still for a 
 long time. . 
 
 * Johnny is sleeping,' Snowball will say to 
 herself, in a loud whisper, and keep very 
 close to her boy, and ward off gnats and 
 bees, with a cedar branch. 
 
 For her, surprising to relate, she keeps up 
 the best of the th'ee, is cross and fractious 
 at times, and full of loud complaints — on 
 the hardship of things in gener I, and the 
 stupidity nf Old Tim, and Ma'am Weesy, and 
 all 8t. Oildas, in particular. 
 
 Perhaps this natural mentalvent has some- 
 thing to do with her superior physical endu- 
 rance ; but then sh? is a girl, and needs less, 
 and the slendour frame is wonlertuUy 
 vigorous and healthful. 
 
 Still more, she has double rations of 
 berries, although she does not know it She 
 eats what she picks herself, and, as has been 
 said, the larger share of Rene's. If she re- 
 fuses, Rene's great, dark, lustrous, solemn, 
 severe eyes, transfix her. 
 
 'You promised,' he says, and the r<jSolute 
 youpg lips set. 
 
 And then Snowball knovs she haa found 
 her master, and meekly yields. '" ' 
 
 'Bat if ever I get off this horrid place,' 
 she says, in protest to Johnny, ' this sort of 
 thing will come to an end, let me tell you. 
 Rene may think he is going to tyraoize over 
 me like this all his life ! Just you wait 
 until we are bask home and you wilt see.' 
 
 ' I Will,' groans J ihnny ; ' I wish I was 
 bnck to see now. I sometimes think. Snow* 
 lall— ' 
 
 Well?* 
 
 ' That, - in a low tone — ' we will never go 
 back !' 
 
 • Oh, Johnny !' 
 
 ' This is the afternoon of the th'rd day. 
 Papa must have come back yesterday. 
 Snowball, think of papa t' 
 
 * Oh, Johnny I dear, old Johnny I' a great 
 sob, • I do.' 
 
 'A storm is rising — look at that sky. 
 We have not had a storm for over two weeks 
 — it will be all the worse when it comes. 
 You know what stoims are on this coast. It 
 tray last for days.' 
 
 • Yes,' sobs Snowball, in despair. 
 
 ' No boat can put off to come to, us while it 
 lasts, even if they knew where we were. No 
 boat could land even at Sugar Scoop, except 
 in calm weather. The surf aU along the 
 base of Chapeau Dieu is something that re* 
 quires to be seen to be believed in.' 
 
 Snowball is sobbing, with her face in her 
 lap. 
 
 The sound arouses Rene, who is lying a 
 a sort of torpor, but is neither sleeping not* 
 waking, and he looks angrily at his brother. 
 
 ♦ I wish you wouldn't ' he says; * why do 
 you make her cry ? What are you telling 
 her ? ' 
 
 •Nothing much,' sajrs Johnny, surprised 
 at his own performance. ' J didn't mean to 
 make hei ory ; I was saying a storm is ris> 
 ins — a bad one — and no boat can come until 
 it IS over. I say. Snowball, hold up.' 
 
 But Snowball, weak, frightened, hungry, 
 sobs on. 
 
 ' You need not tell her such things — time 
 enough for trouble when it comes. Snow- 
 ball r Rene oriea ont. and his voice is sharp 
 with nervous pain, ' don't. It hurts me to 
 hear you. Oh my Qod V he says under hia 
 breath, ' help us — help her ' Do not leave 
 us here to die 1' 
 
 Then, with the prayer still on his \\p% he 
 sinks back, too weary even to sit upright, 
 and seems to sleep. Rtne is in a very bad 
 way indeed, is the worst case of the taree, 
 and somehow the knowledge cornea home to 
 Snowbidl, and stills her tears. ^ 
 
 She looks at Mm— if Rene, their mainstay, 
 faild, what is to become of them. As she 
 lOoks, a smile crosses hia woru, pallid faoe — 
 
 f"' 
 
 •"1 
 
10 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ' we don't want 
 hftve coffee, I 
 
 Rene hat a very sweet smile, the more 
 sweet for bjing rare. 
 
 ' Give it to ner,' he sayi, 
 ib J>)tinny. Fur me, I will 
 think.' 
 
 ' Oh, hear him ! ' Snowball says, her ready 
 tears streaming again. 'He is dreaming 
 .of borne and somethiog to eat. And look at 
 his face — like death. He is starving, 
 Johnny. Oh, Johnny, it breaks my heart.' 
 
 Johnny says nothing, he has nothing to 
 say. He turns away, that he may not see 
 his brother's face, and watches the rapidly 
 rising storm.' 
 
 ' Here it ia ! ' he cries out. 
 
 A great drop of rain falU from the srllen 
 fiky and flashes in his upturned face, then 
 another, and another. There is a profound 
 hush, nature seems to hold her breath for a 
 second, then in its might the swift summer 
 tempt t is upon them. The lightning leaps 
 out like a fiery sword, a territio clap of 
 thunder shakes the sky and sea. The bay 
 wrinkles for a moment in an awful way ; it 
 crouches before the fury of the wind ; and 
 then the hurricane sweeps down upon them 
 like a giaat let loose. Flash after flash cuts 
 the sky asunder, peal after peal shakes the 
 mighty mountain to its base, the blast roars 
 down from the summit with hoarse bellow- 
 inc ; the sea answers back with deep and 
 hollow echo. Spruce and cedar saplings are 
 torn up with one tierca rush, and whirled 
 out to sea. The bower went hurling at the 
 first stroke of the tornado, torn wildly into 
 ■hreds. 
 
 Rene grasps his rock, his hat blown into 
 'space in the first guat, and clings for his 
 life, his thin clothes drenched through in a 
 moment. 
 
 Johnny and Suowb^^'. are together ; Snow- 
 ball, with a shriek, has flung her arms about 
 him at the first flash of lightning, and so 
 clings,^ her face hidden on his shoulder, her 
 lobg, light hair streaming in the gale. 
 
 Johnny holds her hand ; he can feel her 
 quiver from head to foot at each flash, at 
 each clap —except for that, she is stilL 
 
 So they crouch, beaten down, soaked 
 through, breathless atoms, in the mad hnrly- 
 bnrly of wind, and lightning, and rain. 
 Darkness has fallen, too, swift, dense — they 
 can hardly see each other's faces, though 
 but a few yards apart 
 
 It lasts for nearly an hour— a life-time it 
 seeiBS to them. Then slowly, as if with re- 
 luctance, to see the evil it has w^-ought, the 
 • dark clouds light, the sky brightens, the 
 thunder rumbles off into space, the wind 
 lulls, the rain ceases. Only the sea, like 
 some sullen monster, slow to wrath, is also 
 ■low to forgive, keeps up its dull beUowing, 
 
 and breaks, and beetles, and thunders in 
 huge great breakers over the suuken reefs, 
 aad up against the granite sides of Chapeau 
 Dieu. 
 
 But they an breathe once more, and 
 Snowball lifts her head, with all itsdrippliug 
 flaxen hair ; and three white young faces — 
 blue eyes, gray eyes, brown eyes— look into 
 each other, in awful hush. There is nothing 
 to be said, toothing to be don ' ; they are wet 
 to the skin : the breath is nearly beaten out 
 of their bodies ; the surf may roll heavily 
 for days around the mountain ; no help -jan 
 come now — and the last of the raspberries 
 have been beaten off the bushes and washed 
 into pulp by the fury of the storm. It ia 
 t' e crowning disaster of all. 
 
 ' So be it 1' Rene says at last aloud, as if 
 in answer to their thought — ' we can but 
 diel' 
 
 * It was death before,' Johnny responds, 
 ' and no fellow can die more than once.' 
 
 ' Snowball," the elder boy says, and rises 
 slowly, and sits beside her, ' you are not 
 afrai.1, are you?' Dear little Snowball, I 
 am sorry for you I' 
 
 She makes no reply. She is only conscious 
 of boing very tiied — very, very tired. She 
 is not conscious of being afraid, but Rene 
 sees that mervous quiver strike through her 
 again. 
 
 ' Are you oold !' he asks, in his weak 
 voice. 
 
 ' No ; only tired. Let me rest — so — Rene, 
 dear.' 
 
 He holds her, and so they sit ; and so 
 night finds them, when it falls. It falls soft 
 and starlit, but very chill ; the clouds sweep 
 away before the bright wind, and the moou 
 looks down on these three forlorn lost child- 
 ren sitting helpless here, waiting forthe end. 
 For hope has died out, and it is death now, 
 they know — slow, dragging death, far from 
 friends and home. Tbere is nothing more 
 that can be done, or said, or planned for — 
 no need of further bowers — no strength left 
 to make them. They only want to keep 
 close together, and so let death find them 
 when its slow mercy comes. 
 
 Johnny lies on his face on the soaked grass. 
 Rene and Snowball rest againat the gieat, 
 mosay bowlder, her head on his shoulder, in 
 atupour, or sleep. Strange that in this su- 
 preme hour, with the end sn near, it is to 
 Rene she dines — her last hold on earth aa 
 life slips away. Such a feeble hold 1 the 
 weak little arms have scarcely strength 
 enough left to clasp his neck. 
 
 So the night wears. The breeze blows ; 
 they are chilled to the marrow of their bones. 
 All through the oold, bright, pale hours, the 
 surf thunders below— their lullaby — and life 
 
 t 
 
 wanes wei 
 of the ne 
 passed, a 
 another s 
 Alive— an 
 labored, 
 himself to 
 • Try iti 
 if you ca 
 for berries] 
 She doe 
 of way. 
 not easily 
 
 'Will 
 are going 
 Each ^ 
 and lips a 
 ia strong 
 most spen 
 his feet in 
 ' Come, 
 She tak 
 Johnny re 
 to walk 
 it is hard 
 ' There 
 the groui 
 going-up 
 He utt 
 and come 
 a craah oi 
 cry he n 
 liiie the c 
 
 ;dli)a« 
 
 .■a;?*'' 
 !' 
 
 •Aa'tl 
 hasn't 8ai( 
 at the boi 
 
 The ''pt 
 
 of Tree I 
 
 of men, g 
 
 Oildaa H< 
 
 in silence 
 
 Tim is a 
 
 ugly, su 
 
 crimson 
 
 Canadiai 
 
 dity in 
 
 chance, 1 
 
 anybody 
 
 subject t 
 
 of raisio 
 
 and repe 
 
 ill-bred ii 
 
 ' It's t 
 
 well end 
 
 byes. I 
 
 Tbe di\ 
 
 divilmei 
 
thunders in 
 Buuken reefs, 
 !8 of Chapeau 
 
 B more, and 
 1 itadrippliug 
 ouu^ faoea — 
 es— look into 
 ere is nothing 
 
 they are wet 
 ly beaten out 
 
 roll heavily 
 I no help •s&a 
 a raspberries 
 B and washed 
 storm. It is 
 
 t aloud, as if 
 we can bat 
 
 my responds, 
 n onoe.' 
 ys, and rises 
 you are not 
 Snowball, I 
 
 ily conscious 
 
 f tired. She 
 
 id, but Rene 
 
 through her 
 
 in his weak 
 
 — so — Rene, 
 
 sit ; and so 
 
 It falls soft 
 
 ouds sweep 
 
 id the moou 
 
 lost child- 
 
 for the end. 
 
 death now, 
 
 th, far from 
 
 >thing more 
 
 ftuned for — 
 
 length left 
 
 nt to keep 
 
 find them 
 
 taked grass. 
 
 the gieat, 
 ihoulder, in 
 
 in this 8u- 
 ear, it is to 
 on earth as 
 
 hold ! the 
 strength 
 
 E>z9 blows ; 
 
 heir bones, 
 hours, the 
 r — and life 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 * r 
 
 er 
 
 wanes weaker with the deathly chill coming 
 of the new day. But when the night has 
 passed, and the stars paled and waned, p.nd 
 another sun has risen, they are still iilive. 
 Alive— and but litila more. It is with a 
 labored, painful effort that Johnny gathers 
 himself together ao'^ stands on his feet. 
 
 * Try it, Snowbull,' he says, huskily. 'See 
 if you can stand. Let us g;o and look for — 
 for berries.' 
 
 She does as she is told, but in a dazed sort 
 of way. Yes, she can stand, can walk, but 
 not easily, over the sodden furze. 
 
 ' Will you come, Rene ?' she says. * We 
 are going — to look for — berries.' 
 
 Each word comes with pbin, her throat 
 and lips are swollen and dry. But starvation 
 is stronger than weakness, even with Rene, 
 most spent of the three, and he, too, gets on 
 his feet in a blind and giddy fashion. 
 
 ' Come,' he says, and holds out his band. 
 
 She takes it, and they totter on a few steps. 
 
 Johnny recovers first and tnost, and manages 
 
 to walk tolerably well after a moment ; but 
 
 it is hard work for the other two. 
 
 ' There is something— the matter— with 
 the ground,' Rene gasps, giddily. ' It la — 
 going— up and down, Snowball 1 
 
 He utters a cry. Earth and sky go tip, 
 and come down, and seem to strike him with 
 a crash on the back of his head . With that 
 cry he reels forward, and falls at her feet 
 line the dead. 
 
 say 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MONSIEUR PAUL. 
 
 1 a. il 
 
 * An' this is the sixth day, an' if the Lord 
 hasn't said it, it'a dead they are ! It's maybe 
 at the bottom av the say they are. 
 
 The -speaker is Old Tim, light-house keeper 
 of Efce Island, and his audience are a group 
 of men, gatheied in the bar-room of the St. 
 Gildas Hotel. Tfcey listen with anxious faces, 
 in silence, while Old Tim tells his tale. Old 
 Tim is a short man of sixty or more, with an 
 ugly, surly, honest, weather-beaten face, 
 crimson with much Irish whisky and 
 Canadian Eunshine — something of an od- 
 dity in his way. Old Tim neVer, by any 
 chance, listens to what is said to him by 
 anybody, if he can help it, so, judging others 
 subject to the same infirmity, he has a habit 
 of raising his voice, as he goes on, asserting 
 and repeating himself, and so drowning all 
 ill bred interruption. 
 
 « It's that Slip av a gerrel. The byes is 
 well enough. I'm not sayin' a word agen the 
 byes. It's that gerrel. I say it's that gerrel. 
 Tbe divil himself wudn't be up to her for 
 divilment. She'd drowned thim in a minute 
 
 for pure divarsion. It's that gerrel. 
 I'm sayin' it's that slip av a gerrel !' 
 
 'The Boule-deneige was picked up yester- 
 day adrift off Puiut Tormeutine,' says one of 
 the listeners. 'That's a bad business, Tim. 
 Couldn't you have given the alarm sooner? 
 Six days ago I' the speaker whistles with up- 
 lifted ey el rows. 
 
 ' Is it give the alarrum sooner ? Sorra ha- 
 por^ih I've done for the last four days but 
 give alarums. Arrah I n>e very heart's 
 bruk with the alarrums I've been givin', an' 
 sorra a sowi's been alarruined about it, bar- 
 riu' ould Wasy herself, bad scran to her 1 I 
 say me heart's bruk w.d the aUrrnms I'm 
 givin'. Faix it's hardly a minute I've left to 
 attind to the light, Alarrums ignagh 1 
 Wisha ! 'tis wishiu' thiin well I am for alar* 
 rum !' 
 
 'And Dr. Macdonald away from home, 
 too,' another says, and looks blankly about 
 him. ' What are we to do ?' 
 
 ' Fdix he is,' responds old Tiro : • an', 
 more betoken, some others is away that's 
 wanted at home. Father Loins is away 
 among the Injuns and the Fi inch, bad cess 
 to thim ! As if craters like thim wanted the 
 praste 1 I say Father Louis away preacbin' 
 a station to thim nagers a v Injuns. Av if 
 he was to the fore it's not the likes o' ye I'd 
 be thrubbling wid alarrums. Sure he'd do 
 more in a minute thin the lot av ye in a 
 
 week. I say I'm sayiu' ' 
 
 ' Oh ! confound you, Tim ; you needn't 
 repeat your impertinence. We will do what 
 we can, no matter where Pere Louis is.' 
 
 • I say it's not to the hkes o' ye,' repeats 
 Old Jim, raising his voice and ignoring the 
 interruption, ' I'd be talkin' if Father Louit 
 
 Tdbetalkin'if 
 was to the fore. And now here's the Bowld- 
 naige picked up adrift. Isn't that what 
 ye're sayin', ye beyant there ? An' where's 
 them that wint in her — toll me that ?' 
 
 They look at one another, and are silent. 
 Dr. Macdonald is well known, and better 
 liked, by every man of them. They know 
 the boys too, and the pretty blonde girl with 
 the waving fair hair. 
 i^' It's a bad lookout.' 
 
 ' Six days missing. Mon Dieu ! it is ter- 
 rible!' 
 
 • Old Tim ought to be shot I' »: , 
 ' Who will tell the doctor this f ** "^ *^"*" 
 
 * After the storms of Thursday too. Even 
 if they did make land somewhere ' 
 
 ' Ma foi ! was not the Boule-denieg6 
 found, keel up, three miles the other sidd of 
 Tormentine 1 Make land I The first land 
 they made, my friend, was the bottom.' 
 
 ' Poor children I Two tine lads ; band- 
 some and manly, and the prettiest little girl 
 
 ou could £ee I It is a great pity.' 
 
 ::, an 
 
LOST FOR A W0M4N. 
 
 *Wh»t ii to be done?' 
 
 <Y«a,'MyaOld Tim, ohitning in like a 
 Greek ohorae, ' I'ai layin' what'e to be 
 done T It'a not standin' nere like itioki o' 
 Mlin' wax that'll reeky thim av they're auy 
 irhere. Im Hayin' it's not ataadio' 
 iaere ' 
 
 He breaks off. There has entered quietly 
 among them s stranger, so different in appear- 
 ance from most of the men around him, as 
 to be conspiuuous at a glance. A tall, dark* 
 bearded, brown, ravclled-looking man, with 
 a stamp that is not of St. Gildas upon him, 
 handsome beyond question, and having, per- 
 haps, thirty or mote years. 
 
 Old Tim's jaw drops ; he gazes, and still 
 the wonder grows, his mouth agape, his 
 •mall eyes opening wide. Then bis wonder 
 suddenly bursts into vehement soeeoh. 
 
 < It's him !' cries old Tim. * Oh, that I 
 may niver, av it ian't him I Munsheer Paul !' 
 he hustles aside all who iuteroose, and grasps 
 the newcomer's hand. 'Mistha Farrar, 
 dlarlin', don't you know me T* 
 
 * Tim, old boy I Yes. I know your ioUy 
 old figure -heiid, ot coarse,' returns the 
 ^tranger, laughing and slapping him on the 
 
 houlder. ' Dear old chap, how are you ? 
 
 • A ud what is all this I ' 
 
 ' And it's back for good an' all ye are, I 
 
 pe, from thim parts I'd not be namin'T 
 
 ~?uaha, but the ou;d docther will oe as glad 
 
 ^ if somebody had lift him a li^aoy. I'm not 
 
 Myia' they didn't agree wid ye, though,thim 
 
 ■Marts,' peering up ac hi'-^ admiringly ; 'it's 
 
 ne, an' big au' brown ye are this minute. 
 
 fi'm sayin' it's fine and sthrong, and good- 
 
 lukin' ye are, Misther Farrar. ' An' ye're 
 
 Ibaok ! Well, well , faix, they do be sayin' at 
 
 home bad shillins iver an' alway« come back I 
 
 ' Thank you, Tim. But th« children ' 
 
 * It's the wonderful rowJin' stone ye are, if 
 kll tales about ye bees thrue. An' ye've 
 been livin' out theie in taim parts all this 
 time T Sure there uiver come a batch o' let- 
 ters to the ould docfiher that I didn't go up 
 an' ax for ye. " I've a bit av a letther, Tim," 
 Bex he, " fiom thim ye know." "Arrah, 
 have ye ? " eez I ; " how is he at all T " 
 " Well, Tim, glory be to God, an' he does be 
 hy.yin' he'll be wid us soon." But, oh, wirra, 
 •i|re I knowed bethter thin b'lavethat. An' 
 here ye are. I say; I'm sayin', hare ye^-— ' 
 
 * But these children, Tim ? For Heaven's 
 ■ake never mind me. What of the doctor's 
 boys, and my girl ? ' 
 
 • i An your girrel ? 'Pan me oonsoienoe thin 
 but she's a han'ful av a girrel. It's all her 
 doin's from ' 
 
 * Yes, yes, yes. Tim, but what has she 
 done? What talk is this of wreck and 
 
 storm, and a boat accident ? Don't yon know 
 I'm all at sea ? ' 
 
 ' Yis, faith, an' there's more like ye. 
 That's where they are, or maybe at the bot- 
 tom. I say that's where they are av the 
 Lord hssn't a ban' in thim. It's six blissid 
 days since an eye was clapt on thim, and the 
 Bow Id Nagie, starn up, off the wildest point 
 on the coast.' 
 
 The stranger groans, and turns an apr^al* 
 ing glance along this row of faces. Evident* 
 ly be knows better than to try longer to stem 
 the flow of Tim's talk. 
 
 ' Toll me some of yon,' he says, ' the girl 
 is mino.' 
 
 * We are sorry, m'sieur,' a small, brown- 
 faced man with gold ear-rings nays, touching 
 his cap ; 'it Is all ver bad. It is now six 
 days since they have went away. They went 
 in the boy's boat— a batteau— since yester- 
 day found adrift many miles down the bay. 
 And,' with quick compassion, 'it is suppose 
 they must be lost. M'sieur will be good 
 enough to remind himself of the storm of two 
 days since.' 
 
 Yes, monsieur remembers, and grows 
 very pale. 
 
 ' And Dr. Maodonald is away I ' he ex- 
 claims. 
 
 ' An, m'sieur, how that is unfortunate. If 
 he had been home they would have been dis- 
 cover since long time. But ihees Teem,' a 
 shrug, ' he eay he give the alatm many time, 
 but my faith! no one have hear until to-day. 
 Hal how that is droll ! ' 
 
 ' I heard some rumour yesterday,' another 
 adds, ' but I paid, no great attention. They 
 are often out in a little boat, and — well, I 
 paid no attention. I suppose others felt as 
 I did —that. they would turn up all right.' 
 
 ' It is ver great peety,'say8 the Frenchman; 
 ' we will do all our possible, but what will 
 you ? Six days, Mon Dieu ! ' 
 
 ' It is indeeid a blank prospect. They stand 
 for a little, silent, deep concern in every 
 face. 
 
 ' Have you no idea— has no one any idea. ' 
 the new comer, Mr. Farrar, asks, ' of which 
 direction they took ? They must have had 
 some distinct idea of going somewhere when 
 they put off. Does Ma'am Weesy not know, 
 Tim?' 
 
 ' Here she is for ye, let her spake for her- 
 Bilf,'says Tim. Wasy woman, I'm sayin' 
 come here a minute. It's wanted ye are, and 
 by thim as maybe ye thought was far away,' 
 
 Ma'am Weesy, her brown face one pucker 
 of anxious wrinkles, all wild with alarm and 
 vague with ejaculations, bustles in among 
 the men. 
 
 ' Look at him now,' says Tim, 'there he is 
 forninst ye ; an' it's roan^ a long day ye'll 
 
 luk am 
 French m 
 Butt 
 add nnd 
 index fin 
 ^Ma'ai 
 der and 
 doubt iu 
 his baud. 
 •Icis 
 boarder 
 very dis 
 •M. P 
 fully. ' 
 joioe to 
 joioe iu 
 neard ? ' 
 'Yes, 
 but perbl 
 not too li 
 somethio 
 
 •No, 
 Ah, gran 
 you— an< 
 tear witl 
 been in « 
 Thay we 
 asking, 
 wicked t 
 my work 
 they go, 
 mademoj 
 no, M. F 
 little on( 
 know.' 
 
 •Whei 
 going ? ' 
 ♦Ever 
 here and 
 time to 
 basket, 
 they go- 
 ' And 
 Tax you 
 hint ma 
 Ma'ai 
 puckers 
 shakes 1 
 
 •It 
 nothing 
 day bet 
 raspbei 
 •And 
 raspbei 
 they wi 
 woman 
 six Icnj 
 'Idi 
 ing. • 
 Gildas 
 know. 
 Louis 1 
 
oa't yon know 
 
 ore Ilk* ye. 
 be at the bot. 
 V are av the 
 [fa Mix bliiiid 
 tbim, and the 
 wildest point 
 
 rns an apT.-eaI< 
 ces. Evident- 
 onger to stem 
 
 tys, ' the girl 
 
 imall, brown* 
 ayH, touching 
 [t is now six 
 r. They went 
 since yester- 
 )wn the bay. 
 it is suppose 
 ill be good 
 storm of two 
 
 and grows 
 
 ay 1 ' he ex- 
 
 ortuuate. If 
 ive been dis- 
 ees Teem,' a 
 many time, 
 intil tO'day. 
 
 ay,' another 
 bion. They 
 nd— well, I 
 ^hera felt as 
 11 right.' 
 frenchman; 
 t what will 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 i 
 
 They stand 
 in every 
 
 9 any idea.' 
 
 of which 
 
 i have had 
 
 rhere when 
 
 not know, 
 
 ce forher- 
 I'm say in' 
 re are, and 
 far away,' 
 >ne pucker 
 alarm and 
 in among 
 
 bhere he is 
 day ye'll 
 
 ' I do not. 
 often, look 
 
 Ink among thim beggarly spalpeens av 
 Frenobiniu at'ore ye see tte's like.' 
 
 Put this last oltl Tim is polite enough to 
 add under his breath, as he points one siubby 
 index flatter at the last arrival. 
 
 iMa'ain Wutisy linM look, in puzzled won- 
 der and iiioieduiity, perplfxity, r«ooguttioD, 
 doubt iu hei- Ui<*itw^auy latje. He huids out 
 his baud. 
 
 * Ic is 1, Ma'am Weesy, your troublesome 
 boarder of uiuu years ago, aud back in a 
 very disastrouti time, I fear.' 
 
 ' M. Paul ! ' ttie ..li wumaa cries out joy- 
 fully. ' Ah, tbia ia well. On, m'aieu, 1 re- 
 joice to welcome you back, it one may re- 
 joice iu any tbiug at such a time. Yuu Uave 
 neard?' 
 
 * Yes, I have heard. It is a terrible thing; 
 but perhaps you can help us, if iudeed it is 
 not too late fur all help. ^Surely yuu know 
 something of where they iutenued to go It ' 
 
 *No, m'aieu,' with a sob. 
 Ah, grande oiel I they « ent so 
 yon— and I fear not. What ras there to 
 iear with Master Jean in the boat, that has 
 been in a buat since he ouukd walk alooe. 
 They went ail the days — 1 never thought of 
 afking. I rejaice to see them go — me, 
 wicked that 1 am, they so disarrangejme at 
 my work. And that day I was glad— glad 
 they go, for I have great deal to do, and 
 mademoiselle, she teaae me much. Helas 1 
 no, M. Paul, I know not where the dear 
 little ones may be. Only the good God, lie 
 know.' 
 
 * Where were they most in the hi\bit of 
 going T ' 
 
 'Everywhere, m'sieu. Up and dowi:, 
 here and there, all places. They go some- 
 time to the Indian village for mocassin, and 
 basket, and bead- bag, even. Everywhere 
 they go — all places.' 
 
 ' Aud they said nothing, nothing at all ? 
 Tax your memory. Ma'am Weesy, the least 
 hint may be of importance now.' 
 
 Ma'am Weesy Rnits her brown brows, 
 puckers her mouth, makes an effort, and 
 shakes her head. 
 
 ' It is of no use M. Paul, they laid 
 nothing. Only they talk of raspberries the 
 day before, perhaps, who know they go for 
 raspberry?' 
 
 * And where ia the most likely place for 
 raspberries ? They would naturally go where 
 they were most plentiful. Ob, my ilear old 
 woman, how could you leave tbis matter for 
 six long days ? ' 
 
 * I did my best,' Ma'am Weesy says, weep- 
 ing. 'I did tell Teem, I come to Sc. 
 Gildas two, three, five time ; I tell all I 
 know. But what will you, M. Paul T Pere 
 Louis ho is gone, M. the doctor he is gone, 
 
 and tlor the rest — bah ! what they care. 
 They are beesy, it will be all right, they say, 
 and go their way ; no oue can handle a boat 
 better than Master Juan. And now they 
 say to roe la Boulede-neige is found and not 
 my children. Aud to-murrow M. le doctor 
 will be home, huw am 1 to fuoe him .' 1 pro* 
 mise him I uare for them, aud itv bow I keep 
 my word.' 
 
 QlAs she sobs out the last words there is a 
 bustle at the door, aud a man euters hurried* 
 ly aud looks arauud. 
 
 * Have you heard, Desereaux ? ' Botwi one 
 asks. ' Wnat is to be doue ? ' 
 
 'Heard? yes,' the uew-oomer says, ex* 
 citedly. ' I know where thty are 1 Wbere 
 they started to go to at least. Is the doctor 
 here ? is ha back ? ' 
 
 'I am here ; I am concerned in this 
 matter. You teuiember me, perhaps, M. 
 Desereaux ? I am Paul Farrar.' 
 
 ' My dear M. Paul 1 ' Desereaux grasps 
 his baud, ' welcome back to St. Gildas. 
 Ycm have oomf at a most opportune time. 
 We must set oti' lu search ot tbese lust ones 
 at once. They are safe aud well still, I hope, 
 in spite of the batieau'a having slipped her 
 moorings. Me^ amis, they are at (Jhapeau 
 Dieu I ' 
 
 A murmur of surprise, consternation, re* 
 lief, soes tbrough tbe group. ' Chapeau 
 Dicu ! ' ail exclaim . ' Tbey are found aud 
 on Chapeau Dieu ! ' 
 
 'The way I kuow is this,' M. Deserei^nx 
 goes on. ' Mademoiselle iSuowball told my 
 daughter Innuceute, at the convent, the 
 other day, that she and the boys proposed 
 going to (Jhapeau Dieu for raspberries, ^nd 
 invited her to accom()any them. Inno could 
 not, she was going on a visit out of town 
 witb me, and weut. We only returned to- 
 day ; that is why she did not hear aud speak 
 b'Miner. My idea is, they went up the 
 mountain, moored the boat, and while they 
 were in search of berries that the batteau 
 floated out on the ebb tide. They might re* 
 main there a month, and no one cbance upon 
 them. It will be a most difficult matter to 
 effect a landing at the foot of the mountain 
 after the recent storm. Still we must try.' 
 * We must most certainly,' says Mr. 
 Farrar, 'and without a moment's .delay. 
 Landing is always possible, even in the 
 heaviest surf at Sugar Scoop Beach t Men 1 
 who of you will come ? Quick ! ' 
 
 There are half a dczen voiunteeTs in a mo- 
 ment. The group disperses ; they hurry to 
 the shore, and in ten ntinutes a large boat is 
 launched aud flying thiough the white caps 
 to the rescue. 
 
 Ma'am Weesy, full of hope and fear, 
 hastens home across the river, to prepare 
 
 
64 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 food and comforts of all lorta for the little 
 oner Olo Tim rowa her over, and it is per- 
 hapa the Hrat time in all their many yeara of 
 interoourke that thuy do not quarrel by the 
 
 way. 
 
 M. Daseraux aooompaniea Paul P.»rrar in 
 his anxious quest. Tiia two men talk little; 
 the thought of the children absorbs them, 
 but Mr. K^rrar informs him that this ia one 
 of his flying visits to his old friend, prepara- 
 tory to a Btill moru prolonged absence abroad. 
 He is going yet further afield— to Kuaaia — 
 he has received an appointment to St. Petera- 
 burg, through the good otBcea of an infla- 
 eotial friend, and will depart for that far-off 
 land in a few weeka He ia tired of Fayal, 
 and hia monotonoua exiateuce there. 
 
 ' I am, as old Tim telle me, a rolling atone 
 that will never gather much moss,' he saya ; 
 ' but at leaat I am not auxioua to vegetate 
 forever in oue place.' 
 
 ' How fast it grows dark !' M. Deaereaux 
 excluima, suanniug the horiz m. * I wiah we 
 oould have dayligl't to effect a landing. At 
 leaat we will have a full rnnon.' 
 
 ' It ia rising now,' Farrar aays. 'Surely 
 we must be within a mile or ao of Sugar 
 Scoop.' 
 
 ' We may search until morning before 
 finding them, even if they are on the moun- 
 tain. It ia a wide circuit my friend, and al- 
 together impassible in places. And this re- 
 cent storm uuiit have used them up badly.' 
 ' Do you think,' Farrar saya, with a hard 
 breath, ' that there is really hope ? Six dayi 
 on that barren hill-aide without shelter or 
 
 food ' He breaks oflf. 
 
 < Without shelter, perhaps, cei tain ly not 
 without food. Eaipberr e . abouud— not very 
 satisfactory diet, but equal to sustaining life 
 for a few days. And no doubt they brought 
 a luncheon basket with them — all do who go 
 picnicing or berrying there. Hope for the 
 best, mon ami. It is true we may fiad them 
 in a pitiable plight, but also, I feel sure we 
 shall find them ahve.' 
 ' Heaven grant it. If we can but get them 
 
 home before the dear old doctor returns ' 
 
 He interrupts himself again, too anxious to 
 pat his thoughta into worda. The daylight 
 IB rapidly fading out, and a brilliant night ia 
 beginning, moonlit— starlit- — calm. The aea 
 runs high ; they can hear long before they 
 approach, the thunder of the aurf at the base 
 of Chateau Dieu ; but the men who bend to 
 the oars with right good will are men who 
 will effect a landing, if landing be within the 
 limit of possibility. Sugar Suoop, too, when 
 they reach it, seems fairly free of reefs and 
 rollers. They steer with care ; a great in- 
 washing wave carries them with it, up and 
 in on its crest. Two of them spring ou% up i 
 
 to their waist* in watm* and draw the big 
 boat hi^h and dry on the aanda, Tue land- 
 ing ia effected. 
 
 ' And no such troubleaome matter after all.' 
 remarka M. Deaereaux. 'Theae fellows 
 kn'>w their bnsineas — they are boatmen turn. 
 Now to find the children. Here is the path, 
 M. Farrar — you have forgotten, doabtleaa, 
 in all theae >eara. Follow inn.' 
 
 'Mike her faat and oitme on, my frienda,' 
 Mr. Farrar says. ' We will disperse indiffer- 
 ent directions and shout. If they are her* 
 and alive, we will find them surely in an 
 hour.' 
 
 * Ah, m'sieur. Chapeau Dieu is a big place,' 
 one says. * We will do our best.' 
 
 Tiiey secure the boat with a chain and file 
 up the steep path after their leaders. It is a 
 path some two miles Ions;, htraggling and 
 wiuding in serpentine fashion, to a green 
 plateau on the mountain side. 
 
 Here they pause for I r ^ath. Silence ia 
 about them, night is around theia — silence 
 and night broken only by ttie dull booming 
 of the surf. So still it is that the oedaia and 
 spruces atand up black and motionleaa, like 
 aeutint'ls guarding in grim array their rooky 
 fortress over the aea. And then M. Deae- 
 raux uplifta his voice ! 
 
 • Rene — Snowball — Jean — . My children 
 answer. We are here.' 
 
 ' But only the echo of hia own shout 
 ocmas back to him down the rooky slopes. 
 
 * Let us go farther up,' suggests Mr. 
 Farrar. ' They may be near the Bumrait; 
 They may be on the other aide.' 
 
 ' They will have landed M Sugar Scoop, 
 surely,' Dfsereaux responds ; ' there ia no 
 other safe landing. But, of course, they 
 went in search ot berries, and would not re- 
 main near the landing. The ra.spberry 
 thicket is over yonder, let ua try it. Some 
 of von, my men, take the other aide.' 
 
 So, they disperse, Farrar and Deaereaux 
 going toward tbe right, two men to the left, 
 two more mounting toward the summit. 
 
 It is indesoribably lonely, and even in the 
 palid moonlight, the wild sea sparkling in 
 the white shimmer, the unutterable hush and 
 solemoity of night overlying idl. 
 
 They reach the raspberry thicket and 
 pause. 
 
 • Shout with me,' says M. Deaereaux, ' it 
 it possible they be somewhat near.' 
 
 They shout, and shout, until they are 
 hoarse, but only the melancholy echo of 
 their shouts come back. 
 
 Far up they can hear the boatmen calling, 
 too, and calling, also, in vaio. A great fear 
 falls upon them. 
 
 ' Surely if they were in the mountain at 
 
L03T FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 65 
 
 ' the big 
 ?ne Und< 
 
 after all.' 
 ) fuUowa 
 nen turn, 
 the pAth, 
 loabtleM, 
 
 r friends,' 
 J in differ* 
 f are here 
 oly in an 
 
 big place,' 
 
 in and 6le 
 a. It in a 
 {ling and 
 3 a green 
 
 Rilenoe is 
 ;i — lilenoe 
 i booming 
 nedaiB and 
 nlesa, like 
 tieir rooky 
 
 M. Dese- 
 
 y children 
 
 3wn aboat 
 ' slopes. 
 i;est8 Mr. 
 sainmib; 
 
 it Scoop, 
 here is no 
 rse, they 
 ,d not re- 
 raspberry 
 it. Sume 
 f.' 
 
 >eaereaux 
 
 the left, 
 
 mit. 
 
 en in the 
 
 Tkling in 
 
 hush and 
 
 sket and 
 
 laux, ' it 
 
 they are 
 echo of 
 
 calling, 
 Ireat fear 
 
 luntain at 
 
 Mr. Far. 
 
 —faint, 
 cry — a 
 
 all— and alive — they would hear.' 
 rar says ; * let us try once more.' 
 
 ' Hush 1' uries M. Dusereaux, clutching 
 his arm. ' Listen I Di> you hear nothing ? 
 Listen I' 
 
 They bend their ears, and — yes 
 and far off, there eumes to them a 
 human cry. 
 
 ' Tiiat 18 no night-hawk, no sea-bird 1' 
 Desereaux exclvims ; it is a voice responding 
 to our shouts. Th.iuk God I Try it again.' 
 
 Once more they raise their voices and 
 shout with might and main. 
 
 ' Reue 1 Hiiowball ! Johnr y I Where are 
 you ? Call !• 
 
 And onco again, distinct thought faint, 
 the answering cry comes back. 
 
 • They are found 1 they are found 1' Dese- 
 reaux shouts exultinulv. ' This way Farrar , 
 this way, my men. We have them 1 Dieu 
 meroi I It is all right !' 
 
 He plunges in the direction of the feeble 
 cry ; it comes again, even as they go, and 
 guides them. 
 
 * All right, my children !' he calls cheerily 
 back, ' we are coming. Keep up a good 
 heart, poor little ones — we will be M'ith you 
 in a moment.' 
 
 Once again the weak cry answers back — 
 this time nearer yet — farther up. the moun- 
 tain aide. And before it has quite died away 
 — with a great, glad, terriBed shout the two 
 men are upon them, and have each seized 
 one in hii arms. 
 
 It is Johnny whom Mr. Farrar has caught; 
 it is Snowball who is in the arms of M Dese- 
 reaus. And the two men are holding them 
 close, hard, j )yfully, and— Johnny blushes 
 all the rest of his life to remember it, he is 
 being absolutely kissed by the bearded lips 
 of Paul Farrar. 
 
 • Mon Dieu I Mon Diisu I' cries the excit- 
 able Canadian, ' how am I rejoiced 1 Snow- 
 ball, ma petite— my angel— how is it with 
 you f 
 
 ' Put me down,' answ^ra a weak — oh, 
 such a poor, little, weak voice — but faintly 
 imperious still. ' Put me down, please, at 
 once. I must — hold — Rene.' 
 
 • Ah, Rene I— where is Rene ? What— 
 what — what ' 
 
 M. Desereaux pauses in consternation. 
 She has slipped out of his arms, and down 
 oa the ground again, and Urted back into her 
 lap the head of Rene. So she was sitting 
 when they found her, so she had been sitting 
 for hours, waiting for death — thus — Rene in 
 her lap. 
 
 Mr. Farrar lets go of Johnny, and is 
 
 kneeling before the prostrate boy. One 
 
 glance only he gives to Snowball, roclining 
 
 against the knoll, far too gone to support 
 
 5 
 
 herself, Rene's dark head lyingnn her knees. 
 She does not look at him ; she seems past 
 care, past hope, past help ; she sits, her 
 nmurnfnl eyes never leaving Rene's death- 
 like face. 
 
 ' What is it ?' Desereaux a^ks, ' not ' 
 
 ' No,' with a quick breath. ' I think not 
 — hope not — something terribly like it, 
 though. He has swooned through exhaus- 
 tion, I take it. He is vary far Kone. You 
 will carry him to the boat, my good felli^ws 
 — we will carry them all. None of these 
 chil'lren can walk. Snowball, my little one, 
 come to .ne — give us Rune. I will carry 
 you. Come.' 
 
 He gathers her in his arms— a light 
 weight — a feather weight now. She makes 
 no resistance ; she letw Rene go ; her head 
 drops helplessly on his shoulder ; her eyes 
 close. The men come after with the two 
 boys, and Johnny, even in this supreme 
 hour, iS conscious of the indignity of being 
 carried like a baby, and makes a feeble 
 effort toarsert himself, andgetonhis legs. Itis 
 of no u8e,however, he is unable to walk, and 
 
 gives up, after a few yards, with the very 
 worst possible grace. For Rene, he lies like 
 one dead. 
 
 They reach the b:at, get the young people 
 in, and proceed to administer weak branny 
 and water. The stimulant acts well with 
 Johnny, who sits up, after a swallow or two, 
 and begins to fully comprehend what is 
 taking place. They ':.-e being rescued — a 
 fact that only clearly dawns upon him now. 
 
 Snowball, too, revives somewhat, but she 
 will look at no one, care for nothing, save 
 Rene. 
 
 ' We will do,' she whispers ; ' give — 
 something — to him. Make Rene — open — hia 
 eyes.' 
 
 Eisier said than done. All that is possi* 
 ble to do, Mr. Farrar does, the stimulant is 
 placed between his locked teeth, his hands 
 and face are bathed and chafed, but the 
 rigid lips remain closed, the dark eyes re- 
 main shut, the hands and face icy cold — the 
 ghastly hue of death leaves not. 
 
 ' Can you talk Johnny T Don't try if it 
 hurts you. How is it that we And Rene so 
 much worse than you two ? ' asks Paul Far- 
 rar. 
 
 Johnny tries to tell. Rene starved him* 
 self to feed Snowball ; never slept at all 
 hardly, was thinly clad, and so, and so • 
 
 ' Suooumbed first — yes, I see. Brave 
 boy - good Rene 1 And he is not as strong 
 as you, Johnny — never will be. But don't 
 wear that frightened face, dear boy, we will 
 bring him round yet. Once in Ma'am 
 Weesy's kitchen, with warm blankets and 
 hot grog, we will have Rene back, pleaso 
 
 
.«6 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 Heaven, and able to talk to your father 
 when he returns to-morrow, and tell him all 
 about it. ' 
 
 • Johnny uttera a cry. 
 
 • Papa not home yet ? ' 
 
 ' Not home yst, old boy — for whioh let us 
 be duly thankful. Think what a story you 
 will have to tell him tomorrow after dinner 
 — after dinner. Johnny I You haven't dined 
 lately, have you ? What a story it will be 
 for the rest of your life— six days and nights 
 in Chapeau Dieu ! Why, yon will awake 
 and find yourself famous — tind greatness 
 thrust upon you ! Fur ISnowball, hero, she 
 will be the most pronounced heroine of 
 modern times.' 
 
 Bat Snowball cares not, heeds not, hears 
 not. Kene lies there, lifeless, and rescue or 
 death — what are either now ? 
 
 They talk no more ; Johnny, with the best 
 will in the world, finds the effort too pain- 
 ful, and he lies back and drops asleep. He 
 is only wakened to find himself in some 
 one's arms a second tima, and being carried 
 somewhere, wakes for a moment, then is 
 heavily off again. Presently he is lying on 
 Bomothiug Soft and warm, and some one is 
 crying over him and kiesing him — Ma'am 
 Wees}', he lUmly thinks, and even in this 
 state of coma, is sleepily conscious of feeling 
 cross aboat it, and wishing she wouldn't. 
 Then something strong and sweet, and de- 
 liuioua, is given him in a apoon, beef-tea, 
 maybe ; then sleep ouce more, sleep long, 
 blessed, deep, lite-giving, and it is high 
 noon of another day before he opens his eyes 
 again on this world of woe* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SyOTVBALL'S HERO. 
 
 High noon. A sunny, breezy, July day — 
 bop vines and scarlet runners fluttering out- 
 side the muslin curtains of the open window, 
 a sweet, salt, strong sea-wind coming in, and 
 it :« his. o'^n iron bed in which he lies, his 
 ■.,vu attic room in which he rests -it is Isle 
 Pedrix — it is home— it is Weesy whose 
 shrill tones he hears down stairs, and it is — 
 it is hia father, whose face bends above him, 
 jis he awakes. 
 , ' Papa !' he cries out. 
 
 Two thin arms uplift, a great sob ohokes 
 him, then there is a long, long, long 
 silence. 
 
 • My boy I my boy I my Johnny I' . >r. 
 Maodonald says, and then there is silence 
 again. 
 
 But Johnny recovers, and his flrst dis- 
 tinct thought is— that he is awfully hungry ! 
 
 His hollow, but always beautiful eyes, look 
 at his father, then, around the room. 
 
 « Papa.' 
 
 •My eon.' 
 
 ' I want something to eat.' 
 
 Dr. Macdonaid laughs, butatrifle huskily. 
 Instantly a china bowl and a sdver spoon are 
 in Johnny's hands ?' 
 
 ' What is this, papa ?' 
 
 ' Weesy's very best, very strongest broth. 
 Eat and fear not. A chicken is preparing, 
 Johnoy — such a tine, fat fellow — all for you I 
 You shall have a breast and a liver wing in 
 an hour. And a glass of such old port as 
 you never tasted !' 
 
 Johnny rolls his eyes up in one rapturous 
 glance, but pauses not for idle speech. There 
 is no time. All at once he pauses. 
 
 • Oh-h ! papa— Rene ?' 
 
 *l8 doing well, thanks to the good God 
 and the untiring care of my good Paul 
 Farrar. I have but this moment left his 
 bedside. I am now going back. You can 
 spare me, my dear ?' 
 
 'Oh, yes, papa,' briskly re-attacking the 
 bowl, ' I can spare you.' 
 
 Silence again for a space — the bowl very 
 near the bottom by thiu time, and Dr. Mac- 
 donaid, smiling down on his sun. Jobuuy 
 looks up. 
 
 ' And Snowball, papa V 
 
 • Very well — very well, I am happy to say. 
 My sweet little Sbowball t Johnny, Johnny ! 
 how can we ever be thankful enough ?' 
 
 No response from Johnny — the spoon and 
 the bottom of the bowl clinking by this 
 time. 
 
 • Rene will not be ill ?' 
 
 ■ We do not know — we hope not. He 
 speaks little — he is too far spent, but he 
 takes what we give him, and sleeps a great 
 deal. In that, and iu his youth, we hope. 
 If Heaven had not sent Paul Farrar, and my 
 very good friend, M. Desereaux, lust night, 
 Rene would never have seen morning.' 
 
 Dr. Macdonald's voice bieaks — he turns 
 and walks to the window. He is a tall, 
 stooping, gentle-looking old man, with 
 silvery hair, and beard, and face, and eyes 
 soft, gray, and wistful, exactly like Johnny's. 
 
 'Renu is a brick, papa,* cries Johnny, 
 warmly ; • an out and-out trump I You 
 would not think he had it in him. He 
 starved himself to look after Snowball ; he 
 told us stories, he read to us while he could 
 speak. Papa, may I get up ?' 
 
 ' If you feel able, my son : but I would 
 advise — ' 
 
 ' Uh I I feel all right— a giant refreshed. I 
 can't lie here, you know, like a mollycoddle. 
 
 and have Ma'am Weesy coming in and ' 
 
 ' Kissing me every miLin,e,' is liis disgusted 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 eyes, look 
 
 lU. 
 
 e huskily. 
 Bpoou are 
 
 est broth. 
 prepariDKi 
 11 for you 1 
 er wing in 
 d pure as 
 
 rapturous 
 ech. There 
 
 good God 
 
 good Paul 
 
 ut left his 
 
 You caa 
 
 acking the 
 
 bowl verv 
 1 Dr. Mac 
 a. Jobauy 
 
 ippy to say. 
 y, Johnny ! 
 
 Bpoon and 
 ing by this 
 
 not. He 
 
 tnt, but he 
 
 |eps a great 
 
 I, we hope. 
 
 •ar, and my 
 
 lust night, 
 
 liug.' 
 
 I — he turns 
 is a tall, 
 lan, with 
 le, and eyes 
 |e Johuny's. 
 )8 Johnny, 
 ip ! You 
 him. He 
 jowball ; he 
 ie he could 
 
 it I would 
 
 jefresbfd. 1 
 lolly coddle. 
 
 liu and ' 
 
 \b disgusted 
 
 thought, but he restrains it. ' Please, may 
 I get up, papa, and go downT I'll be as 
 careful of myself as if I were eggs.' 
 
 His father smiles. 
 
 ' Very well, my lad ; dress and go down. 
 Tike your time about it, Johnny. M. Paul 
 will come to you and amuse you.' 
 
 ' Papa, miy I— I should like to see Snow> 
 ball?' 
 
 • Presently, laddie, presently ; let her 
 sleep. She will be down, [ think, before 
 nighb.' 
 
 ' And Kane ' 
 
 ' Ah 1 Ueue — who knows ? he will not be 
 down. You may see him to-morrow. We 
 shall have to take great care of Keue. I am 
 going to him no v.' 
 
 Dr. Macdauald gr>es, and Johnny, very 
 gingerly, and with m.auy pauses, and a sur- 
 prising sense of weakness, proceeds to dress 
 himself aad travel down st^'^rs. 
 
 It is rather more like a ghost of Johnny, 
 than that briak yoaug geutlemau himself, 
 this wau lad, with the hollow eyes, and 
 pallid face. 
 
 Wdesy shrieks with delight at sight of 
 him, and makes a rush to clasp him precipi- 
 tately to her breast, but Johnny jamps be- 
 hind a table, with unexpected rapidity aud 
 alarm. 
 
 * No, you don't !' he says ; ' keep off ! I've 
 had enough of that. First, some brute with 
 whiskers, last niv(ht, aud then you, and now 
 again — but you shau't if I die for it. Let a 
 fellow alone, can't you, Weesy ?' 
 
 Aud Wdssy laughs, and cries, and yields. 
 The misfortunes of her children have 
 covered, for the time, their multitude of 
 siop. 
 
 Johnny sits by the breezy window, and 
 looks out over the little rocky garden, the 
 rough path beyond, the beach below, the 
 sea spreading away into the sky, and sighs 
 a sigh of iutiuitc content. 
 
 One might fancy he had. enough of the 
 sea, but not so. John Macdot^ald will never 
 have enough of the bright, watery world he 
 loves. If only the Bjule-de-neige — but we 
 must not think of her— there may be other 
 batteau in time. 
 
 He is ai; home— they are all safe ; that is 
 enough for one day. Aud presently comes 
 Ma'am Weesy, with the chicken and wine, 
 and a book of sea-stories, aud Johnny slowly 
 munches aud reads, and time passes, and at 
 Ust 
 
 He starts up with a weak shout, for there 
 is M. Paul supporting feinowball, looking 
 pallid and pathetic, but otherwise not so 
 much the worse for her week on the barren 
 furza of Chapeau Dieu. Her blue eyes look 
 like azure luojus, iu her white small face. 
 
 ' Oh, Johnny !' she solemnly says. 
 
 It ia an abjuration with whiuh Johnny is 
 tolerably familiar, emotion of any sort 
 evoking it some sixty times, on an average, 
 per day. He Uugha in response, and looks 
 shyly at her escort. 
 
 'Johnny, dear old chap,' that gentlemau' 
 says, and gives his hand a cordial grasp 
 ' dou't stop. Peg away at the chicken, an 
 give some to Saowball. It does uie good t • 
 see you.' 
 
 ' How does Reno get on. sir ?' 
 
 ' Ah, not so well ; Rene is hot and fevei 
 ish, aud a trifle light- headed. Fancy h' 
 (giving in, while tnis little, yellow-haired 
 lassie holds out so well.' 
 
 ' It was my fault,' says Snowball, in peni- 
 tent tears. * I know now, he starved him- 
 self for me. And he made me mind him. I 
 didn't want to —now, did I, Johnny ?' 
 
 ' Raue is a young gentleman who will al- 
 ways make peoplu mind him. Tuere is 
 uothiug to cry for. Petite — he is not going to 
 die, not a bit of it. Eit your chickeu and 
 dry your eyes — he may have rather a hard 
 b lut of it tor a week or so, but he will come 
 rouud like the hero he is.' 
 
 M. Paul Farrar proves a true prophet, only 
 the ' bout ' is rather harder than even he au< 
 ticipatus. Rene is quite delirious at times, 
 and talks wildly of (JUapeau Dieu, and the 
 storm, and the bower, and the berries, and 
 gathers more in his heated imagination of 
 that luscious fruit than he ever did iu r6ality„ 
 and sings bcraps of the eveuing hymn, and 
 quotes Shakespeare, and oonduuJ» himself tl» 
 t)gethi:r in anoisvandobjeutiouub e manntr. 
 Bat at no time is there much real danger, aud 
 he is so faithfully nursed, so devotedly at- 
 tended, that he must perforce turn the sharp 
 corner of the fever, and come around, all 
 cool and clear-headed, but deplorably weak 
 aud helpless, at the end of seven or eight 
 days. 
 
 * And you and Johnny look as well as if it 
 had never happened,' he says, languidly, with 
 a resentful sense nf injury upon him. ' Whab 
 a muff I must be.' 
 
 They do, indeed, look as well, as bright, 
 as fresh, as plump, as though these six days 
 on the desolate mountAin side were but a 
 dream. Johnny by this time is decided y 
 proud of his performance, though a tri fla 
 bored, too, by the questions witu which he\H 
 plied whenever he appears at St. Gild*s. 
 The B )ule-de>neige is safe at her moorinus, 
 none the worse for her playful little escapade; 
 Rene is all right, M. Paul is here, and 
 Johnny is happy. 
 
 All these fe/erish auu flightly days Snow- 
 ball has de\otjd herself to the patient with 
 
 "1 
 
68 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 I 
 
 a meekneBB, i. dooility, a BweetoeBB Almost 
 , alarming; Id its Beli-abuegation. 
 
 She reads to bim, bidijb to him, brings him 
 
 his beef- teas, aud chicken- broths, and toast, 
 . and water, and other naatiness, as Keue calls 
 
 it, and watcheu him eat and drink, and re- 
 
 • cover, with the devotedntiss of a mother I 
 Rene aubmits to be petted, and cuddled, and 
 made niuoh of for a few days— Bhe keeps 
 Weesy out, aud that is a great point, and 
 
 • he accepts her bociety, iinteus with languid 
 ^raciousness to her gossip, lets her fan off 
 the flies, and adorn his chamber with flowers, 
 and then — all in a moment — turns round, 
 and flatly declares he will have no more of 
 it 1 {Strength and his normal state are 
 returning, aud this phase of his supernatural 
 goodness and call, oomes as might be expect- 
 e<', to a sudden and violent «nd. He isn't 
 a bjiby — he won't swallow gruel and disgust- 
 ing beef-tea ; he wou^t be tucked in o' 
 nights and have Snowball popping in and 
 out of hiB T'om like a Jack-iu-a-box when« 
 ever she pleu^ea ! Let her go with Johnny, 
 as she uaed to, she would rather, he knows— 
 she needn't victimize herself because he pick- 
 ed a few raspberries for her there on the 
 
 . mountain ! And she isa't much of a com- 
 panion anyway — he would far and away 
 rather talk to M. Paul 1 Wnich is ungrate- 
 ful to say the least, after the superhuman 
 eflbrtB she has been making to auiuse him 
 daring tho p&st seven days. And Snowball, 
 deeply hurt, but relieved all the same, does 
 give it up, doea resume the society of .John- 
 
 .ny, and u prepared the instant Rene is 
 BbroDg enough for battle, to resujie war to 
 the knife as of yore. 
 M. Paul IS a prime favourite in the house- 
 
 . hold. Dr. Macdonald beams in his presence 
 — he is t'.ie idol of Ma'am Weesy 's heart ; 
 the boys look upon him with eyes of envy 
 
 ..and admiration — a man who has been every- 
 where, and seen everything, and place, and 
 people. 
 
 Snowball falls in love with him, of course 
 — that goes without saying— and is never 
 
 ' out of his presence a moment, when she can 
 le in it. Even old Tim succumbs to the spell 
 of the charmer, yields to the fascination of 
 M. Paul's glauce, and laugh, and voice, and 
 old Tim's battered heart is not over suscep- 
 tible. He has never, within mortal ken, 
 
 'been known to invite a man into his domicile 
 to partake of a dhrop of dhrink before. 
 
 They sit together, one sleepy August after- 
 noon, M. Paul and Snowball, down on the 
 sands, he reclining his long length upon the 
 rank reeds, and waim waving eea-side grass- 
 es, his straw hat pulled h^lf over his eyes. 
 A golden haze re.-ts on the bay, sails come 
 and go through it as through a glory— Ashing 
 
 boats take on a nimbus around their brown 
 rails. There is the faintest breeze — little 
 wavelets lap upon the white sand, the beau- 
 tiful- sea looks aB though it could never be 
 cruel. 
 
 By chance they are alone. Johnny has 
 juBt left them. Old Tim is crooning to him- 
 self up in the light-house near, as be polishes 
 hi) lamps. It is full three weeks siuce the 
 rescue. Rene is hiiiisoif again, and happy 
 among hiB beloved books. Snowball sits on 
 a rocky seat, her sailor hat well on the back 
 of her head as usual, her face frankly \nd 
 feariesly exposed to sea-side sun aud vmd. 
 Vanity is not one of this young person'i 
 many failings ; freckles, and blisters, and 
 bun-bnrn are matters of pi-ofoundest uncon- 
 cern, at this period of her career. He has 
 been telling her of some of bis travels and 
 adAenturea iu far-ofl' lands, thrilling enough 
 and narrow enough some of them. No ro- 
 mance ever written, it seems to this small 
 t>irl, ka she listens, could bu half so wonder- 
 ful, no hero half so heroic. 
 
 But gradually ei'eace has fallen, and M. 
 Paul, from uuder his wide straw hat, looka 
 with dark, dreaming eyes out over that yel« 
 low light on the sea. 
 
 Snowball steals a glance at him. Of what 
 is he thinking, she wonders. How very 
 handsome he is 1 How brown, how strong, 
 how big, how manly ! Of what, of whom is 
 he thinking, as hd lies here, with that grave, 
 steady glauce ? Aud whut is he to her — he 
 who brought her here, all those years ago 7 
 W^hy, in all this romance of wandering and 
 Btrauge adventures, has there nevdr been a 
 heroine T Or has there been one, and he will 
 not tell the story to a little girl of twelve ? 
 There is something she longs to ask him — 
 has often longed of late, but she is shy of 
 him ; somehow, in spite of his gentleness, he 
 is formidable in her eyes. She makes one or 
 two efforts — now is the time or ntver 1 — 
 stops, bluBheB, and tries again. 
 
 • M. Paul !• 
 
 ' Petite V 
 
 He wakes from his dream with a start, 
 and then smiles slowly to see the rosy tide 
 ritcunting to her eyebrows. 
 
 ' I — 1 want to ask you something. You 
 wr.U not mind ?' 
 
 ' Mind ?' still smiling amusedly. ' How? 
 I don't understand.' 
 
 ' You will not be mad ?' 
 
 ' Mad T' he laughs. ' Offended with yon. 
 Petite ? No ; that could not be.' 
 
 ' M. Paul' — a pause. ' You — you brought 
 me here.' 
 
 ' Nine — more than nine, years ago. Ma 
 foi I how time flies 1 Yes.' 
 
 Another pause. Snowball pulls up the 
 
 rank, fl 
 the win 
 The dai 
 mtimid 
 
 ;i wi 
 
 thing al 
 
 I think 
 
 think a 
 
 makes i 
 
 Her^ 
 
 •Unh 
 
 for that 
 
 •I air 
 
 know it 
 
 at schoo 
 
 about it, 
 
 have no 
 
 own, or 
 
 too bad. 
 
 still it if 
 
 am, \.. 
 
 Silenc 
 
 The c 
 
 which al 
 
 her and j 
 
 glory of 
 
 face look 
 
 all, thou 
 
 She as 
 
 then she 
 
 she breal 
 
 'Dr. ]V 
 
 would if 
 
 me, but- 
 
 you can i 
 
 ' Snow 
 
 I tell you 
 
 ' Have 
 
 What is < 
 
 — as if th 
 
 ashamed • 
 
 never wri 
 
 me. No 
 
 thing abo4 
 
 A sob, 1 
 
 effort. S 
 
 will not d 
 
 ' Dear < 
 
 that.' 
 
 ' Yes-l 
 there— wl 
 me off aa( 
 you all I f 
 but won't 
 I have no 
 you, and 
 another su 
 See youagi 
 Ht) react 
 holds it in 
 surprised. 
 60 much t 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 €» 
 
 leir brown 
 
 »ze — little 
 
 the beau- 
 
 L never be 
 
 ohnny has 
 Dg to him- 
 le polishes 
 
 biuce the 
 kod happy 
 }aU sits un 
 1 the back 
 'ankly And 
 and vi.ud. 
 ig person*! 
 iSters, and 
 lest unoon- 
 r. He has 
 travels and 
 ng enough 
 Ti. No ro- 
 
 this sinall 
 so wonder- 
 
 en, and M. 
 r hat, looks 
 er that yel- 
 
 1. Of what 
 How very 
 aow strong, 
 of whom 18 
 that grave, 
 to her — he 
 years ago T 
 idering and 
 ever been a 
 and he will 
 of twelve ? 
 ask him— 
 I is shy of 
 itlenesB, he 
 akes one or 
 ntver 1 — 
 
 th a start, 
 le rosy tide 
 
 nng. You 
 
 'How? 
 
 with you, 
 3U brought 
 ago. Ma 
 ills up the 
 
 rank, flame coloured seige flowers waving in 
 the wind, and tiuds going on hard work. 
 The dark, amused eyes smile up at her, and 
 intimidate her. 
 
 ' I wish — I wish you would tell me some- 
 thing about myaelf. I don't know anything. 
 I think sometimes it is not fair to me. I 
 think a threat deal, M. Paul, about it, and it 
 makes me unhappy.' 
 
 Her voiue falters ; she stops. 
 
 * Unhappy, Snowball ? Ah ! I am sorry 
 for that.' 
 
 ' I am not like other girls — I feel it — they 
 know it. Thev ank me questions over there 
 at school that I can't answer. They whisper 
 about it, and tell all the new girls — that I 
 have no father or mother, or home of uiy 
 own, or reUtiouB at all. And I think it is 
 ton bad. Every one is kind enough, but 
 still it in hard. And I want to know who I 
 am. A.. Paul, pleasti.' 
 
 Silence. 
 
 The steady glance of M. Paul, oat of 
 which all amuaemeut had died, turns from 
 her and goes back once more to that amber 
 glory of sea and sky. The grave, bronzed 
 face looks as it looked before she spoke at 
 all, thou)j;htful, and a little sad. 
 
 She asked a harder question, it may be, 
 then she knows. Ha is silent so long that 
 flhe breaks nut again herself : 
 
 ' Dr. Maodonald can tell me nothing — he 
 would if he could. Eve;ybody is good to 
 me, but — oh, M. Paul, tell lae — t^ me if 
 you can V 
 
 ' Snowball, my dear little one, what shall 
 I tell you f 
 
 ' Have I a name — a father — a mother ? 
 What is the reason I am hidden away here 
 — as if the people who pay for me were 
 ashamed of me ? What have I done ? They 
 never write, they never send or come to see 
 me. Xo one seems to know or care any" 
 thing about me in all the whole world I' 
 
 A sob, but Suowf ball checks it by a great 
 eiff'trt. She has thoa^ht this all out, and 
 will not distreus M. Paul by crying. 
 
 ' Dear child, we all love you — you know 
 (bat.' 
 
 * Yes— here. You are all good. But 
 there— who are they ? Why do they oast 
 me off and disown me ? Ob, I cannot tell 
 you all I feel, or ask questions as I ouuht. 
 but won't you tell me al the same, please ? 
 I have no one in all the world to ask buc 
 you, and you are going — going^~away,' 
 another sudden break, ' and— rl may never 
 see you again.' 
 
 H«) reaches up and takes her hand, and 
 holds it in hin large, warm clasp. He looks 
 surprised. Who would have dreamed of 
 60 much thought aad feeling under tb«t 
 
 He looks 
 
 ' I hardly 
 of your 
 
 child-like, gay, girl nature ? 
 grieved, puzzled, at a loss. 
 
 ' Little one,' he says, slowly, 
 know how to answer. Some 
 questions cannot be answered — now — soma 
 — what is it you want to know most ?' 
 
 * Tell me my name. Snowball is no name. 
 Mere Maddelena will not call me by it ; she 
 says it is no name for a Christian child.' 
 
 ' It is no saint's name, certainly,' he 
 says, smiling. * 1 should fancy it would 
 shock the good mother. She should give 
 you another.' 
 
 ' She has ; but what was I called before I 
 came here ?' 
 
 ' Snowball — uothing but Snowball, that I 
 ever heard. And you looked it, such a little, 
 white, flaxen-haired girlie ! It was the 
 name your mother called you by ' 
 
 ' Mv mother — oh !' with a qtiick breath. 
 * M Paul, tell m« of my mother.' 
 
 He knits his brow abruptly, drops her 
 hand, and stares straight before him, veiy 
 hard, into space. 
 
 ' Your mother ? ' a cold inflection of which 
 he is quite unconnious in his voice, ' what is 
 there to tell ? When I saw her, just before 
 I brought you here, she was on her death- 
 bed. She met with an accident, very slow- 
 Iv ; ' she did not speak to me or any one. 
 You and she were alone,' 
 
 An older inquisitor than little Mile. Snow 
 ball would have seen, it may be, something 
 suspicious^-a great deal held back, in this 
 slow and careful selection of words But 
 Snowball takes the statement at the face of 
 it. 
 
 < Then it was not my mother^ who asked 
 you to take care of me ? ' 
 
 * It was not. 
 
 * M. Paul— what was she like ? ' 
 
 ' Like yoii— very like you in all but ex- 
 pression. Ey» s, hair, features, smile— almost 
 the very same. ' 
 
 A pause. Snowball sits with fast-looked 
 haikda, an intense look upon her small pale 
 faoe. M. Paul lies back in hia former re. 
 cuinbent attitude, his hat again shading his 
 eyes, and makes his responses in a rath«rre- 
 luotnnt sounding voice. 
 
 ' You do not want to tell,' she cries out 
 after a little, in a faint tone. <You would iioto 
 mitke me ask po many quebtious if you A\>\ 
 But I must know more, Some rne \>'A.y» 
 fiir me here ] Dr. Macdnnald gets mouey 
 evory six mouths, Who is that ? ' 
 
 * Her nums is Maflame Valentin ^' 
 
 * Who is Madame Valentine ? ' VV.<at an 
 I to her ? ' 
 
 * Madam Valentine is an elder'iy lady, and 
 very rich — rich. r,my dear Snow' oall, 'ban you 
 or I will eY«i' bti our whole liv es long. Uer 
 
 '^ 
 
70 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 (on married your mother — her only bob. She 
 is very proud as well as rich, antl it was a 
 low marriage. Do you know what a low 
 marriage is, my little one ? She cant him oflF 
 — this proud lady. He was drowned, it ap- 
 pears, a few years afttr in a storm, about the 
 time you were boru I should think . That is 
 the history in briif of Madam Valentiue.' 
 
 'Then my father is dead, too — drowned. 
 My father drowned in a storm — my mother 
 killed by an accident 1 I M. PauL And 
 my grandmother casts me off — a little thini; 
 like that 1 She is a cruel, cruel woman, M. 
 Paul.' 
 
 No reply. 
 
 • Where does she live ? ' resentfully, ' this 
 proud, hard Madam Valentine ? ' 
 
 ' Everywhere ; nowhere m particular. She 
 is nearly always travelling about. She is of 
 a restless temperament it would seem.' 
 
 ' Does she wander about alone ? ' 
 
 ' No,' smiline at the scornful tone, ' she is 
 in keeping. Her nephew — also her heir — 
 one Mr. Vane Valentine accompanies her. 
 It was from him I received you .' 
 
 And then, still smiling at the angry,mysti- 
 fied face, he tells her easily enough, this 
 part. How, knowing Vane Valentine and 
 seeing him at a loas how to dispose of her, he 
 had volunteered to bring her here, knowitig 
 Madam Macdonald would rejoice in her com- 
 inn, and Mr. Valentine at once closed with 
 the offtir. 
 
 • I knew you would grow up liappv and 
 healthful here, Petite, loved by all and lov- 
 iog all. And I was not mistaken, was 1 ? 
 You are happy in itpite of this ? ' 
 
 'Happy?' she echoes. 'Oh! yes, M. 
 Paul, 1 am happy— happy as the day is long. 
 Only sometimes— but 1 should never be 
 happy with people like that— I should just 
 hate them. I do now. I love everybody 
 here ' 
 
 •Except Rene?' laughing. 'You give 
 Johnny his own share and Rene's too— eh, 
 Ptitite ? Although when we found you that 
 night on Chapeau Diet' it was Kene you 
 were holding iu your ar ns, not Johnny.' 
 
 • Weil,' Snowball ad nits, • I do liWe John- 
 ny best — no one c-iuld help that. It is not 
 my fanlt if Rune is so stiff and contrary, and 
 ■0 fond of bis own way ' 
 
 • By no means,' still laughing. ' I will say 
 for you. Snowball, you do your duty by Rene, 
 and never miss a chance of snubbinK hi i — 
 for his good of course — always for hin g( o '. 
 It is very bad, very bad indeed, for big fel- 
 lows nearly beveuteen to have their own way 
 — and you never spoil Rene iu that manner 
 if you can help it. Well, Petite, is this all ? 
 Shall we drop this biographical sketch here, 
 and forever ? It i» not one I care to talk 
 
 about, for reasons of my own. You are safe 
 and happy, you love all here, and are belov* 
 ed. What more can you want ? All 
 your life long, Mademoi»elle Snowball, you 
 will find it easy enough to win love — more 
 than you mav well know what to do M'ith, 
 one day. What more, I repeat, do you 
 want ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing more. Thank yon, M. Paul, 
 for telling me this much.' 
 
 ' And you are not sorry that nine }'6ars 
 ago I brought you hero ? Rene is comiug 
 with a big book under his arm, to call us to 
 supper, I fancy. Answer before we go.' 
 
 He takes her hand a^ain ; his dark, 
 kindly, but keen e\es search her face, her 
 pretty blonde bright face — so like that other 
 fair face laid under the turf in the distant 
 New England town. 
 
 ' Sorry ! M. Paul, I owe all the happiness 
 of my life to you 1 I thank you with my 
 whole heart ! ' 
 
 iShe stoops, with a nuick, child-like grace, 
 and kisdes the big, biown hand that clasps 
 her own. This is the tablrac that meets the 
 gaze of Rene, and petrities the gazer. 
 
 ' Sacr-r re bleu 1 ' he exclaims. ' Do these 
 eyes deceive me ? Snowball, trained in the 
 way she should go (but doesn't) by Mere 
 Maddelena, making Jove to M. Paul, here 
 all unprotected and alone I did come to 
 
 ca 1 you to supper, but ' 
 
 ' But me no huts ! ' commands M. Paul, 
 laughingly, springing to his legn ; ' and 
 cease tiiese jealous and censorious remarks. 
 Uas Weesy anything particularly good, do 
 you know, Rene ? ' 
 
 * Any Greek or Latin roots f i ijassee, 
 Rene?' impatiently puts in Snowball. 
 
 Side by side they turo their backs upon 
 the amber glitter of sea an<l sky, and ascend 
 to the cottag'' and though M. Paul talks as 
 mttci> as usual, Rene wonders #hat has come 
 to Icviuacious Snowball, so silent, so 
 thoughi^ful. so serious as she. For somehow, 
 now that the long>desired explanation is 
 over, she feels dissatialied still— things are 
 not much clearer than before, and M. Paul 
 has reasons of his own fur never talking 
 of this any more. He has said so. It is not 
 until long after that she knows, and then 
 the knowledge is irauuht with keenest pain 
 of these secret reasons of M. Puul Farrar. 
 
 CHAPri-R VL 
 
 VILLA DKS ANGES. 
 
 The summer days come, and the summer 
 days go ; twenty more are counted off, and 
 it IS the end of August, the close of the long 
 vaoation- a never-to-beforgotten time, tiince 
 
I are safe 
 re belov- 
 ? All 
 jail, you 
 e — more 
 io M'ith, 
 do you 
 
 ^. Paul, 
 
 ae years 
 ) comiug 
 :all us to 
 B go.' 
 is dark, 
 face, her 
 bat other 
 ) distant 
 
 lappinefs 
 with my 
 
 ke grace, 
 lat clasps 
 neets the 
 r. 
 
 Do these 
 }d in the 
 by Mere 
 'aul, here 
 I come to 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 TK? 
 
 M 
 
 Paul, 
 ; * and 
 
 rr marks, 
 ^uod, do 
 
 [I uassee, 
 ill. 
 
 cks upon 
 id ascend 
 
 talks as 
 
 has come 
 lent, so 
 
 (unehow, 
 nation is 
 Lhiiigs are 
 M. Paul 
 talking 
 It is not 
 and then 
 
 nest pain 
 
 'arrar. 
 
 summer 
 
 off, and 
 
 the long 
 
 ime, biuoe 
 
 M. Paul has passed it here. But with the 
 going of tliis last week M. Paul goes too, 
 and a strange blank is left in the doctor's 
 home, and in these three youthful hearts. 
 
 ' Yuu and I, al loast, will meet again 
 before lon^,' he says to Rene at parting ; 
 'remember when the time oumes to call upon 
 noe— if I live I will not fail you.' 
 
 Fur iu the long and cootideutial houis of 
 his convalescence llene, the reticea^:. has 
 opened his whole heart to this sympathetic 
 M. Paul, and told him of hopes, and dreams, 
 and lougiugs, and ambitions buried deep in 
 his own heart up to this hour. He is a 
 modest la'), and sliy, and glances with dark, 
 wistful eyes at the silent friend who sits be- 
 side him. 
 
 ' Does it all sound very foolish and im- 
 possible to you, M. Paul ? ' he asks. ' Some- 
 lives it does to me. Sometimes I desuair, 
 buried here in this out-of-the-world place. 
 And my father, you know, sir, wishes me to 
 be a doctor. But that can never be, I am 
 sure of it.' 
 
 ' Still you might study medicine, M. 
 Farrar respoads, tboughtt'uUy ; ' it will 
 please your father, and a knowledge of ana- 
 tomy is absolutely essential, you know, if 
 your aspirations are ever carried out. And 
 they will be — you have it in you, Kene, lad. 
 Foolish and impossible ! Not at all ; I 
 always knew you had a spark of the divine 
 tire of geoius somewhere behind those lovely 
 black brows of yours, only I did not know 
 the particular direction io which it was 
 bent. Wait, all things are possible to him 
 who knows how to wait. Please your father 
 for the present ; keep your own counsel ; 
 I will send you books, and in every possible 
 wav in which I can further your condition, 
 it shall be my great pleasure to do it. 
 Ahmad, you st'.e, I may have opportunities. 
 When the time comes, you shall go to Italy, 
 to Home, the city of dead and living art. I 
 am proud of your ooutidence. I shall not 
 fail you, believe me.' 
 
 Rjue's deep eyes glow, he is not expansive 
 by nature, but ne grasps the fr ndly hand 
 held out to him in both hands, and his 
 eloquent face speaks for him. His whole 
 heart ovortlows with gratitude. Ah ! this is 
 friendRhip ! Indet^d the whole household, 
 with Weesy and Tim, are in despair at this 
 desertion. Snowball weeps her blue eyes 
 all red and swollen, for days before, and 
 will not be comforted. 
 
 * If I see Mr. Vane '''^alentine before I 
 leave the country,' he says to her, a mis- 
 chievous gleam in his eyes, ' your benefac- 
 tor, you know, what ohall I say to him from 
 you?' 
 
 ' Say I hate him 1' answers Mistress Snow< 
 
 ball, viciously. ' I aiways h<»toil beutfao- 
 tors I I owe it to you, not to him, or her 
 as long as I live.' 
 
 The day comes, and Paul Farrar goes. 
 Old Tim rows him over to St. Gildas, to 
 take train from theu'te '<o the world with- 
 out. Dr. Macdonald A'jA Ufue aocomp'^ny 
 him, in this firttt stake of bin lun^ journey ; 
 Johnny, and Snowball, and Weagy stand on 
 the island beach, and wave good-by . As the 
 boat touches the St. (irddas shore he looks 
 back. Johnny and Weesy have none, but 
 Snowball still stands where they left her, a 
 slight, fluttering figure, her br'i;ht hair 
 blowing, gazing ufcer through tear dimmed 
 eyes still. 
 
 But life goes on, though dear ones depart. 
 September comes, cool and breezy ; her con- 
 vent sohool re opens, and Snowball's free- 
 dom is at an end. Nti more long sails in 
 the batteau, no more dangerous excursions 
 to Chapeau Dien, no more long rainy days of 
 roinance reading up in her attic chamber. 
 The dull routine of lessonn recommences, 
 gr, :,.mar and history, and Noel et Chapsel 
 and hue needle-work, take the p'ace of out- 
 door life, and the seventy-tive boarders of 
 Villa des Anges are her daily companions 
 instead of the boys. Old Tim rows her 
 over every morning, and back every after- 
 noon. Life, as Johnny pathetically puts it, 
 is no longer ' all beer and skittles ;' even he 
 has to throw aside his beloved Captain 
 Marryatt, and recommence mathematics and 
 Latin, and Rene — but Rene dreams his ovn 
 drenms in these days with a steady aim and 
 purpose in view, absorbs himself iu his 
 studies, writes long letters to M. Paul, and 
 is mute to all the world beside. 
 
 Villa des Anges is a stately establishment, 
 set in spacious grounds, on a breezy height 
 overlooking town and bay. It is a board- 
 ing school, and has within its vestal walls 
 youthful angels from nearly every quarter 
 of the globe. There are a dozen or inure day- 
 pupils, besides the pen^tiounariee — among 
 these latter SnowbaL Tiillon, although us a 
 matter of fact there is no such name down 
 on the school-roll. There is a Dolores 
 Macdonald, and— Dolores of all names to 
 Mere Maddelena, and her good sisters, 
 Snowball is. This is bow : 
 
 When the child first came to Isle Perdrix 
 at three and a half, the doctor's wite took 
 her training and educatic n under her ex- 
 clusive charge. For five years her two boys 
 were hardly more to her than this little stray 
 waif, dropped, as it seemed, from the Bk:es. 
 Then oaine a sad and sudden death. The 
 good old dootor was almost iu despair. Tne 
 aight of the little girl in her black dress in* 
 teusitied his gritf and remembrance so pain* 
 
 •"1 
 
72 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 fully that Ma'am Weesy prevailed upon him 
 to Bend her over for a year or two to Villa 
 dea AD^ea. So, at nine years old, Snowball 
 went, rebelliously and loudly proteatins;, a 
 pensionoaire to the convent, full of direat 
 anguish and wrath, at being thus forcibly 
 wrenched from the society of her beloved 
 Johnny. Aa a lamb to the shearert*, she is 
 led into the [larlour by grim old Weesy, and 
 there, in tears and trembling, awaits the 
 coming of the dread Jjady Abbeas. But when 
 there entered a tall ana stately lady, whose 
 pale, serene face the snowy coif becomi.s, 
 with sweet, smiling eyes, and sweeter broken 
 English, a great calm falls on the little dam- 
 sel's perturbed spirit. She lays her flaxen 
 head on Mere Maddelena's black serge 
 shoulder, with a sigh of vast relief, and sub- 
 mits to be kissed on both tear- wet cheeks, 
 and to be asked her name. 
 
 ' Snowball Trillon, madame.' 
 
 Now M re Maddelena, having baptismals 
 of every sort and size in her villa, should not 
 have been surprisef'. at the odd sound of any 
 cognomen, but she decidedly is, shocked 
 even, at this. She gives a little cry of dis- 
 may, essays to repeat the name, and lamen- 
 tably fails. 
 
 'Bat dar. is not a nem,' shesays. 'What you 
 ^' call it in French— Bcule-de-neige ? You hear, 
 
 S(£ua Ignatia ? Dat is no nem. Was yuu 
 . christen dat, my chile V 
 
 Snowball does not know — does not remem- 
 ber ever being christened. Has been called 
 ' Snowball, nothing but Snowball, all her 
 
 life. 
 
 Mere Maddelena listens in ever-growing 
 dismay. Does not know if she has ever been 
 christened. Has no father or mother ? This 
 must be spen to before she is admitted as 
 pupil into Villa des Anges. Mere Maddelena 
 does not want children of doubtful antece- 
 dents. Dr. Macdonald must be questioned 
 about this. 
 
 * It is imposB dat chile shall keep de so 
 foolish nem,' she says, with some indignation, 
 to the attendant Sister. • I am shem of it.' 
 
 ' I ;.ink it is zi moze fonny nem I ever 
 hear,' replies, smding Sr. Ignatia ; * it mek 
 Fere Louis ye so great laugh last time he 
 come. We must baptize her anozzer — de 
 nem of som4 saint.' 
 
 Snowball is admitted on sufferance ; Mere 
 Maddelena calls her ' dat chile,' and utterly 
 igaore the obnoxious 'Snowball.' Tlie girls 
 adopt it with glee, and ' Snowball ' and 
 * Boul-de neige ' are shouted over the play- 
 ground amid noisy laughter until its poor 
 little owner is as much ' shem o' it ' as the 
 good mother herself. But the novelty wears 
 off— iinowbaU sounds no longer oddly, and 
 
 the little girl becomes a prime favourite with 
 the pensionnaires. 
 
 Dr. Macdonald is sent for, and comes, and 
 appears before the tribun&l of Mere Madde- 
 lena, who there and then demaode an un- 
 varnished history of her new boarder. The 
 child is an orphan, her friends are wealthy 
 and most respectable, but do not wish to 
 have charge of her personally. 
 
 Suowball Trillon — which does not sound 
 like a real name, he admits — is the only one 
 he knows her by. Valentine is the name of 
 ner friends, he believes. As to whether she 
 has has ever been baptized or not — Dr. Mac- 
 donald shrugs his shoulders. What will the 
 good mother ? He knows nothing. 
 
 The good mother, with calm but inflpxible 
 resolution,., wills that he finds out. Ocher- 
 wisa Snowball TJl'.t u cannot be admitted as 
 a pensionnaire into exolna vu Villa des Anges. 
 And if it is discovered thht^he ia unbiptized, 
 the omiaaiou must be at ouce se\^ right — if she 
 is to remain here. It is the rale. Mean- 
 while she can remain, and run about the 
 play-ground with the rest. 
 
 Dr. Macdonald writes to M. Paul f arrar, 
 at Fayal. M. Paul Farrar writes to Mr. 
 Vaoe Valentine, spending the winter in Flori- 
 da with bis aunt. Mr. Vane Valentine reads 
 that letter, twirls it into a cigar-liuht, ig- 
 nites his weed, and sets bis heel on its ashes. 
 He scrawls a line in reply. He knows 
 nothing about it, and cares less. They may 
 call her what they please, or not call her at 
 all, if they prefer it. 
 
 It is about as roughly insolent aa a scrawl 
 can be ; he hates the very thought of the 
 trapeze woman's child. He does not lay the 
 matter before Madam Valentine, as M. Far- 
 rar htM suggested — the sooner Madam Valen- 
 tine obliterates from her memory the circus 
 brat the better. 
 
 She seems to be doing so, she never asks 
 any questions — he is not likely to revive her 
 memory. In due course th's reply reaches 
 Fayal — M. Farrar forwards it in turn to Drj 
 Macdonald. If poor little Suowball were a 
 princess incognito, there nould hardly be 
 more roundabout correspondence concerning 
 her. The upshot is. Mere Maddelena is at 
 liberty to do as she pleases, and christen her 
 what she likes, and as soon as she sees flt. 
 
 Mere Maddelena, full of vigour and zaal, 
 sets to work at once. Next w< ek ia the feast 
 of Our Lady of Dolores — could anything fall 
 out more opoortunely ? — the child shall be 
 baptiezed Marie Dolores. Aud so it is. 
 The convent chunel. sparkling with wax- 
 lights, fragrant with flowers, is thrown open ; 
 the ceremony has been announced, and quite 
 a congi-egation of the ladies of St. Gildas, all 
 the pupils, and the sisters attend. The pea* 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 » 
 
 nrite with 
 
 inmea, and 
 re Madde- 
 adR an un- 
 der. The 
 'e wealthy 
 )t Mish to 
 
 not sound 
 e only one 
 le name of 
 hether ahe 
 -Dr. Mao- 
 ac will the 
 
 i ioflpxible 
 t. Ocher- 
 imitted as 
 lies Angea. 
 iibjiptized, 
 (ht — if ahe 
 e. Mean- 
 about the 
 
 lul farrar, 
 >«8 to Mr. 
 er in Flori- 
 itine reads 
 ,r-liuht, ig- 
 1 its aahea. 
 He knows 
 They may 
 call her at 
 
 a scrawl 
 
 i{ht of the 
 
 lot lay the 
 
 M M. Far- 
 
 in Valen- 
 
 the circus 
 
 never aeks 
 
 revive her 
 
 y reaches 
 
 rn to Dri 
 
 all were a 
 
 hardly be 
 
 soncerning 
 
 lena is at 
 
 risten her 
 
 eea fit. 
 
 and zeal, 
 
 the feaat 
 
 thing fall 
 
 d shall be 
 
 so it is. 
 
 ith wax- 
 
 iwn o|jeu ; 
 
 and quite 
 
 lildaa. all 
 
 The pen- 
 
 sionnaires in their white dresses, the nana in 
 their black serge and great ooifa, makes a very 
 effective picture. Pnre Louis is thbre to 
 admit this stray lambkin into the fold. 
 There is organ music, and chants, and 
 littanies. And liown at the baptismal font, 
 in white Swiss, and a long tulle vail, and 
 snowy wreath, like a 'airy bride, wonder- 
 fully pretty, and exceedingly full of her own 
 importance, stands Saowball, with her spon- 
 sors. Her boys are there in a corner ; she 
 glances at them complacvntly, and nearly 
 has her grai'ity upset by an affdctionate and 
 sympathetic wink from Johnny. And then 
 and there she becomes Marie Dolores for nil 
 time. 
 
 If Mere Maddelena had striven of set pur- 
 pose, ahe could hardly have selected a seem- 
 ingly more inappropriate name. Felicia, 
 Letia, L'lciHa — anything meaning happiness, 
 joy, light, would have seemed in keeping ; 
 but Dolores— sorrowful— for the radtant- 
 lookmg little one ! It strikes eyen the spec- 
 tators — even Pere Louis. 
 
 ' Your new name does not seem to fit. 
 Mademoiselle Dolore«,' he aays, pulling ner 
 by one of her long curls. ' Let us hope it 
 never may. It seems a pity notre mere can- 
 not reconcile herself to the other one — it 
 suits you, I think.' 
 
 , Bat the girls can tolerate'it, and decline to 
 change it , thus whil"; she is Doleres from 
 thenceforth to the aisters, she remains Snow- 
 ball to the boarders. 
 
 And the months slip by, and the seasons 
 come and go, and the years are counted otT 
 on the long bead roll of Old Time, and her 
 twelfth birthday is a thing of the past. M. 
 Paul has come and gone, and school, and 
 Crerman exercises, and piano practice, rnd 
 drawing lessons, and Italian singing, all re- 
 commence, and the sharp edge cf parting has 
 worn o£f somehow before she knowb it. She 
 is busy and happy — a bright, joyous, fun- 
 loving, mischief-making, truthful, loving, 
 clever, and fairly studious girl — healthful, 
 and handsome, and high-spirited — a grand- 
 daughter even haughty Madam Valentine 
 might be proud of. Ot° the big, busy world 
 outside St. Gildas she knows nothing, and 
 cares very little ; ahe has her old world here, 
 her ' boys ' the centre of her orbit, and hosta 
 of friends whom she dearly loves. Wild 
 wintry storms howl around I-le Perdrix, and 
 the big waves rise in their majesty and 
 might, and thunder all about them ; white, 
 whirling storms of snow fall for days, and 
 even tHe little world of St. Gildas is shut 
 out. Those are seasons of bliss never to be 
 fargoiten, when, with huge red tires in every 
 room, there threes sit and devour together 
 the ' thrilling ' novel, the ' delicious ' poem. 
 
 Like the little boy in the primer. Snowball's 
 cry is, • Oh, that winter would last forever I' 
 
 Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen— the birthdays 
 tread on each other's heels, it seems to her 
 sometimes, so rapidly do the mouths slip 
 round, and they surprise her, by coming 
 again. 
 
 And now it is another September, and she 
 is quite sixteen— a a\\, slim, pale girl, with 
 only a faint wild rose tint in either cheek, 
 but a tint that is ready to flutter into oarna- 
 tioD at a word, a look. 
 
 * Our Snowball wouldn't be half bad-look- 
 ing,' Johnny is wont to remark, altogether 
 seriously, ' if she wasa't so muuh on the bop- 
 pole patterns. There is nothing of her but 
 arms and legs, and a lot of light hair.' 
 
 Johnny's taste leans to the dark, the 
 plump, the rosy, as exemplified in Mile. In- 
 nocente Desereau. 
 
 It is her last year at Villa des Anges. 
 Next commencement she will graduate, and 
 after that 
 
 Ah ! after that life is not very clear. The 
 boys are going away. Kene, indeed, has al- 
 ready gone to New York, as a preliminary 
 step in the study of sculpture, which, it ap- 
 pears, is to be his vocation in life. He is 
 over twenty now, and has made his final de- 
 cision. It is a question she ponders over 
 with knitted brows and anxious mind, very 
 often. 
 
 She r7ill be qnali6'°:d to go out as a govern- 
 ess, she supposes, or a teacher of music and 
 languages, probably in Montreal. 
 
 Except for this perplexity the girl's life in 
 absolutely serene and fr«e from care, and in 
 after years— in the after years so fall of 
 strange bitterness and pain, she looka 
 back to this peaceful time with an aching 
 sense of wonder, that she could ever have 
 wished it over or thought it dull. 
 
 Bat changes are at hand, and suddenly, 
 wh^n change is least expected, it comes, and 
 Isle Perdrix and Sf. Gildas, and Villa dea 
 Angers vanish out of her existence like the 
 figures of a dream. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 LA VIVANDIEBK. 
 
 Away from wild and lonely Bay Chalette, 
 with its gloomy fogs, its tierce Atlantic 
 gales, ita beetling snrf breaking forever on 
 its craggy shore, ita blinding drifts of snow, 
 its long, bleak winter*, the son is setting in 
 rosy splendour over another sea, a fair, 
 serene, southern sea. A low white house 
 stands with its face turned to this rose* 
 light, its windowi like glints of gold, and 
 house and windowi are half hidden behind » 
 
 
74 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 taDglei, trailing wealth of cape jeBsatnioe 
 and climbing roaea. The house it built of 
 atone, atuocoed and whitewashed, with a 
 handling balcony from the aecoad atory, and 
 a veranda below. And in tropical luxur- 
 iance, the grounds ate ablaze with flowers 
 and ahruba, with the orange, the lemou, the 
 banana, the tig, the atately date-palm. A 
 Boft wind, velvety and fragrant, floats up 
 from the ocean. In the dim background, 
 resting tranquil in an amber rain of mist, 
 lies 8t. Augustine. 
 
 Tne lon^ veranda, which runs the whole 
 front of the house, is one glowing mass of 
 colour— one scented wealth of rosea. Up 
 and down this veramla a lady walks, d. ink- 
 ing io the cool aeabreeze, and gazing at the 
 rich glow of this southern sunset. An 
 elderly lady, upright and atately, vith wbii 
 hair, t'utfed elaljorately under a < if ♦^ . 
 point, a severe, silvery face, pie ;,; r; k 
 eyes, that have lost at sixty-aeven • i '^. ? ■■■ 
 the fire of youth, a trained dresa < -k 
 
 ■ilk, and some yellowish face, of faliulous 
 value at the throat, held together by a clus- 
 ter of brilliants. She supports herself on an 
 ebony cane, mounted with gold, but carried 
 more, it is evident, from habit, than through 
 any real necessity. A handsome and 
 haughty old lady, with broad smooth brow, 
 and thin mouth, set in a sort of hard and 
 habitual disdain. 
 
 Up and down, up and down — it is her 
 daily afternoon habit— thinking her thoughts 
 alone. She is always alone, this woman ; it 
 seems to her sometimes she haa been alone 
 all her life. She is worse than alone now, 
 she ia forced to endure uncongenial oom« 
 ptniobdhip. 
 
 Her walk takes her each time past two 
 long lighted windows ; she glances through 
 the lace draperies sometimes, and the dis- 
 dainful curve of the n solute mouth intensi- 
 fies into absolute aversion. Two gentlemen 
 sit in that lighted room, playing chess ; it is 
 at the elder of these two she looks with that 
 half-veilei glance of dislike. The lady is 
 Madam Valentine, the gentleman, Vane 
 Valentine, her heir. 
 
 Sovereigns, it is said, have but little love 
 for their successors. Perhaps this inborn 
 instinct is the reason. The servants in the 
 bouse will tell you the madam is afraid of 
 him. And yet she does not look like a 
 woman easily made afraid, easily cowed, 
 easily brought in. : aubject to any will. H«r 
 own is very strong, and seemingly reigna 
 paramount. But there is often a power be- 
 hind the throne, which tha throne fears in 
 spite of itself. That power exists here. 
 Mr. Vane Valentine, if not a man of power- 
 ful mini, is yot a man of profound obstmacy, 
 
 whether in tritles or in matters of moment ; 
 there is a certain doggHdnesn about him that 
 does not know when it is beaten, and goen 
 on, unabashed until it has wn the game. 
 And he grows impatient, like all urown 
 princes, to come into his kingdom. He has 
 hopes and plans of his own, that dc^jeud for 
 their fruition on this fortune, uud the ({ueea 
 regnant is io long a-dying ! Moie, slia looks 
 as much like living as bhe <lid n honre of 
 years ago I He swears under his lireath, 
 sometimes over it, in the sauutu^iry of his 
 chamber, but madam's vitality fs a matter 
 in which no amount of profanity, however 
 heartfelt and sincere, can avail. 
 
 She lives, and is likely to live ; she takes 
 excellent care of herself, and spcndit her 
 money — his money rather, laviahly — with 
 b >th hands, on every whim. For, close 
 upon aeventy, she still has whims. Aud she 
 knows bis feelings, aod he knows she 
 knows, aud res^'nts it bitterly, indignantly, 
 aileutly. It aeem) to her baaest treachery 
 '* he should witth to anticipate by one 
 mGu.aDt his suacesf)i(m. But then she knows 
 nothing of those hidden plans Vane Valen- 
 tine is a secretive man by na'uie. tvtn in 
 tiides — knows of the patiently waiting sis- 
 ter Dorothea, who is to keep house for him 
 at Manor Valentine when he U Sir Vane, 
 and the American millions are his — nothing 
 of Miss Camilla Roath, a fair cousin, who 
 used to be younger, and who has spent her 
 youth and dimmed her beauty, waiting, 
 Uke Mariana in the Moated Grange, for the 
 coming of Coasia Vane, baronet and miilioa- 
 aire. 
 
 Of these things ahe knows little — she only 
 knows she is growing to hato him, only 
 knows that he is miserly and mean, grasp- 
 ing and grudging, and longing for her 
 death, and aees in her, not his bene- 
 factress, but an obstacle to his h'ipes and 
 wishes, and her riches, by right, already his 
 own. There is never any open rupture, there 
 is cold civility and attention on one side, 
 chill acorn aud inditference on the other, 
 but ahe draws more and more into herself, 
 livea her own life, thinks her own thoughts. 
 What if she should disappoint bim after all ! 
 it is in her power. There ia a fierce sort of 
 pleasure in the vindictive thought — she can 
 leave her wealth as she pleases— to endow 
 hospitals, build churches, found libraries I 
 What if sh» does it t It would be juatidable 
 reprisal. And y«t — to let it go out of the 
 family — to disobey her husband's dying 
 
 wish ! There is no one else Stay, is 
 
 there not ? No one else ? What of her son's 
 d&iighter — her only son's only child ? What 
 of her ? Nearer in blood, her very own— 
 Geor<{e'a little child I 
 

 LOST . OR A WOMAN. 
 
 7*^ 
 
 moment ; 
 . him that 
 
 aiitl goen 
 he game, 
 all crown 
 Htt has 
 Ifpeiid for 
 tlie ({ueen 
 
 hU» looks 
 I hcore of 
 is l»ieatli, 
 iry of his 
 
 a matter 
 , however 
 
 she takes 
 pentU her 
 ihly — with 
 For, ulose 
 Aud she 
 nows she 
 dignautly, 
 
 treaohery 
 ,te hy one 
 she knows 
 ane Valen- 
 e, bvtn in 
 raiting sis* 
 tae for him 
 
 Sir Vane, 
 B — nothing 
 m-tin, whu 
 ■I spent her 
 , waitinar, 
 fie, for the 
 nd miilion- 
 
 — she only 
 him, only 
 an, K>'a''p- 
 for her 
 his bene- 
 h'lpei and 
 ilr^ady his 
 tare, there 
 
 one side, 
 the other, 
 to herself, 
 
 thoughts. 
 1 after all ! 
 rce sort of 
 -ahe cun 
 -to endow 
 
 libraries ! 
 
 juati liable 
 out of the 
 d's dying 
 — Stay, is 
 tf her son's 
 
 d? What 
 sry own-^ 
 
 The mere thought, put thin way, softons her 
 heart. What if she should send for her? 
 She breaks off -the idea comprehends so 
 much— it overwhelms herattirft. But she 
 broods and broods upon it, until familiarity 
 wears off the first sharp repugnance of the 
 thought. It ia the thin edge of the wedge — 
 the • rift within the lute.' Once well in. for 
 the rent to follow is but a matter of time. 
 From thinking to talking is a natural ae- 
 quence— Mrs. Tinker is her confidante ; 
 adroitly the topic is brought round, one on 
 which the old housekeeper is but too ready 
 to converse. AU that she knows of the 
 child and her mother — of that last sad inter- 
 view with George, is discussed over and 
 over again. 
 
 It is wonderful how this going backward 
 softens the resolute old heart. Cieorge lives 
 again, she hears hi.s voice, aees his smile, 
 listens to his boyish, gladsome laugh. Oh, 
 George, George ! how sharper than death is 
 the thought of her harshness now I But his 
 child still lives ; in is in her power even yet 
 to make compensation through that chile'. 
 Why should she fear Vane Valentine ? why 
 care for his displdasure ? why not asarit her- 
 self as of old, and claim her grandchild as 
 
 ^^^'"u''''*i She muses upon it until she is full 1^" glory" orm^nlight T t!" 
 of the thought ;8leep.n- or waking, it is ^j ^ ^^ ■ ^histl^.g, 
 with her. It is of that she is thinking so in- • k b> 
 
 teutiy now, as she paces up and down. It 
 ia past her usual hour of lingering here ; a 
 moon is lifting ita shoulder over the tall date 
 pilmfl : the star*lit southern night, full of 
 sweetest odours of Rtwer, and forest, and 
 sea, lies over the land. Still she keeps on, 
 up and down, up and down ; still she thinks, 
 aud dreams, and longs. Why not — why not 
 — why not have George's daughter — too 
 long banished from this her rightful home- 
 here ? why not now, at once? Tuirteen 
 years ago she sent her from her — she is six- 
 teen now, far beyond doubt ; her mother was 
 that, and her father — Ah 1 was there ever 
 his like iu all the world ? So much bright, 
 brave beauty to lie under the merciless sea 
 for thirteen years I Tears — very rare tears 
 — soften the hard brilliance of those deep, 
 dark eyes. Seventeen years since she cast him 
 off, and only now thinking of reparation! 
 Surely there is little time to be lost here, if 
 she means in this life to do justice to his 
 child ! 
 
 ' Is it not past your usual hour, aunt V 
 asks a bland voice. Mr. Vane Valentine 
 never leaves her too long at once to melan- 
 choly retrospections. Ic is not good for her 
 — or for him either. He has dismissed his 
 friend, and appears by her side on the 
 veranda. ' Shall I assist you in ?' 
 
 He presents an arm. but she declines, with 
 an impatient gesture. 
 
 ' I thonght you were absorbed in chess 
 with young Payton,' she vays. 
 
 ' Puyton has gone. I beat him three 
 games in auccrsaion,' reaponda Mr. Valentine, 
 complacently, twiating the enda of the mua< 
 tachu. It has grown iu thirteen years, is 
 lung and drooping, and inky black. * It 
 grew monotonous after that.' 
 
 Thirteen years have not changed this 
 gentleman much, except iu the matter of 
 mustache. Indeed, they have not changed 
 him at all, have merely accented and em> 
 phaaized all traits, personal aud mental, ex« 
 isting then. He is atill tall, still thin, still 
 dark, still with scant allowance of hair, with 
 black, restless eyes, and thin, obstinate 
 mouth ; still elaborate as to drt^s*, faatidioas 
 in the minutest details about himself, from 
 the gloasy whiteness of his linen to the 
 dainty-paring and puiity of his rails. He 
 looks like a man thoroughly wtll satisfied 
 with himself -a man who uld never, under 
 any oiroumstanoes, ima>^ '^ c )wn himself 
 in the wrong. 
 
 He walks beside her .nd < s a compla* 
 cent, sclf-satiaiifcd, y>.oj. etin-like glance 
 over the scene. Thf ^ . j U\c sea, bathed in 
 
 re is a mocking* 
 twittering, like a 
 whole aviary near ; -e ' .» a whip-poor-will 
 piping pltintively in . «j bracken -. thero are 
 the roses, and the myrtle, and the orange 
 trees, the passion flowers and the jessamine, 
 scenting the night air ; theie it the Southern 
 Crosp, ablaze over their heads ; there are 
 warmth, and perfume, and beauty every- 
 where. It dawns upon Mr Vane Valentine 
 it la a fine night. He Ra> s so. 
 
 • Never saw such moonlight,* he remarks, 
 still complacently, as if the if ne were 
 gotten up especittliy for his rieltctation. 
 'And that mockingbird— listen to the fellow. 
 As you say, aunt, it is much too tine to go 
 
 in.* , ^ 
 
 • I am not aware of having sai 1 so, short- 
 ly ; 'on the contrary, I am going in almost 
 immediately — Van« l' abruptly. 
 
 • Yea, aunt. ' 
 •When did you hear from your friend — 
 
 what is his name ?- Farrar.' 
 
 •Paul Farrar?' surprised. 'Oh, not for 
 ages. Not since thai time, years ago, when 
 he wrote to know ' 
 
 Mr. Vane Valentine pulls himself up short. 
 ' If that girl might be christened,' is what he 
 was going to say. But madam knows no- 
 thing of that, and it is one of the oases where 
 ignorance is bliss. 
 
 ' Well ? ' she says sharply ; * flaiah your 
 senteaQQ — sinoewhen 
 
 ■m 
 
 'I 
 
« r- 
 
 78 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ' Not for years. Ho is in RubiU— got an 
 appmntment nf aonie kind in St. Petertbur;;, 
 •od naturally— moving a^nut as we always 
 are/ in a slight tone of (grievance, for Mr. 
 Vane Valentine does not like a noraadio ex- 
 istence — ' it is not likely we should keep up 
 a very brisk correspondence. Besides, I bate 
 letter-writing* 
 
 'Indeed!' saroantioally ; 'since when? I 
 should never imagine it, peeing the volum- 
 inous epistles that go to England by every 
 mail.' 
 
 * I write to my si ter Dorothea and my 
 cousin Camilla, of course,' ra<'lier stiffly. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 Wnat is coming? Something out of the 
 common, he sees, in the furtive (tlanue he 
 casts at her absorbed face. She breaks the 
 pause abruptly. 
 
 * How often do you hear from tha*- girl ? ' 
 ' That girl ? ' bewildered. ' Do you mean 
 
 my cousin Camilla ' 
 
 ' I mean,' striking her stick sharply on the 
 ground, and pausing in her walk, ' I mean 
 that girl you sent to Canada with the man 
 Farrar, thirteen y^ais ago.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' Mr. Vane Valentine catches his 
 breath. The bursting of a bomb at his feet 
 could hardly have startled him more. ' That 
 girl. Snowball Tiillion.' 
 
 * If that '\% what she is called. I mean,' 
 with icy distinctness, my ' granddaughter.' 
 
 Mr. Vane Valentine whitens under his 
 lemon-hued skin — turns the livid hue of the 
 moonlight on the whitewanhed house-front. 
 
 ' Your granddaughter!' with equal ioiness. 
 ' Who is to tell if she is your granddaughter ? 
 Tbe word of the woman who called herself 
 ber mother was not worth much, I fancy. 
 The girl Snowball Trillon is in Canada still.' 
 
 A frigid stare follows his answer, and Ma- 
 dam Valentine's ' stony stares ' are things 
 not pleasant to meet. Then she laughs con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 ' This is your latest metier is it, to doubt 
 her identity ? Well, I am not disposed to 
 doubt it, and that I take it is the mam punt. 
 I mean Snowball Trillon, if you like. Where 
 IS she ill Canada ? Be more detiaite, my good 
 Vane, if you please.' 
 
 'The place is called St. Gildas. She liven, 
 I believe, on an island near that town, in the 
 family of one Dr. Macdonald.' 
 
 He is recovering. Tne shock has been so 
 utterly unexpected that be has been stunned 
 for a moment, but his customary cold caution 
 is returning. He draws a long breath, and 
 bis pulne quickens a little its methodical 
 Leat. Whiit — what does this mean ? 
 
 * Do you ever bear from her ? ' 
 
 * Never directly. The money you allotted 
 r her maiuteoaace is drawn semi-aauually 
 
 by Dr. Macdonald — was drawn two montbi 
 ago,aod she was then reported in the doctor's 
 letter as alive and well.* That is all I know.' 
 
 ' Alive and well,' slowly, gladly, thousht- 
 fully, ' and sixteen years old, is she not T I 
 wonder — I wonder,' dreamily, * what she is 
 like?' 
 
 ' She is sixteen years old ,' ooldlv ; * of her 
 looks I know nothing — nor of her ' 
 
 ' It is my wish then,' says madam, assert- 
 ing herself suddenly and heartily, ' that yon 
 should know something. It is my own in- 
 tention to know a great deal. I have been 
 culpably ignorant too long. Write to this 
 Dr. Macdonald,' bringing down the ebony 
 cane with an authoritative bing — ' ask him 
 for all information regarding this young lady, 
 my grandchild,' loftily, and looking him full 
 in the face with her dark piercing eyes, * her 
 health, habits, education, and so on. Tell 
 him to enclose a photograph of her in his re* 
 
 * Yes, madam. Anything else ? Shall I 
 write to night ?' 
 
 ' To-night or to-morrow, as you please. 
 Tell him to send the photograph without 
 fail. I am curious to see what she is like. 
 Tell him to answer at once —at once. ' 
 
 ' You shall be obeyed. Now, what the 
 idevil,' says Vane to himself, 'does this 
 mean ? ' 
 
 It means no good to him — that at least is 
 certain. For a very long time, hour after 
 hour that night, he sits smoking cigars at 
 his open window, and gazing bluikly at the 
 fair southern moon. He must obey ; there 
 is no help for that. If baulked in the slight- 
 est, this headstrong, foolish, ridiculous old 
 kinswoman of his is capable of going in per- 
 son before another month ia over her vener- 
 able head, straight to St. Gddas, and seeing 
 for herself. Tbe only wonder is, being 
 curious on the subject at all, that st , has 
 not done so already. 
 
 There is still no nope. The girl may not 
 in any way — supposing her even to be his 
 daughter — resemble the late George Valen- 
 tine. Like mother like son, thinks Mr. 
 Valentine, savagely biting the top ofif his 
 fresh cigar, as if he thought it were madam^a 
 head — a precious pair of fools i>oth ! In point 
 of fact, be is certain, although he baa never 
 seen George Valentine, nor even a picture of 
 him, that she does not resemble him. But 
 if this old lady — falling into her dotaiie, no 
 doubt — should fancy a resemblance, and be 
 besotted enough to send for hor, aad try to 
 put her in his place— Mr. Valentine ex- 
 presses his feelings just here by a deep oath» 
 ground ouV between liercely closed teeth. 
 When it comes to that— let tbem look to it ! 
 He is not to be whistled dawn the wind» 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 n 
 
 montbi 
 
 •iootor'i 
 I know.' 
 thought* 
 I not T I 
 at the ii 
 
 ; 'of her 
 
 n, auert- 
 that you 
 ^ own in- 
 lave b«ea 
 te to this 
 ie ebony 
 ■ aek him 
 un^ lady, 
 ( him full 
 jyea, 'her 
 n. Tell 
 in his re« 
 
 Shall I 
 
 1 please. 
 1 without 
 he is like. 
 
 what the 
 does this 
 
 at least is 
 
 jour after 
 
 cigars at 
 
 ly at the 
 
 ly ; there 
 
 jhe slight* 
 
 ;ulous old 
 
 ig in per- 
 
 ler vener- 
 
 ind seeing 
 
 \\p, being 
 
 st , has 
 
 may not 
 to be his 
 [e Valen- 
 Inks Mr. 
 |p ofif his 
 madam^B 
 lu poiut 
 laa never 
 picture of 
 Im. But 
 [otasce, no 
 ), and be 
 |od try to 
 itine ex- 
 9ep oath» 
 teeth, 
 lok to it ! 
 W wind» 
 
 after all these years, as his idiotio old rela 
 tive shall find to her cost I 
 
 But he writes the letter — a slow and 
 laboured bit of composition ; and as he writes 
 a cold, cruel, crafty smile dawns, in a 
 diabolical tuHliion. around hir hard, thin lips. 
 
 * If thfy uiixwer thie — if they send ihe 
 photograph at Id- tliip, thiu' — the smile in- 
 tcnsiHes MH h*) tulds the and ceals the epiatle, 
 'ifthat girl bus tliebpirit of a worm, she will 
 fling thi:« lecter into the tire, and send an 
 answer, per return post, that will etl'eutually 
 cure madam ot h* r lolly 1' 
 
 Now Mi trtfs Souwball TrilloD, or Dolores 
 Maodonald, as y«iu please, Las, as we know, 
 the spirit of many worms — has » pri«le and 
 a temper, alas I lully equal to Mr. Valen- 
 tine's own. 
 
 Dr. Maodonald, prof<madly surprised, 
 deeply hurt, and a little ditiguHied wilh the 
 writer, puts the precious epiHtle, without a 
 word, into her hands, and the blue eyes llash 
 lightiiing tires of wrath as she reads. 
 
 * It isiather— rather cffdusive,' the gentle 
 old doctor Hays. ' You need not send the 
 photograph if you like, Suowball, my dear.' 
 
 For a moment a storm seems imminent in 
 the Hushed cheeks and Hatthiug eyes, tueu a 
 wicked smile dawns on the rosy young 
 mouth, a sparkle that forbodes t udness to 
 come creepH into the azure orbs, and quite 
 quenches the fires of wrath. 
 
 'Oh, 1 don't mind,' she says, cheerfully. 
 ' A little impertinence mqre or less, what 
 does it signify T Beguars mustn't be choos- 
 ers. I'll eend it. Write the letter, and 
 when it is ready I'll slip the photo in, and 
 myself over to St. Gildas this very after- 
 noon to post it. By r<)tum mail, din't you 
 see, he bays.' 
 
 ' And 1 hope he'll like me when he sees 
 me,' thinks Miss Trillon, going up to her 
 maiden bower under the eaves ; ' but I am 
 harassed by doubts.' 
 
 She takes from a drawer a couple of 
 photographs, tinted, and, as works of art, 
 worthy of commendation. They represent 
 a youug person in a striking, not to tiay 
 startling, drees of a vivandiere — a short pet- 
 ticoat of brilliant dye, baggy trousers, and a 
 blue blouse, a red cap set rakishly on one 
 side of the dead, a lictle wine barrel slun^ 
 over the shoulder, pistols in the belt, two 
 little hands thrust there also, a smile of un- 
 utterable sauciness on the face. And the 
 young perscn is Snowball ! As a picture 
 nothing can be more effective — as a portrait 
 of a stately old lady's granddaughter., noth- 
 ing could well be more reprehensible. Last 
 winter some charades were acted at the 
 house of Mile, lunocente Desereaux ; Snow- 
 ball appeared in one of^them as a vivaiidicre, 
 
 and the brother of Mile. Innocente, a photo* 
 graphic artist, had been charmed, and in* 
 bisted on immortalizing her in the dress next 
 day. The photographs have since lain here, 
 too outre to be shown ; and it is one of these 
 under which she pertly writes, * a votie 
 service, monsieur,' and diipatchii t. Mr. 
 Vane Valentine' , 
 
 The interval between sending and lecciv* 
 ing is about eiuht days, and eight more auxi* 
 uus and uncomfc table days Mr. Valentine 
 never remenibtrs to bats Si.ii.t. What 
 is in madam's miud !— what dues she mean ? 
 — why does she want the photograph T — 
 what change of dynasty does this torbode ? 
 Does she — can she — mean fur one moment to 
 throw him oveibuard for this upstart ? Does 
 she dream he will permit it? Is he a pup* 
 pet, to be taken up and played with awhile, 
 and then thrown aside, au the whim seizes 
 her ? He will »how her M'hether he is or 
 not. Let her expose her huud, and then he 
 will balk her new game 
 
 Meantime there is nothing to be done but 
 wait, and waiting if, he tiuds, the hardest 
 work in the world. 
 
 She, tuo, is waiting. The subject is never 
 resumed — it is the ' lull before the storm." 
 Is it to be a drawn battle between these two 
 proud, unbending people from henceforth T 
 it all depends uu this girl — this gauche, uu 
 formed giil of sixteen. If the photograph 
 should by any chance resemble ever so little 
 that dead George— well, if it does, and she 
 takes the girl up, she shall see ! 
 
 It comes— the letter with the Canadian 
 po8t*ma-k, and fomutbing liard within. 
 
 tiis hand shakes as he opens it, and the 
 carte drops out. 
 
 It is a moment before he can summon reso- 
 lution enough to take it up, but be does at 
 
 last, and then 1 
 
 Tiie letter is from Dr. Mac'onald, it is 
 brief, civil, but coul. Mile. Trillon is well, 
 is quite happy, has been well and carefully 
 educated, and has no desire whatever to 
 change her home. 
 
 He incloses her photograph, by which Mr. 
 Valentine will see she is also extremely 
 pretty ; and he is his respectfully, Angus 
 Maodonald. 
 
 Madame Valentine is in her sitting-room. 
 A storm of m iud and rain is sweeping over 
 the fair landscape, and blotting it out. 
 
 She sits watching it dreamy, when Mr. 
 Vane Valentine, with a more assured look 
 and step than he has used of late comes into 
 the room, an open letter in his hand. 
 
 ' It 18 the letter from Canada, and the pic* 
 ture,' he says. 
 
 He loys both in her lap. 
 
 Uis face is iu guud order^ but there is 
 
 ^ 
 
78 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 •Q 'imperofptiblo thrill of triumph in his 
 tone. 
 
 He (loei not go — he itaDdt and wait*. 
 A aliKht Huah riaea to her face, but ahe 
 meetn his look with otie of ri^id reserve. 
 ' Wt^ll ?' she aaya inquirioKly. 
 ' Will ynu be good euough to open the let- 
 ter T Tliu p^utdxraph ia inaide.' 
 
 • At my leiaure. 1 will retain the picture. 
 You need not take the trouble to wait 1' 
 
 It is a curt <liamisaal ; a Hush of anger 
 rises over hia sallow faoe. 
 
 He ha<« hdpe I toeee her face when Hratshe 
 glai'oea at the audacious photograph. He is 
 destined to bu diDiippoiuttid. But he koowa 
 the 1 >okof angry aurpriae and disappointment 
 thit will follow, all the same. Without a 
 woid he go«H. 
 
 Tuen, with Hnf^era that shake with eager- 
 p»«i, she snatches the picfure out, looks at 
 It, dropa it with an exclamation of aut^er, 
 amaze, dismay. 
 
 WhUt ! auother danoing girl I A juvenile 
 copy of the hold, blue-eyed circus woman, 
 who had confronted her that September af- 
 ternoon, thirteen years ago. 
 
 And what outrageous costume ia this ? 
 what defiant smile? what pert words written 
 ^ XX iderneath ? 
 
 ■? Is this, indeed her grandchild? Hera? 
 
 Does the proud Valentine blood flow in the 
 C heart of such a frivolua creature aa thia ? 
 
 What insolence to aend it — it ia a direct 
 
 , affront. And yet— what a pretty face 1 
 
 What a biightly pretty, piquant face. Not 
 
 a lx)ld one, either — only saucy, girlish, full 
 
 of fun and healthful glee. 
 
 She looka at it again, reluctantly, at first, 
 relentingly after a littla— then, lung and ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 No, there ia no look of George— none 
 whatever ; it is a youthful repetition of 
 that other face she remembers so well — only 
 with the brazen recklessness left out. 
 
 She must be very pretty ; she might, with 
 proper training, become a lovely girl. What 
 a wealth of rippling ringlets ; what charming 
 features ; What an exquisite dimpled mouth 1 
 Only the dress— end yet— that might be only 
 a girl's thoughtless joke. 
 
 The letter is all that can be desired, for- 
 mal if you will— a trifle cold, but perfectly 
 reapeottul. What if Vane Valentine has 
 crouched his request in impertinent words- 
 he is quite capable of it, and thia defiant 
 pictuie IB sent in reprisal? She hita the 
 truth, and suapects that she hits it ; she 
 guessta quite accurately, what her heir is 
 feeling on thia subject. 
 
 'I will disappoint him yet,' she think i, 
 vindictively, • in spite of the picture.' 
 She meets him at dinner, some houra later, 
 
 without a trace of any emotion, except her 
 
 usual severe reserve of u; 'inner, and hands 
 
 him bauk the letter. 
 
 ' Well ?' he asks, with rather a grim 
 
 smile. ' And the picture— how do you hud 
 
 that ?' 
 
 '1 find it a trifie ecoent-ic,' she returns. 
 
 ' No, James, no soup. Taken in a fancy 
 dress, 1 imagine. A pretty girl, and very 
 like her mother. Yea, Jamts, the rock-fiah,' 
 to the man-servant. * If you please, my 
 good Vane, I will keep it.' 
 
 No more is said, iiut the edge of the 
 wedge is well in, and, with a feeling akin to 
 despair. Vane Valentine re-ilizes that bia 
 letter and fatal photograph are but the bt« 
 ({luuiug of the end. 
 
 CHAPTEU Via 
 
 A FLYIKO VISIT. 
 
 I 
 
 An April evening. Westward the sun is 
 dipping in Bay (^halette its very teil face, 
 and the cool, greenish waters take on roseate 
 hues in oouse({ueuce, that by no uieaus be* 
 long to them. A soft, piukiah, windUas 
 haztf, indeed, encircles aa in a lialo bay and 
 town, Isle Perdrix, and tlte boata of the Gus- 
 pereaux fishers, out.in force ; for is not thia 
 ' Gaspereaux Month,' the silver harvest of 
 these toilers of the sea ? ' Ships, like lilliea, 
 lie tranquilly ' at the grimy St. Gildas 
 whaivts ; the quaint billy to^vu itself reata 
 all aduah in thif baih of ruby sunlight, the 
 aouud of evening bells — the Angelus ringing 
 out from Villa dea Augea — fioata sweetly 
 over the hush, until listening, you iniaitiue 
 yourself for the naoment in some farofi, old- 
 world city of France. 
 
 lale Pttdrix rests, liks the rocky emerald it 
 is, in its lapis lazuli setting, isa beacon al- 
 ready lit, and aeodiog ita gulden strtam of 
 light far over the peaceful eea. 
 
 It ia at thia witching hour, of an April 
 day, that a traveller stands on the St. Gildas 
 shore, and waits for the ferry-boat to come 
 and take him over to the island. 
 
 * Yuu see, there ain't no regular ferry, as 
 you may say, betwixt this and Dree Island, 
 the landlord explains, at the little inn where 
 he stops to make known his wishes ; ' and 
 there ain't no regular traftio. There's only 
 the doctor's family and old Tim, that lives 
 on the place for good like, and they rows 
 over themselves when they come back and 
 forrid, which is every day lor that matter. 
 We blows a horn when strangers come, and 
 then old Tim, if he ain't too busy, comes 
 across and takes 'em off. I'll blow the horn 
 for you, now, sir.' 
 
 ' I can jail spirits from the vasty deep,' 
 
 quotes 1 
 
 uiour. 
 
 them ? 
 
 comes o 
 
 'Jest 
 
 But the 
 
 be none 
 
 he's thai 
 
 turning 
 
 if he cat 
 
 She li 
 
 A iilast t 
 
 and brill 
 
 • You 
 
 •OldTii 
 
 come. It 
 
 you wm 
 
 , • Hum 
 
 tive oust 
 
 1 wonde 
 
 these tw( 
 
 But h 
 
 glide sw 
 
 on browi 
 
 boat in p 
 
 white, 8o 
 
 on the sti 
 
 he stands 
 
 young nu 
 
 and one 
 
 steers, »1 
 
 of the C 
 
 where he 
 
 • Uow. t 
 The rap; 
 
 At the 
 taneon^ly 
 turn take 
 les her t 
 long praul 
 girl in a 
 blue fiauii 
 iniiigs, a 
 redundant 
 She rests 
 and aidre 
 oussion fo 
 urge some 
 but the I 
 stinctivelj 
 jeot of the 
 iie wiahes 
 naturedlv 
 tedious Ti 
 correct ; t 
 the St Gi 
 the sands, 
 from his r 
 dolently t( 
 'Beg p 
 Dree lalan 
 ' If I car 
 
L09T FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 70 
 
 icept her 
 ud hands 
 
 a grim 
 ) you tiud 
 
 i returnf. 
 
 11 a tttuuy 
 aud very 
 rock-hah,' 
 leane, iny 
 
 ge of the 
 
 ig akin to 
 
 that bia 
 
 ,t the hi.* 
 
 the >un is 
 
 ' ted faoc, 
 
 ou roseate 
 
 uieaus be* 
 
 , wiudUM 
 
 o bay aud 
 
 jf the Gas- 
 
 ia uot tbia 
 
 hai'veat of 
 
 like Idiies, 
 
 t. Gildas 
 
 tself rdsta 
 
 ilight, the 
 
 US nugiug 
 
 [b sweetly 
 
 u iniauiue 
 
 Tott, old- 
 
 lemerald it 
 »eaoou al- 
 •tr«am of 
 
 an April 
 ISc Gildaa 
 It to ooine 
 
 ferry, aa 
 
 Le Island, 
 |iuu where 
 Tes ; ' and 
 lere'a only 
 Ithat livtB 
 they rows 
 L>auk aud 
 It matter, 
 pome, and 
 ky, oomea 
 the horn 
 
 sty deep,' 
 
 quotes the gcntlaman, with a touch of hn- 
 uiuur. ' But will they come when we call 
 them T It's a toaa up then whether old Tim 
 comes or not, madam ?' 
 
 'Jest so, sir. Yuu takes your chance. 
 But the light's lit 1 see, so he aiu't like to 
 be none so busy that he cau't come. For 
 he'« that near — olil 'I'iiii is, and that fonr^ of 
 turning a pauuy, that he never misses a fare 
 if he can help u.' 
 
 She lifts to her lips a sea-shell, and blows 
 a blast that might wake old Charon himself 
 and bring him across the Styx. 
 
 'You wait here a little, sir,' she says. 
 '01<1 Tim will hear that, if he's a mind to 
 come. It' you don't »ee him in hfteen minutes 
 you WDu'i ste him at all.' 
 
 ' Humph !' says the traveller, ' primi- 
 tive oustotiis obtain here upon my word ! 
 1 womler if the ether aborigines are like 
 these two ?' 
 
 But he stands and waits. Many boats 
 glide swiftly past, the red suulight glinting 
 on brown oar blade*, or white sails. Oue 
 boat in particular he notices ; so pretty, so 
 whitp, so d.iinty is it— a name in gilt letters 
 en the stern ; he cannot read it trom where 
 he stands. It in mauued by two youths ; 
 young men, perhape, aud one girl. The girl 
 aud oue of the yuuug men row, the third 
 steers, all are singing. Tne spirited refrain 
 of the Canadian Boat Song reaches him 
 where he stauils : 
 
 * How, br ithers, row, the stream runs fast, 
 The rapids are uour, and the day lii{bt iu past. 
 
 At the sound of the horn they turn simul- 
 taneoa->ly to i'lok, aud the traveller iu his 
 turn taktfs a long look at the girl, who hand- 
 les her oar witn a skill and ease that oidy 
 long practice cau have given. A pretty, fair 
 girl in a suit of yachting costume of dark 
 blue daunel, aud broad braid white trim- 
 mings, a Bailor hat of coarse straw, and a 
 redundance of very light, very loose hair. 
 She rests on her oar, after that look at him, 
 and addresses the steersman. A brief dis- 
 cussion follows— the twain who row seem to 
 urge some point, to which the third objects, 
 but the maj >rity carry the question. In- 
 stinctively tue traveller fc;els ne is the sub- 
 ject of the consultation ; perhaps they know 
 ne wishes to visit the tland, and are good- 
 naturediv disposed to i»ke the place of the 
 tedious Tim. His conjecture proves to be 
 oarreot ; the pretty white boat is headed for 
 the St. Gildas shore, is run sharply up on 
 the sands, and the steersman, raising himself 
 from his reonmbent position, somewhat in- 
 dolently touches his cap, and speaks. 
 
 ' Beg pardon, Sir. You want to go to 
 Dree Island ? 
 
 • If I cau get there— yes. The good lady 
 
 who keeps the inn, bl -w the blast that might 
 have raised the dead, but it has nut raised 
 the ferryman of this river.' 
 
 ' If you like to oom« with us, we will take 
 you.' 
 
 ' Ah I thanks very much,' availing him- 
 self with alacrity of the otlur. ' Yuu are 
 most kind. But will it not ta^e you out of 
 your way ?' 
 
 ' Ou the contrary we were just goini; there. 
 We have only been drifting about. Uush off, 
 Johnny. If you like to steer. Snowball, I'll 
 take your oar. You ought to be tired by 
 this time.' 
 
 Snowball I The traveller gives a great 
 an:l sudden start, aud sits dovi u on the 
 thwart with more precipitation than grace. 
 
 * Ttiank you, lUue dear,' responds the 
 pretty girl, in the yachting suit, with much 
 (leniureuess. ' I would row uutil my arms 
 dropped utF, I am sure, sooner than tire your 
 poor dear muscles, ^lo. Johnny aud I 
 will take Bouie-de-neige home. Come on, 
 Johnny.' 
 
 Johnny comes on. 
 like a great swan, out 
 pelled by two pair of 
 arms. The suu has 
 sight by this time, and 
 
 The boat glides off 
 into the river, pro- 
 stroug, willing young 
 quite dipped out of 
 
 tiie iniioo, ' bright 
 
 regent in the heavens,' floats up in pearly 
 lustr*^-. The long, mystic, silvery twilight 
 of noriheru climes wraps them iu its dreamy 
 hazj. 
 
 'A blazing red sunset, Snowball,' says 
 the youug geutleman addresseil ai 'Johnny,' 
 a strikingly handsome big ftUow of eigbteen 
 or more, with a pair of large, deep, sea-gray 
 eyes. ' You will have a capital day for 
 your trip to Moose Head to morrow. Is 
 lunocente Desereaux going. ' 
 
 ' Of of course,' responds the pretty girl, 
 promptly, ' and Armand — but he gots as a 
 matter of course.' 
 
 ' W^hy a m t er of course ?' demands, 
 rather peremptorily, the other young geutle- 
 man, darker, slighter, older than ' Johnny.' 
 ' You must be loud of the society of fools. 
 Snowball, when you take so readily to the 
 continual companionship of Armaud Deser- 
 eaux. ' 
 
 ' A fellow feeling makes us wonderous 
 kind,' quotes Mile Snowball, still demurely. 
 ' I get so overpowered with intellect aud 
 ' tall talking,' Kene, when you are at home, 
 tha^ , do you know, Armaud's mild imbecili* 
 ties are a positive relief. Besiden, he is so 
 very, very good-looking, poor fellow. Did 
 you ever notice his dark, pathetic- eyes V 
 
 There is a disgusted growl ftom the 
 ansteredooking M. B,ene»a su". "hered laugh 
 from Johnny. 
 ^ ' Exactly like the eyeu o. a pathetio 
 
 "1 
 
80 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 poodle, when he stands on his hind legs I' 
 this latter says. ' 1 have nctioed his dark 
 pathetic eyes. Snowball, and alwavs feel 
 like lakiug him gently and sweetly by the 
 coltar to the nearest batcher's. They're ever 
 fBO much, in expression, like old Tim's little 
 terrier'f), Brandy.' 
 
 It is an important speech, but, her back 
 beioK turued to Tleoe, the young ladv re- 
 wards it with het aweetest smile. And her 
 smile is very sweet. She is, without ex- 
 oeption, the prettiest girl, thestranger thinks 
 he has ever seen* 
 
 Whatever other opinion may be held of 
 Snowball TiiDon, there can be but one on 
 the subject of her beauty. No eyes more 
 coldly critical, better disposed to tind fault, 
 could easily b found ; but fault there seems 
 to be none. He sits at her leisure and takes 
 the picture in. She appears to regard him 
 no more than the thwart on which he sits. 
 The head is small, and set with the much- 
 admired 'stalk-like' poise on the fair, firm 
 throat— a head crowned with a chevelure 
 doree. such as he has never looked on her 
 before. The figure is tall, very erect, very 
 slender, as becomes tixte^n years, its con- 
 tour even now giving promise of gettiojij well 
 over that with a dozen more years. Tue face 
 is oval, the eyes of turquois blue— blue to 
 their very H^pths ; featless, flashing, fun- 
 loviog, wirle-open eyes. A complexion of 
 flawless fairness, white teeth, and a rounded, 
 dimpled chin. And — he thinks this with an 
 inward shudder — it is also like a living like- 
 nessof a waxen, deadface, andiigideyesof the 
 same forgec-me-tob blue, setn once and uever 
 to be forgotten, years ago I 
 
 As he sits and starej his fill, he is quite 
 uncouBcious that some one else ip staring at 
 him, and staring with a frown that deepens 
 with every iustaut. It is th'; young man who 
 steers, whose dark brows are knitted angrily 
 under the visor of his cap. 
 
 ' Confound the fellow 1' he is thinking, 
 with inward savagery ; 'one would think 
 she were sitting to him for her portrait 1' 
 Hang h impudence t Snowball 1 authori- 
 t itivul^ ' you have handled that oar loug 
 enough. Come and takt my place, and give 
 it tome.' 
 
 Snowball looks at him, and reads in his 
 face tbftt ho means to be obeyed. In his 
 place e)ie will be out of eyeshot of the ill- 
 bred stranger, unless he has eyes in the back 
 of his head. 
 
 There are some tones of Rene's voice Snow- 
 ball never carea to disobey , this is one. Per* 
 haps, tofi, she sunpects. Jihe gets up obedi- 
 ently, smiling saucily in his darkling face, 
 and takes t! c stern seat. 
 Mr. Who Valentine coiLes to'Limself at 
 
 once, and is conscious that he has given the 
 dark and dignified youog Monsieur Rene 
 cause of offence. He hastens by pleasant 
 commonplaces to make his peace. 
 
 ' Very interesting t>wn, St. (Jildas — quaint 
 old world, and that. Is that a Martello 
 tower he sees over yondt^r, on these heights ? 
 Ah 1 rare birds, these round towers — built, 
 no doubt, in time^ of French and British war- 
 fare. Reminds him of Dinan, iti Brittany, 
 with its Angelus bell, and its convents, and 
 priests in the streets, dressed in soutanes. 
 Yes (to Jobnnj ), he has been abioad ; has 
 been a great traveller now for years. Charm- 
 ing scenery, this 1 Is that Isle Perdrix, with 
 the bdacou lights shining T A pretty island 
 very prettv, m doubt. They know Isle Pei- 
 drix well V 
 
 'Well enough, since we live there,' Johnny 
 answers with a sLrug ; ' too well, we think 
 sometimes. Life on an island, be it never 
 so charming, is apt to erow a stale affair after 
 a score of years. We are Dr. Mav^donald's 
 sons, and he is at home, if you want to see 
 him. It's not much of a show- place, Dree 
 Island, but tourists mostly do it. If you 
 don't wish particularly to return to-night, 
 sir, my father will be happy to offer you a 
 room.' 
 
 Johnny makes this hospitable proposal, in 
 much simplicity, quite ignoring his brother's 
 warning frown. 
 
 llene has taken a sudden dislike and dis- 
 trust of this dark, staring stranger, and his 
 patronizing talk. He may spend his own 
 shining hours — and he does spend a good 
 many of thim — in judicious repression of 
 Miss Trillon, but he is singularly intolerant 
 of any other male creature presuming to take 
 the smallest liberty. 
 
 He sits absotutely silent, until they land, 
 and bhen restrains Snowball, by a look, from 
 leaving her place. 
 
 ' We will row down as far as Cape Pierre, 
 hesajB, peremptorily, ' the evening ;i much 
 too fine to go lu. Tim,' to that aKOi retainer, 
 appearing on the shore, his pipe in his mouth, 
 his hands in his pockets, bis dog Brandy, at 
 his heels, ' show this gentleman up to the 
 cottage, will you ?' 
 
 And then Mr. Vane Valentine finds him- 
 self on the shore of Isle Perdrix, old Tim in- 
 speoting thim, with two rheumy, redeyes, 
 Brandy smelling in an alarming manner, ac 
 the calvef of his legs, and the Boule-de-neige 
 fiuatiug like a fairy bark down the moonlit 
 stream. 
 
 ' Two handsome young fellows, my friend, 
 he reuiarks to Tim, following that faithful 
 henchman up the rocky paths. 
 
 ' Faix ye may say that. I'm sayin', ye 
 may well say that. Divii their aquil yu'll 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 81 
 
 ! given the 
 ii«ur Rene 
 ty pleMftnt 
 
 las — quaint 
 a Martello 
 se hfights ? 
 terB — built, 
 British war- 
 u Brittany, 
 nvents, and 
 n soutanes, 
 ibioad : has 
 irs. Charjai- 
 ardrix, with 
 retty island 
 ow Isle Pel- 
 
 ere,' Johnny 
 i-U, we think 
 
 be ic never 
 le affair after 
 Mav,donald'B 
 1 want to see 
 r- place, Dree 
 
 It. If you 
 irn tonight, 
 ) offer you a 
 
 5 proposal, in 
 bis brother's 
 
 ilike and dis* 
 nger, and his 
 8ud his own 
 
 end a good 
 'epression of 
 ly intolerant 
 
 mingtoUke 
 
 til they land, 
 a look, from 
 
 L'ape Pierre, 
 Ining :b much 
 Iged retainer, 
 [in his mouth, 
 jg Brandy, at 
 
 m up to the 
 
 |e finds him* 
 J, old Tim in. 
 [ly, red eyes, 
 
 manner, ac 
 pule-de-neige 
 
 the moonlit 
 
 fg, my friend, 
 that faithful 
 
 I'm sayin', ye 
 aquil ye'll 
 
 find anywhere in these parts. Av ye want 
 to Stan' well wid the owl docther, yu'llflpake 
 a civil word for the byes. I say ye'll — ' 
 
 * And a very pretty girl,' interrupts the 
 stranger, carelessly. * Their sister, I take 
 It T although she doesn't resemble them.' 
 Timothy groans. 
 
 ' The gerre) ! wall, thin, 'tis nothin' br.d 
 I'll be sayiu' av the gerrel, but upon me j 
 honour ami oonscieDce, 'tis nothin' good any- I 
 body uan say I Tbe divilment av that gerrel 
 — the thricks and th^* capers av her — murtial 
 man cud n't be up :o. No. thin, she isn't 
 their shister, not a dhrops blood to thim, but 
 a sort of foiiiin the ould docther's briugin' 
 up. I'm Hayiu' — arrah shure here's the 
 docther for ye himsel.' 
 
 Dr. Maudouald appears, and Mr. Valentine 
 approaches, and presents himself. 
 
 The preHeutation is not so facile a matter 
 as he usually Hiids it, for the reason that he 
 has made up his mind not to give his name. 
 But the gentle, eenial old doctor is simpli- 
 city itself — he sees a stranger at his gate, 
 and asks no more. To give dim of his best, 
 and ask no questions, is his primitive and 
 obsolete idea of hospitality. Mr. Valentine 
 is invited in, is refreshed and pressed to 
 spend the night, and accepts graciously the 
 iuvitation. Dr. Macdonald personally offers 
 to show him over the island, seen at its 
 picturesque by this light, relates his history 
 — % tratjiu history too, of bloodshed once 
 upon a time, of plague later, of terror and 
 sudden death. Nine tolls from the steeples 
 of St. (>ilda)> ; the little island, all bathed in 
 moonlight, lies as in a sea of pearl — a sea so 
 still that the soft lapping of the incoming 
 tide has the sound of a muffled roar. 
 
 The hour, the light, the silence, has a 
 strange charm even for this man, Lard 
 and sordid, and but little susceptible to 
 charm of the kmO. 
 
 * I cannot thinl: what keeps my children,' 
 the doctor says, as they turn to go back ; 
 ' they seldom stay on the waler so late. The 
 beauty of the night I suppose tempts them. 
 Ah ! they are here.' 
 
 His face li>{hts. The white boat grates on 
 the sand, and the three young people come 
 up the craugy slope, the gay voices and 
 young laughter coming to where they linger 
 and wait. 
 
 • Prithee, why so sad, fond lover, prithee 
 why ao pale ? ' sings the girl, and slips her 
 hand through Rene's arm, and gives him a 
 shake. 'Sure if looking glad won't win 
 her, will looking sad avail!' I dont know 
 whether I've cot it right or not, but that's 
 the sense. Johnny, do you know if Inno- 
 conte Desereaux has been trampling on our 
 lleue more than usual to-day ? Because ' 
 
 'Hush! can't you?' retorts Johnny, 
 giving her a fraternal dig with his elbow, 
 ' don't you see ? The Marble (Juest ! ' 
 
 ' Con-found him ! ' mutters iieue. Snow, 
 ball, have nothing to say to him ! Cro up to 
 your room and go to bed. You muDt be up 
 at dawn tn-morrow morning, remember.' 
 
 ' Good little girls ou^hc to be in bed at 
 nine o'clock anyhow,' chimes in J'/hnny, 
 severely, 'do, Snowball. Get some bread 
 and milk in the kitchen, like a little dear, 
 and Rene will go up and tuck you in ! ' 
 
 Snowball receives this proposal with a 
 shout of derisive laughter, which if a triHe 
 Inudei' than Mere Maddeleua would approve 
 
 of, is altogether so sweet, so j'tyous, that 
 tbe two men waiting smile involuntarily 
 from sympathy. 
 
 ' My little girl ! ' the old doctor says, and 
 lays a loving hand on her curls. She has 
 snatohed off her sailor hat and is swinging it 
 as she walks. ' My boys, and my little 
 Snowball, Sir,' he says to the siiunt man 
 who stands beside him, * but you have met 
 before. You rowed this geutlemau over, 
 didn't you. Snowball ? ' 
 
 Snowball drops the son's armv and takes 
 that of the father. The stranger falln back 
 with Johnny. Rene walks ou ahead, wish- 
 ing his father and brother were a little more 
 discriminating in their unbounded hospi- 
 tality. 
 
 ' I don't like that fellow,' bethinks, 'and,' 
 rather irrelevantly this, ' Snowball will be 
 asked to play and sing for his aniuaement, 
 no doubt i Hospitality is a virtut>, perhaps 
 — but ever, a virtue may be carried to ex- 
 cess. ' 
 
 He is right — Snowball is asked to sing and 
 play, and does both, and quite brilliantly 
 too for a schoolgirl of sixtoen, but then they 
 are musical or nothing at Villa des Anged. 
 The instinct of coquetry is there, and fl<ish(S 
 out — no, let us be correct ; not co([uetry, 
 malicious mischief, and not for the captive- 
 tion of the stranger, but for the aggravation 
 of the silent and watchful Rene, who sits in 
 a corner with a ponderous tome ' Lives of 
 Artists and Sculptors ' held up as a shield, 
 and keeps watch and ward jealously behind 
 it. 
 
 ' Did you ever read the thrilling romance 
 of the 'Dog m the Manger,' Snowball?' 
 whispers Johnny, in the pause of one of 
 their concerted pieceo ; * just oast an eye at 
 Rene, and behold the tableau vivant ! ' 
 
 The stranger observes as well as the 
 speaker. Uis keen, half-closed, bla^k 
 eyes, take in everything. The pretty, 
 homely, lamp-lit parlour, whose only costly 
 
 t)ic'ce of furniture is the piauo, the white, 
 jenigu head of the doctor, the stal- 
 
82 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 W rt, hande'^me Johnny, like & model for an 
 athlflte or a Greek god, as you choose, the 
 silent, grave, intellectual Rene, and the bril- 
 liant young beauty, with the golden main 
 falling to her slender waist, the white hands 
 dying over the keys.and the blue eyes laugh- 
 ing over at Rene's ' grumpy ' face. 
 
 • Is that glum-looking youth in the corner 
 in love with her ? ' Vane Valentine wonders ; 
 • if so, why should she not marry him and 
 stay here all her life? That would be a way 
 out of the ditlicuity ; madam would never 
 trouble herself with the wife of M. Rene 
 Macdonald, and he is handsome too» if he 
 would only light up a bit, in a diflFerent way, 
 of course, from his brother. Why not ?' 
 
 There seems to be no why not. It seems 
 the most natural thing in the world, sitting 
 in his room later on, thinking it all over — 
 that the girl should marry one of these Mac- 
 dooald laila, and become socially extinct for 
 ever after. If loft to themselveci it would 
 inevitably happen, but who is to tell whither 
 this new craze may not lead Madam V Jen- 
 tine ? She still retains the picture of the 
 dashing little girl-sailor, still broods in se- 
 cret over her new-found dream. Tho woman 
 who hejitatea is lost — she is but hesitating, 
 he feels, before taking the final plunge that 
 may ruin his every hope for life. 
 
 He is here now without her knowledge. 
 He has found the spring heats down there at 
 Sr. Augustine too much for him, and has 
 cvime noith, ostensibly to see that everything 
 is gotten ready for her reception — in reality 
 to pay a dying visit to Isle Perdrix. and be- 
 hold for himself this formidable rival. He 
 has 8 en her, and Hnds her more dangerous 
 tian hit Wjrst fears. If Madan once 
 looked on tnat winning face, that enchanting 
 smile, that youthful grace, all is over— her 
 old heart will be taken captive at once. She 
 does not allure him — he is not suceptible, 
 and his heart — all the heart he has ever had 
 to give — went out of his possession many 
 years ago. 
 
 Heiiies late, descends, and findabreak- 
 f.isc and tho doctor awaitinf^ him. It is ten 
 o'clock. He apologizes, pleads late habits, 
 and the evil custom of sitting up late. The 
 doctor waives all exouses— his time is his 
 guest's. 
 
 ' I must be going before noon,' Mr. Valen. 
 tine remarks ; ' there is a train leaves St. 
 Gildas about eleven, I find. I owe you a 
 thousand thanks for your kind hoppitalitv, 
 my dear doctor. My visit to Isle Perdrix 
 will long remain delightfully in my memory.' 
 ' Very pretty talk, but where the duce,' 
 ho is thinking, ' are the rest ? ' 
 
 The doctor sees the wandering glance. 
 
 • My young paople started on an excursion 
 
 down the bay at daylight,' he says, ' and will 
 not return before night. They left their 
 adieu X with me.' 
 
 Which is a polite fiction on the doctor's 
 part, no one having given the stranger with< 
 in their gates so much as a thought. Well, 
 it does not signify — he has seen her, and 
 found her a foeman worthy of his steel. 
 
 He departs. Old Tim prosaically rows him 
 on the return trip, and he takes the eleven 
 express, and steams out of St. Oildas with the 
 memory of a sparkling, laughing blonde face 
 to bear him company, 'a dancing shape, an 
 image gay, to haunt, bewilder, and waylay ' 
 all the way he goes. 
 
 Two weeks later. Madam Valentine and 
 her attendants are located with their penates 
 in that luxurious domicile that is called for 
 the time, ' nnme ' Rut the end of May has 
 in store for Vane Valentine a still greater 
 change — Sir Rupert Valentine dies, it has 
 taken him many years to do it,;k>ut it is done 
 at last. 
 
 Tiie baronet is dead — live the baronet ! 
 S^r Rupert is gathered to his fathers, and 
 other relations, and Sir Vane steps into hia 
 shoes — his title — his impoverished estatOj his 
 gray, ivy-grown, ancestral manor. It is sud- 
 den at last — is death ever anythine else ? — 
 and Miss Dorothea writes him to come with- 
 out delay. The family eolioitor also write?, 
 his presence is absolutely needed — things 
 are in a terrible tangle — Sir Vane must 
 come and see if the muddle can bo set 
 straight. He lays those letters — his Lrown 
 complexion quite chalky with emotion — be- 
 fore his aunt and arbiter. 
 41' Certainl}-, my good Vane, certainly,' that 
 great lady says, with more cheerful alacrity 
 than the ineUnch ily occasion seems to d( • 
 mund ; ' go by all meansj and at once. Any 
 money that may be needed, for repairs, etc., 
 ahall be fortl.oo uini;, of course. Remember 
 me to your sister and Miss Camilla Rooth.' 
 
 Time has been when Vane Valentine 
 Would have hailed this as the apex of all his 
 hfipes. That time is no more. He is torn 
 with doubt. To leave Madam Valeiitineand 
 her fortu le for many weeks — montho, it may 
 be, who can, at this critical juncture, tell 
 what may not happen in tho interval ? She 
 may do as he has done — sho may visit St 
 Gildas. Ouce let her see that girl and all Ih 
 lost ! What is an ompty title, a handful uf 
 barren acres, a mortgaged Manor house, 
 compared with the fortune he risks? But 
 the risk must be run. Madam herself is 
 peremptory in urging him to go. 
 
 'The honour of the family demands it,' 
 she says, severely. ' You must go. Why do 
 you hesitate ?' 
 
 •■Ah! Why?' He looks at her almost 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 83 
 
 and will 
 eft their 
 
 doctor's 
 »er with* 
 [ Well, 
 her, and 
 ;eel. 
 
 rows him 
 he elevan 
 3 with the 
 onde face 
 shape, an 
 
 waylay' 
 
 mtine and 
 ir penates 
 called for 
 
 I May has 
 
 II greater 
 8. it has 
 , it ia done 
 
 1 baronet ! 
 thers, and 
 pa into his 
 estate, his 
 
 It is suil- 
 n2 else ? — 
 jome with- 
 i\8o write?, 
 ed— things 
 rane must 
 ^an bo set 
 
 lis l,rown 
 lotiun — be- 
 
 ftinly,' that 
 I alAcrity 
 ems to d(- 
 »nce. Any 
 jairs, etc., 
 llemember 
 la llooth.' 
 Valentine 
 of all his 
 He is torn 
 leiitmeand 
 thf>, it may 
 oture, tell 
 rval? She 
 V visit St^ 
 I and all is 
 handful of 
 lOr house, 
 laks ? But 
 herself is 
 
 bmands it, 
 ). Why do 
 
 ler almost 
 
 aisrrily, and would 'talk bsoli ' if he dared 
 B. t (liscrdtion is the better part of val> u — 
 the risk must he run. With a gloomy bruw, 
 and a foreboding spirit, the new Lord of 
 Valentine and his portmanteau depart. 
 
 And then, what he most fears, comes 
 straighs to pas^. Ere the good ship that 
 bears him has plowed half the Atlantic, 
 Madam Valentine, attended by her maid, is 
 on her way, as fast as express trains can 
 whirl her, to St. Gildae, to see with her own 
 eyes the original of the daring photograph 
 sue looks at every day. 
 
 *>•» 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LA REINE BLANCHE. 
 
 ' A lady for you, ma mere.' 
 So sa)8 Sister Humiliana, and lays a card 
 betoro Mere Maddeiena, who fiits busily 
 writing ia her bare little room. The mother 
 looks up, and at the curd, and knits her 
 brows. 
 
 ' Valentine ?' she saj'S, ' We have no one 
 of that uaniti, my uiater. ' 
 
 * No, my mother. L'urhaps it is some one 
 who coni^B concerning a new pupil. Stie ia 
 in the tecoud parloiu. It i juue giande dame, 
 ma mere.' 
 
 ' I;i is well, ma foeur, I will go.' 
 Mertj Maodeleia lajs dov*nnerpen with 
 some reluctance, for blie is very busy. To- 
 day there are the cloaiug exercises of the 
 school, distribution of premiums, addresses, 
 gradulation speeches, awarding of gold 
 medals, wreaths, etc., with music, and a 
 dramatic pertormance. And ' His Grandeur' 
 is coming, and many other very great per- 
 son iges, iuy and ejjlesiastical, amou^ them a 
 UisiiDguished English * milor ' and his lady. 
 All tUbse dignitaries Mere Maddeiena has 
 to receive and entertain; her giih are to 
 have one last drilling in their parts— a thous- 
 and things are before her. And now she is 
 called to waste her golden moments, in 
 fu ile talk, it may be, in the second parlour. 
 But she ^otis, with her slow, stately step, a 
 very ideal lady abbess, serene of tace, 
 gracious of munuer — a very gracious manner 
 — quite the mien of a princess. And with 
 some right, too, for Mere Maddeiena once 
 upon • time was a very great lady. So long 
 a>{o, so like a dream it seems to her now, 
 when it Hits for a moment across her memory. 
 In the days of the Second Empire, when the 
 glory and the splendour thereof tilled the 
 uarth, no braver soldier marched to the 
 Crimea, among the legions of Lmis Napo- 
 leon, than Colonel, the Count de llosiere. 
 Among all the brilliant ones of a brilliant 
 court, few outshone Laure, Countess do 
 
 Koaiere, either in beauty, in birth, ov in 
 high-bred grace. She let him go, and mourn- 
 ed for her Feruand, p ^)y_he would retain 
 with the Cross of ih Lugion, a Marshal of 
 France. He did return— in his coffin, and 
 his fair young wife took her bruised heart 
 out of the world and into the cloister. At 
 first B e only entered en retraite, in those 
 early days of death and despair, and there 
 peace found her— a new peace, that no death 
 could take away. That was in the dim past 
 — Mere Maddeiena ia htre now, but uuder 
 the serge of her habit, uuder the humility of 
 the religeuse, the old court manners, the old 
 air noble, still remain. It is a very inspir- 
 ing and graceful presence that enters the 
 • second parlour ' and bows pror.iundly to the 
 eblerly lady, so richly robed, who sits 
 therein. 
 
 Madam Valentine 
 
 rises, and returns that 
 profound obt-isance, iuipieased at ouce by 
 the stately mien of the nua. 
 
 * Upon my word,' shetiuka, 'these French- 
 women, whether nuns or society beJlea, 
 have beauliful manntrs. I only hope she has 
 mauayed to luaiil a little of her high-bred 
 iuto this gill 1 h.xve come to see.' 
 
 ' Be stated, Madame.' Mere Maddeiena 
 says, and rtanda until her guest has «loiio so. 
 ' A grauie dame, truly ?' she thiaks, as their 
 f yea meet, 'aud a haudsoma and striking 
 face. ' 
 
 • My name, perhaps, may not be unfamiliar 
 to you, reverend mother,' begins the lady, 
 glancing at the card ; the mother still retains 
 'Valentine.' 
 
 ' It is unpardonable of me if I forgot, but 
 - "Valentine ? No, I do not recall that, ma- 
 dame. ' 
 
 ' And yet you have had a pupil here for 
 manv years, bearing that name, have you 
 not ? ' 
 
 ' A pupil? But no, madam — no one called 
 Valentine.' 
 
 ' Perhaps then she is called,' with some re- 
 luctance, ' Tiillon." 
 
 •T>illon? Stay! Ah i but yes, mad&me, 
 it is the little Dolores whom you mean. The 
 protpgto of our good Dr. Macdouald.' 
 
 • Doloros ? She never was called Dolores 
 that I kuow of. Snowball if you like — a 
 silly name.' 
 
 • The same— the aame ! But madame fails 
 to recollect —it was by uvadanie's permisaiuii 
 wo chiistened her Djlores. She was written 
 to on the subject.' 
 
 • Was I ? And when ? Who wrote ? I 
 rnmember nothing of it,' says Madam Valen- 
 tine, rather abruptly. 
 
 • It is many years ago now, fully six at 
 'oast. Midamo Mactlonald died, and the 
 iittle one was sent to U3. She had no uamo 
 
84 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 but the 8o foolish one of Snowball, and had 
 never beeu bapt z^d. Madame is aware,' de- 
 
 Ereoiatingly, ' we could not tolerate that, 
 r. Maodoiiuld wrote to his very good friwnii 
 M. Paul Farrar, then at Fayal, aud M. Paul 
 — he wrote to you, did he not 1 Or a mem- 
 ber of your f.imily, perhaps, £o; 'ihe requisitw 
 permission. 
 
 ' Hh-h ? to a n. :mbar of my family 1 1 ste,' 
 says niivhun'. jaroasuic voioo. 
 
 ' Ptro i-.-ii'.Q cHino we might do as we 
 
 fjleasea. A:m^ we called the ondd Marie Do- 
 ores. Is it possible, madame, thr*' this is 
 the firtt you have heard of it ? ' 
 
 ' Quite possible — the very tirst, my good 
 mothur. liufc it does not siguify at all. I 
 prefer Dolores to Saowball, which lu point of 
 facf 18 no name at uU. Well it is your Do- 
 lores then, that I have uome to see ' 
 
 Madame is ? ' 
 
 ' jler grandmother. I have never seen her 
 in my life ! You will wonder at that, my 
 mother, but her father, my only son, married 
 against my will, and to my jjreat and bitter 
 j{rief. He is dead many years since,' (this 
 c )Uver8atiou is carried on in French), 'and his 
 death I cease not to deplore. But toward 
 his child I did nou relent ; I banished her 
 from my si^ht. I sent her here. I fatigue 
 you, I fear, my good mother, with all these 
 family details.' 
 
 She speaks with a certain coldness, a cer- 
 tain h%ui;hty abruptness of manner, that she 
 IS apt unconsciously to assume when forced 
 to unveil ever so little of heart to strangers. 
 But Mere Maddelena's gentle, sympathetic 
 face makes the task easy. 
 
 ' Ah ! but no madame. I am interested. 
 
 I am sorry. It's all very sad for you.' 
 
 'I grow an old woman, I find,' Madam 
 
 '. Valentine resumes, still in that abrupt tone, 
 
 ' and I am lonely. Hhe — this girl— is nearer 
 
 !* to a>e than anything else on earth. It is 
 
 natural 1 should wish to see her, at least. 
 
 That's why I am here.' 
 
 ' Ah ! madame ! 'in profoundest sympathy, 
 ' ' and once having seen her you will love her 
 f BO dearly. It is a heart of gold — it is a child 
 of infinite talent, and goo(ine^8 and fir&ce. 
 A little wild and jealous, I grant you, but 
 what will you — it is youth. And a paragon 
 of beauty. We do not tell her that, you un- 
 derstand, but it is a loveliness most surpass- 
 ing. All Villa d«s A^nges will be desolate if 
 madame la boune niainan takes her away. 
 And next • 'ar she is to graduate. Surely 
 madame v.<< not take her away t ' 
 
 • If she is ,vh,'c you def. "ib6 her, I surely 
 will ! ' replies \f, ^onne muman, decisively. 
 • You paint a 'a?(uaal' ■! picture, my mother 
 Why, a t;-"' '*li« thfel ^ .%h & fortuue such ?.« 
 
 :t her 
 
 I can give her, may have the world 
 feet. S:xteeo years old, you say ^ ' 
 
 ' Nearer seventeen, I believp, and tail and 
 most womanly for h«>r bge. A>i I ma ihite 
 I'etite ! how we wili be sorry to lose y'>u 1 
 Shall I eend for her, madame, ti. . you 'U'V 
 see tor yourself ? ' 
 
 She siretiihes out h9r hand tc tho oo'l, 
 but the other stopi hi-r. 
 
 ' No,' she says, ' wait. I d<. rot r.iistrvbt 
 your jadgmeut, my mother, but I prefer to 
 judge for myself. Let me see her, hear her, 
 myself unknown, Hrat. II >w can I do this ? ' 
 
 'Most easily. Honour us with your pre< 
 senca at the exercises this afternoon. She is 
 to be crowned for exoellnnce ui music, an«< to 
 receive the second medal. ^She afterward 
 performs in a little vaudeville' we have dra- 
 matized fi'oni history, 'La Iltine Blanche' 
 we call it. When all is over, the pupila 
 mingle with the guests in the pa'-lours. You 
 can tnere see aud hear, and talk to her as 
 much as you like.' 
 
 'Tuat will do admirably,' madam says, 
 rising ; 'and now, as 1 am s-ire you are very 
 busy, reverend mother, I will detain you no 
 longer.' 
 
 ' Let me present you with one of our ad- 
 mission cards,' says Mere Maddelena, ri.'inj? 
 also ; * so many wish to assist at the closing 
 exhibition, that we are forced to protect onr> 
 selves against a crowd. Until thia uU v- 
 no'Mi, then, madame, au revoir.' 
 
 The portress glides forward with her key, 
 the big convent door opens and ..dout^s, and 
 Madame Valentine is out, driving in tier cab 
 through the streets of St. Gddas to i)«^r hotel. 
 
 Her calm mind is almost in a tumult of 
 hope, of fear. If this girl only provej t,« be 
 what Mere Maddelena makes her out, or 
 even half — what solace, what companion- 
 ship !iiay yet Ne ic store for her ! For even 
 in her repar*'- -^— and ehe honestly desires 
 to make jl- aiftti n's tirst thought ie of tstjlf, 
 ■>he(„row.s d >>> has admitted for the -ifBt 
 time, very loaely in her desolate old jkge. 
 Vuue Valentine is no companion. She half 
 fears, wholly distrusts him. She rebels 
 against the.sort of power he is beginning to 
 exercise over her. His impatience is too 
 manifest. 
 
 ' I shall not die yet, my good Vane,' 
 she thinks with a little bitter smile, 'even 
 to oblige you. How will you look, 1 wonder 
 ^heu you hear in Kngland that a graceful, 
 golden>haired granddaughter has usurped 
 your place? CJeorge's child — George's little 
 daughter 1 To think that she is over sixteen 
 and I have never seen her yet 1 ' 
 
 A pang of self-repn'ach passes through 
 her— a pa»ig that yet holds a deeper pity for 
 herself. 
 
 * Ho ,x- 
 year? \ti 
 
 tnigni hak 
 won > -r 
 c<>,.,o, or 
 What if s 
 doctor aiK 
 her alwa^ 
 But I woi 
 Still aht 
 has so mvi 
 nothing bi 
 n t kick 
 scale ? N 
 Valentine, 
 in which 
 wasted lif 
 young gi. 
 How who 
 /it will 
 with slow 
 dead — oh 
 I refused « 
 times over 
 Sh<) ccui 
 the hour 
 does not 
 to bear hei 
 hunr.ved 
 Is this 
 silent mist I 
 walking re 
 The houi 
 but l[Hhort , 
 ecends, am 
 .A.nges. A 
 for the last 
 direction. 
 
 A waitin 
 
 and several 
 
 in the long 
 
 going to til 
 
 gre«u drov 
 
 fans wave, 
 
 of roses an 
 
 eccle-iastic; 
 
 ous priests, 
 
 his la<ly— a 
 
 Sist«r« in 
 
 abour, and 
 
 of iuiioceii' 
 
 carefully ai 
 
 of V.lLadeB 
 
 «it. Mreaths 
 
 kids on thei 
 
 their brifjht 
 
 Altogether. 
 
 all in thron 
 
 grandfather 
 
 * very muni 
 
 convent, aft 
 
 eoufy'uiuouH 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 85 
 
 ,*' 
 
 iirst 
 
 half 
 ebela 
 Dg to 
 too 
 
 * Hov- Wind I have been ! \ ' linge 
 year? t-oese lonj;, lonelv, Wt.«terl years, r^he 
 mi^at have Uvt-n with me ; I mij^ht have 
 won l>-r lovu. What if now she refuses to 
 couid, or, if coining, comes relu ;tj»Mtly ? 
 Wnat if she prefers her friends here — thin 
 doctor and hi8 family, who ha.e cared for 
 her always? It would be (luito natural. 
 But I would feel it 1 George's child ! 
 
 Still she dtKJB not fear it i;reatly. Sht 
 has so much to offer — so much , they have 
 nothing but I tve. An<l how often does love 
 n .t kick the bea^n when gold is in the other 
 «aale? No one ever nays *no' to K itherine 
 Valentine. Sosiie dreams on — of a future 
 in which she will live over aj^ain her own 
 wasted life, in the bright young life of thin 
 young til How happy she wtil make her I 
 How wholly .Niie will wic her heirt ! 
 
 'it will a* 'me,' she says and her eyes fill 
 with slow tearf, 'to the living and to the 
 dead — oh ! most of all. to the dead ! What 
 I refused the father shall be giveu,|a thousand 
 times over to the chihl.' 
 
 SiM ccuuts thel ;)urs with impatience until 
 the hour she can return to the villa. She 
 does not wish to go too soon, and bo forceil 
 to bear her impatience under the eyes of a 
 huDilred people. Her maid stares at her. 
 Is this her calm, stdf-repressnd, proudly 
 silent mistress— this fevrrish, Hushed womnr, 
 walking restleshly up aad dona her room? 
 
 The hour strikes at last ; the distance is 
 butljshort, a carriai.e is waiting. Site de- 
 euends, and is driven back to Villa des 
 .-Vnges. A stream ot people and cariiaijes 
 for the lust half hour has setting in the same 
 direction. 
 
 A waiting sister receives and escorts her, 
 and several other arrivals to au upper seat 
 in the long and lofty hall. It ia rather like 
 going to the theatre — there is the stage, the 
 green drop curtain, and silks rustk, and 
 fiiOH wave, Bu I plumes ooit, aod «a od ur as 
 of rosfs and violets abounds. Here is the 
 eccle-iastical el.-Tnent, a biuhop, and numef- 
 ous priests, here is the iiritiuh personage and 
 his lady — an imposing aasenibiage as a whole. 
 Sisters in bliick vails and wliite coifs, Hit 
 abour, and all ahm^'oiM side, tier upon tier 
 of iiiiH»cen<;e, white Swiss, blue sashes, ami 
 carefully arranged trenes, sit the ' angels' 
 of Vdla dee An^^^es. Sdent and demure they 
 ait, wreaths on their youthful heads, white 
 kids Oft their ange<i<: hands, dar.ciiig light in 
 their brif;ht eye«. ic isau <'tteotive picture 
 altogether, aiid so thinks madam, taking it 
 all in through her douUe eye-glass. The 
 grandfather of many Valentines mirrht be in 
 a very mu'ih worse place tlian t^it; Ijanailian 
 tiouvent, after alL Maiisjii has oeen given a 
 eoufpuiaoan seat ajanwi; the nobility aud 
 
 gentry, and in an excellent position to <<oe 
 everything. Bills of the performance, white 
 uatin, gold lettering, attar of roses, are dis- 
 tributed. vShe glanc »8 ea'rerly at her" ..od 
 sees the nau.a 'or which n'.io looks 'La Heine 
 Blanche — A I rama in Thitci Aclj ! Marie 
 Stuart Mille, D.i o es Macdontl i !* 
 
 There is a fist of other names— madam 
 cares to read no further. That name occurs 
 in two or three places, as performer of a 
 ' Moonlight Sonata,' as soprano in a quartet, 
 as sectmil medalist. She hears the murmur 
 of voices about her, she sees a sea of faces, 
 but she takes in n« details — carts tor none . 
 Yes, once she is slightly awakeneil. Two 
 young men in a seat iiear bar are dihcussicg 
 the coming entertainment in vivacious tones. 
 
 ' (»dt lettering — ess, bouquet — white sat- 
 • ii,' says one, snilHig at his programme, 
 ' when Mere Mad<lelena does this sort of 
 thing she does it. Drilled the girls, too, in 
 their parts, and you will see they will do 
 her honour. She does not forget, she once 
 t<K>k her part in private theatricals at the 
 emit of Napoleon Tf'Jrd.' 
 
 ' I see Snowball down for the * White 
 Queen,' says the second voice ; ' site will 
 look the part very fairly, at least, if she can- 
 not net it. She is not unlike the picture of 
 the Q'leen of Scots — the same oval type of 
 face, the same alluring sort of smile, I should 
 fancy. Snowball will not make halt' a bad 
 Mane Stuart. I saw R'stori in thepirtin 
 New Yotk not long ago.' 
 
 ' Well Snowball won't equal Riscori cer- 
 tainly, but my sister Inno says, she does 
 herself and Meie Maddelena much credit by 
 lier luudering. Look at this venerable part ; 
 on our right,' says M. Vi ;tor Desereknx, 
 the photo,^rapher, lowering his voice, • *>er 
 blaek eyes are going through us — you p u 
 ticularly- like gimlets.' 
 
 Rene Macdonald, still half smiling, 
 glances carelesly. The ' venciable partv ' 
 1 loks botli haughts and ^'spleased he ueea 
 that. Who are these oung men who are 
 disoussun; her j rin<l ughttT — I.er grand- 
 daughter ? Our iSnowljall, forsti )th ! Tiiea 
 it dawns upon her— ^»ne of thes:i may be, 
 must i»e the dootor's eon. What if — a (juite 
 new and a!*^^ogerher unpleasant idea strikes 
 her— what if Djiorea — pshaw ! the child is 
 but tivteen, autl v.. J) no thou;;ht, doubtless, 
 beyond her piano playing and school books. 
 Hut her keen eyes linger on his face. Is 
 this young man handsome ? W«.li, hardly, 
 and yet it is a tine face, a sciiktng faott, a 
 clear-cut olive face, full of promiiui aad 
 power. 
 
 • Who ever loved, that loved notatfi's* 
 si^ht ?' (juotes Victoi J)<'8"rettnrf. * it is a. 
 case, Reue, my ineud. The eldfjrly party 
 
 
 M 
 
 
86 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 has Bucoumbed to your charmfl, she can't 
 take her venerable eyeglasseB off your too 
 captivating face. If aucti ia the havoc you 
 worV. with a glance upon sixty years, what 
 — '»h I what must it seem when the victim is 
 but sixteen ?' 
 
 The or> ;'istra burst forth at the moment, 
 and drowns l;i< persillaue, and the perfor- 
 mance ooinmenoHx. Ces demoiselles, in airy 
 white Swiss, Hash on and olF, 'epeik pieces,' 
 sing songs, play the piano, make lovely 
 courtesi-^s to the au'lience, aptiear and dis- 
 appear. Madam Valeutiue sees them, and 
 sees thtitu not , they are uot the rose, they 
 but grow near that peerless flower. She is 
 hot with impatience— her nerves are pulling 
 hard . Wliy does not 6his foolery end, and 
 the drama begin ? It is the piece r<e resis- 
 tance of the day, and is kept until lesser 
 matters are well out of the way. But its 
 turn comes at last, and Marie Stuart, the 
 child-wkdow of the Diuphin, in the snowy 
 robds of her royal widowhood, 'worn accord- 
 ing to. uusitom by the queens of France, 
 hence called reines blanches,' stands before 
 them. Thero is a murmur— a whisper — 
 • Saowbair — \ sort of vibration all through 
 theaudienoo, fairly takeubysurpriseatsutllen 
 sight of al' that blonde bfiauty and gr;ioe. 
 In thoae trailing paarly robes (white silk), 
 herflixen rinj/lets falling to her waist, with 
 blue slar-liktt t^yes, but delicate rosebud face, 
 those loi>8eIy clasped haudi>, nhe is a vision. 
 Not Mi»ry Stuart herself, in the days when 
 her radiant loveliness wj4 a world's wonder, 
 could — it "^tunas to thoiie v,ho look — have 
 outshone i.hi.^ 
 
 * My faith I' says the lowered voice of M. 
 Di'-»^reaux. 'That little sister of yours is a 
 daziiluii^ beauty, my friend, ilene i How is 
 it ? I h:ive onl^ thougiit her a pretty 
 Utile girl, hitherto.' 
 
 is Hone Maodonald asking himself ibuesime 
 question ? 
 
 He loans forward, his dark eyes kindling, 
 watching every motion,, drinking iu every 
 wor !. 
 
 If this Snowball — little madonp Snowball, 
 witu whom he has been '^^j:: i, k-eliii / all hii 
 life ; whom he Lafl pelt*.'! Hind .vit:,. her 
 namesakes, every winter; wt-.-n! hi has 
 snubbed and contradiote(j, ; rd put doi-. •, on 
 
 every ocuaxion ? Tois fairy vi*;' jo ihis 
 
 radiant R-iotJ ftlanche, the mockiiif», t ^la- 
 perating mischief-inaker, whose breath r»e 
 has half shaken out of her body 'ratwhile, 
 for hnr praok-s, whose '.I'i. he has iviaked, 
 whose misdeeds on th« hgh seas he ha; re- 
 probiteii? He feels i*f':>:id. Has h.e been 
 ulind — or is tho dr«B she wuara - I'e has 
 never seen her walkiug iu silk attire botare 
 
 — 's it hifl three monthg abseno in New 
 "i ("-k — what is it ? 
 
 He has never seen this girl before, 
 sioina to him, in his life — never, certainly, 
 with the same dazzled eyes. 
 
 Will she be his commonplaje, every-day 
 Saowbill to-morrow, and will this glamour 
 have gone ? 
 
 Me almost hopes so ; he does not know 
 bimaelf — or her -in this m'tod. 
 
 And still the play goes on — other p«ople 
 seem to be under the spell of the siren, 
 too. 
 
 She ia singing, now, with ' tears in her 
 voice,' in a vailed, vibrating tone, that goes 
 to the heart : 
 
 •' Adieu ! O plaisant pays de France, 
 O ma pattie !" 
 
 And sp on. 
 
 She is leaving that sunny land for a bleak 
 land. 
 
 How low, how hushed is her voice ! She 
 seems to feel the words she sings. You may 
 hear a piu drop iu th*t loug and crowded 
 hall. 
 
 \nd now the curtain is down, and the 
 musio is playing, and the tir?t act is over, 
 and Rene Maodonald, like one who wakes 
 from a dream, leans back, and passes his 
 hand across his eyef, ai it to dispel a mist. 
 
 'My word of honour, Maodonald,' aays 
 young Deseresux, * she is a marvel. She 
 never looked like that before. How do you 
 suopose she docs it ?' 
 
 The whole judienoe is in that flutter 
 and stir that invariably follow the dropping 
 of a stage curtain. 
 
 All are discussing ' Li Reine Blanclie,' her 
 beauty, her surprising acting of tiie part, her 
 vaiiue resemblance to the lovely Scottish 
 (iuoeii, 
 
 Rene Maodonald sits nearly silent, lost in 
 a aort of dream — waiting with a tingling of 
 the pulses, a thrilling of the blood, a ciuick- 
 eitir.g of his calm heart-beats, altogether 
 new Hud inexplicable. 
 
 • Why should he care —like this— to see 
 Snowball ? He never has oared before? 
 
 The orchestra are playiny Hnmething very 
 brilliant—in the midst of it tho curtain risea 
 again. Yes— there is Mary Stuart, widow 
 once mor'j exiled — imprisoned. She stands 
 ou tho shore of Lichlevea, and Willie Don* 
 glas stands at her feet. 
 
 Tho white robes are gone — the floating 
 curls are hidden away under a velvet ' mood 
 —the face is sad and pde. Willie Douglaa 
 LneoN there, urging hur to Hy. 
 
 M. Victor Descreaux, with one eye on th* 
 play, keeps the other well ou other tbi»g», 
 and notices especially the rapt attenttMi of 
 the diguitied elderly lady, whose hard ataf^ 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 bleak 
 
 -to eee 
 ire? 
 
 iiig very 
 
 ,&\a riHta 
 
 willow 
 
 e stands 
 
 ie Dou- 
 
 floating 
 
 I itood *■ 
 
 DuUglM 
 
 e OD tb9> 
 
 thiaga. 
 
 int'uMx o£ 
 
 >»t Rene cauKht his attention from the first. 
 He Hees hfr now, all throu^^h this aot, sitting 
 erect, a tlusb en her thin cheeks, an eager 
 light in her Hne ^yes, 
 
 i\ll present are interested, but none to the 
 same extent. Who is whe ? he wonders. 
 Snowball has no relatives that any one 
 knows of. Whosoever she may be, she is 
 vividly absorbed ia the fair little heroine 
 o' the drama. 
 
 And now it is the third and closins; act — 
 the very last scene. She miijht be called La 
 iJoiie Noir as she stand?*, all in black — 
 blauk velvet — (een)— that trails f-^r behind, 
 and gives height and dignity to slim sixteen, 
 a stiflly starched ruiT, a dear little Mane 
 Stuart cap ou her blonde head. In that 
 sweeping robe, that rutf, that cap, Mile. 
 Trillou feels a very impoitant little person- 
 age indeed, and triads the boards every inch 
 a queen. She stands— her queenly head 
 ■well thrown back, her royal eyes Hashing, 
 her royal cheeks flushing, voice ringing — 
 (confronting and denouncing her great 
 enemy, Elizabeth of England. One of the 
 good sisters, with more love for the memory 
 of Mary Stuart than strict Hdelity to his- 
 toric facts, has written this drama, aud 
 herr, face to face, the rival oueeuH stand and 
 glare at eaoh other. Elizabeth, a tall, stout 
 young lady, in ru(T and faithingale, aud 
 couspicuoUHly llamu-coloured hair, cowers, 
 strong minded though she be, before the 
 outraged majeftty of that glance, and is alto- 
 getiier crushud an<I annihilated by the elo- 
 qut'Ut outburst of regal wrath and reproach 
 with which the royalty of Scotland Kually 
 ({iienchtis her. But marry ! what avail re- 
 1»>-Mache8? Mario Scuart is sentenced aud 
 iloo nel to die. 
 
 The last scene ; <lim light ; mournful 
 music ; selemu, expectant hutih, and Mary 
 SlUiifC, still in trailmi; velvet — black, wear- 
 iog a oig v.-i'/ca^r^i g a crnuilix followed 
 by her niitids ot honour, with lacu mouchoirs 
 to their dry eyes, ii led forth to die. It is 
 only a school play, but there is the block, 
 sable, and suggestive, tlutu is the heads- 
 iiiau, in a frightful little black mask, and — 
 nu>:<t dreailful of all— there is a horribly 
 bright and outting-iooking meat axe. It is 
 only a soliool play, but liene Macdonald is 
 pale with vague emotions as he sits and 
 looks. If it were nial ? How white she is, 
 in that biacK dress — how tall it makes her 
 IdOHL, how mournful are the blue, steadfast 
 eye^, that never leave the symbol she carries. 
 Thu low wailing of the orchestra gives him a 
 ilesdlate sense of loss and pain. lie wishes 
 they would stop. There is deepest silence, 
 'Into Thy hands I commend my spiiit. ' 
 Huw despairiu^ly the solemn words full. 
 
 She kneels, her eyea are bandaged. ' with a 
 Corpus Chrisli cloth, by Mistress Kennedy,' 
 saith history. 
 
 The sweet face droops forward, the golden 
 head rests on the block. The head-man 
 lifts ia both hands the flittering axe ! Tiitra 
 is a sound —a sound as of hard-drawn breaths 
 through the hall, then — it is the curtain 
 that falls, and not the axe. Music aud light 
 Hash up ! 
 
 Mary Stuart has had her head comfortably 
 oir, and her manifold troubles are over ! 
 
 ' Parbleu I ' savs M. Dusereaux, and 
 laughs. 
 
 Rene falls back ; he has been leaning 
 forward in that almost pamful tension — ht* 
 is thoroughly glad it is over. 
 
 • Why Rene, old fellow,' his friend says, 
 ' how p-ile you look. If little Boule »le-iieiga 
 were really uettint; her pretty head ofl", you 
 could hardly put on a more tragic face ! ' 
 
 ' I find it close here.' Rsne says, with 
 some impatience. ' I wish it w.is over. 
 What comes next ? ' 
 
 He looks at his satin slip, but when the 
 next comes he hardly heeds. How lovely 
 she looked I Who would have thought it 
 was iu her to throw herself into a powerful 
 part like that? A clever little head in spite 
 of its wealth of sunny curls ; odd he should 
 never have found it out before* She Mill 
 appear again presently to play — uf tor ward to 
 ■sing, She will do both well ; he knows her 
 mu-ical power at least. 
 
 She comes - this time in the white Swiss 
 and wreath ot the other peuaionnairc-s — n 
 school-^irl — no longer a white (lueen She 
 receives her crown and meual fiuin Episco- 
 pal hands, and has a few gracious words 
 spoken to her by that very great vioe-regal 
 personage, and tlat ofier distinguisheU 
 visiter, ' My Lady,' by his side. 
 
 Then there follows the general distribu- 
 tions of priz?a, and the bishop and the p»-r- 
 Bonugen are k'pt busy for awhile, and 
 literally have their hands full. TniH, too, 
 ends, and meeting and mingling iu the 
 pailours, and coiigratuiations aud mdd re* 
 fre^hments are to follow. 
 
 Everybody rises and moves away. Siste 
 Ignatia, second iu command, comes t^ 
 Madam Valentine. Mere Maddeleua is of 
 course devoting herself to her patrons, aud 
 the persouaiie and my laiiy. 
 
 ' You will come to the parlours, ma lam ? ' 
 asks smiling Sr. Ignatia. ' I fear you must 
 be tired. It was rather long.' 
 
 ' I did not tiud it so. 1 unve been deeply 
 interested,' replies madam, truthfully, 
 ' they acquitted themselves exuelleutly, one 
 and all. The performance leaves nothing to 
 be desired.' 
 
 
8( 
 
 fci 
 ta 
 
 ci 
 w 
 
 bi 
 
 ai 
 It 
 
 M 
 
 «i 
 c 
 
 R 
 I 
 
 h 
 
 t 
 t 
 I 
 t 
 c 
 I 
 i 
 1 
 
 88 
 
 LOST FOE A WOMAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 ' And Dolores ? ' says the sister, gently ; 
 ' VA''<)<*n, but Reveren*'. Mother hai told m« 
 all. How do you iiud your grand-daughter, 
 madame ? ' 
 
 ' iSo c-harmiiie, my sister/ Buys madam, 
 imilini;; her briKhteat in retu>'n, ' that my 
 mind is qiiito made up. When I leave 8t. 
 Gildas my graud«daughtor leaves with me I ' 
 
 CHAPTEll X. 
 
 ADIKU ! O PLAISANT PAYS DE FRANCE I 
 
 Three lonjjparlours.en suite, are filled with 
 admiring, congratulating, pleased papas and 
 mammas, as 8'. I^natia with Madame Valen- 
 tine, make their way through. Many eyes 
 follow (turiouily the uistin^uishedlookiug 
 elderly lady so tl«)i;ant]y simple of dress, so 
 proudly severe A face— a face that seems cut 
 in ivor' hearing uninistakahly the stamp of 
 
 * the wc. .1.' There are introductions — the 
 two titled people, the bishop, a few otherA 
 of the more elect — ind it then escorted to an 
 easy chair, Hlii{htiy raised, whence, at her 
 eaad she mii^ht sit and view the rooms. A 
 very brilliant picture it is, very animated - 
 all the smiling papas and mammas, and the 
 
 * sistrrs and the cousins and the aunts ; ' the 
 pupils chit tly in S A'iss and rosebuils, but the 
 a(;tresHcs all retaining their fancy dresses. 
 Tae Kmpreks Josephine, in the costume of 
 the Fir^t Empire, her waist>belt under her 
 irns, balloon sleeves and puffed hair, is 
 sauntering arm in arm with that imaginary 
 young mise, who but now, in a scarlet blouse 
 and black velvet mask, chopped off a royal 
 head. Joan of Arc is present in a helmet of 
 shining silver paper, a sMeld of the same ir- 
 vincible armour, a i-a sword by her side.and 
 valour on her lofty Lrow. 
 
 Marie Antoinette Hits by pretty and 
 piquant, and looking none the worse for her 
 misadveutures, all and sundry in the temple. 
 All the su^jar plums of French history are 
 there— BUnche Castile, queen and saint; 
 Genevieve, peasant girl and patroness of 
 Paris. An<l last, but not least— ever charm- 
 ing Mary Stuart, in full feather, black velvet 
 cap, ruff-t, and st' macher, all dotted over 
 with sham pearls. Blue eyes sparkle, long 
 ringlets How red lips smile -a dainty fan of 
 black and gold (lutterH coquettishly — she 
 looks to the full as alluriug as her bewitch- 
 ing prototype. 
 
 Ma lam Valentine sits, unable for a 
 moment to take her entaaucrd eyes off this 
 brilliant little (|ueen of the revels. 
 
 ' Shall I bring her up now, madam ? ' asks 
 deferentially, Sister Iguatia. 
 
 ' If you please, sister, stay ! who is that 
 young man ? ' 
 
 ' That is M. Ren© Maodonald, the elder 
 son of our doctor, of Isle Perdrix, and the 
 brother — oomprenea vous— of mademoiselle.' 
 
 • I see. Yes, bring her up.' 
 
 The brother — comprenez voui — of made- 
 moiselle had just stopped her, by catching 
 cue yellow curl and puUi/ig it out to a pre- 
 postnroua length. 
 
 ' VV^ill it please your decapitateil mnjesty 
 of Scotland to cant ail eye on the most un- 
 worthy of your subjects ? ' he inquires ; and 
 Suowball, turning quickly, gives a little bO* 
 static screan^a 
 
 • Rene ! ' Both hand* go out to him in a 
 rapture of welcome. • Dearest boy ! When 
 did you come?' 
 
 • Dearest boy ! Ah ! happy Ron© ! ' sighs 
 M. Dtjsereaux and takes himself otT. 
 
 'Today, CDiipIo <'f himrs ajjo,' answers 
 Rene, inwardly much gratified by his recep- 
 tion, outwardly nonchnlant, * ja-*t in time to 
 see you beheaded . You di<l it very well, 
 Snowball. I dare say we shall almost be 
 proud of you one of these days. So 
 Johnny's gone ! ' 
 
 'Yes,' says Snowball, and a sigh; big, 
 deep, sincere, heaves up from the depths of 
 her wha eboned stomacher, ' Johnny's gone. 
 And oh ! how 1 have misaed him. ** The 
 heart may break, yet brokenly live on' — 
 was it Byron who sail that? It is dread- 
 fully tru«», and I am a living example. My 
 heart broke when Johnny sailed for Liver- 
 pool, and even the pieces went with him. 
 Dear, dearest boy! (I mean Johnny this 
 time, not you. ) Life is a waste and howling 
 wilderneas without him. And to think he 
 will not be back for two long months to 
 come 1 ' 
 
 Another sigh, deeper, if possible, than the 
 first. And a very real one ; Suowball is as 
 deeply desolated as Snowball well can b©, at 
 the loss of her Johnny, John Mr.cdoiiald has 
 gone for a sailor, has accompliuhed the de- 
 sir© of his heart to plow the ra^jing main . 
 He is going to do his pi jwing however, under 
 unusually favourable circunistances — tlie 
 captain is his cousin. No duckiiug ever toi.k 
 to water from its hatching more naturally or 
 lovingly than he. 
 
 • And it is but the beginning of the end 
 think of that,' says uusytnpathetio ll«ne, 
 •now that he has got a taste of tar and l)ilgo- 
 water you will never be able to keep him 
 on laud while he lives.' 
 
 ' As if I needed you to remind me of 
 that ! ' reproachfully. ' As if it ever was 
 out of my thoughts. First you went— al- 
 though that was only a happy release — the 
 island was like paradise for awhile after. 
 And then came Captain Campbell for Johnny 
 and he — ' 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 80 
 
 lonald, the elder 
 
 'enlrix, and the 
 
 )f mademoiselle.' 
 
 )' 
 
 voufl — of made- 
 
 ber, by catching 
 
 it out to a pre- 
 
 ipitated rnxjeBty 
 i the most un- 
 e iiKiuir^H ; and 
 ;ivfla a little bc> 
 
 out to him in a 
 est boy ! When 
 
 )y Rene ! ' sighs 
 nolf off. 
 
 8 a(;o,' answers 
 Bd by hifl recep- 
 * jiHt in time to 
 ,i<l it very well, 
 shall almost be 
 lese dayfl. So 
 
 nd a aigh; bijr, 
 1 the depths of 
 ' Johnny's gone, 
 ed him. "The 
 kenly live on' — 
 f It is dread- 
 example. My 
 lilwd fur Liver- 
 ent with him. 
 n Johnny this 
 bste and howling 
 ud to think he 
 lung months to 
 
 tssible, than the 
 Snowball is as 
 well can be, at 
 I Mr.cdoijald has 
 idhed the de- 
 I racing maia. 
 however, under 
 urndtanceg — f.lie 
 kiiug ever took 
 ore naturally or 
 
 ig of the end. 
 pathetic liene, 
 if tar and bilgu- 
 to keep him 
 
 remind me of 
 if it ever was 
 you went — al- 
 )y release — the 
 r awhile after, 
 tbell fur Johuuy 
 
 •Jumped at it,' says Rene, as Snow- 
 ball falters and actually places a lace 
 pocket-handkerchief gingerly to her eyes, 
 'only too thankful to get away from the 
 ceaseless hen-pecking — chicken pecking, per- 
 haps I should say. that he has been suffer- 
 ing from all his life. You see I judge of 
 his feelings by my own. Y.m don't ank 
 me what fort of time I have bean having in 
 New York, Snowball.' 
 
 ' BecauNe I don't oare. Because I know 
 selfish people who only think of themselves, 
 enjoy life wherever they go. Of course,' re- 
 sentfully, ' you have been having a good 
 time, while I have been breaking my hear !' 
 
 * Broken hearts become some people, I 
 think,' says Rene laughing, 'and you^s need 
 bn very badly broken, indeed, to enable you 
 to nOi Mary Stuart » o \ amore, as you did. 
 I know it nenrly broke mine to look at you. 
 Yes, Miss Trillon, I hnve been having a 
 good time. I lik»! New York ; I like sculp 
 ture; I like my taste for Bohemia. And I 
 am going back next week.' 
 
 * Next we k ! Seven whole days — one 
 hundred and sixty-eight hours I Do you 
 mean to tell me we are to be afflicted with 
 yonr society all that time ? ' 
 
 These little customary ameniti"" have been 
 going on while Sister Ignatia mnkes her way 
 through the moving thronpr. She smiles and 
 beckons to Suowball, at this juncture catch- 
 ing her eye. 
 
 ' There ! Sister Ignatia wants me. Come 
 on.' 
 
 •^ She shoves her white kid hand through 
 Rene's arm, and walks him captive in the di- 
 rection of the Sister. 
 
 * Sister Ignatia may want you ; she may 
 not want me. There is Innocente Pesereaux, 
 too, looking lovely as Queeu Blanche. I 
 haven't spoken to her.' 
 
 * Oh, come on ! Never mind Innocente 
 Desereaiix ! She will survive, I dare say, if 
 you never speak to her. I am sure you 
 never have anything so agreeable to say. 
 Sour things always keep well ! Inno can 
 wait.' 
 
 Snowball may ! bicker with him, but she 
 holds him fast, a not unwilling captive. Per- 
 haps this sort of repartee is the spice of life 
 to them, the sauce piquant, the lecven that 
 lightens the whole. At this moment Snow- 
 ball iR proudly thinking there is not Rene's 
 equal in the room . 
 
 'And how nicely he is dressed,' thinks 
 this demoinelle of sixteen, though tortures 
 wouM not have wrung the admission from 
 her. ' Tiiat is a mo^t hecoming puit — New 
 Y'ork, I suppose. And that assumed man- 
 ner — his lofty way of carrying himself. A 
 young man should always walk well. New 
 
 York again. But no — Rene always had an 
 air of distinction, the air noble Mere Madde- 
 lena savs she likes. You beckoned to me, 
 Sister !' (Aloud) 'Did you not ?' 
 
 * Yes, oherie. Do you ^ee ihat lady yon- 
 der, in black, with the caahmere shawl and 
 lace bonnet ? ' 
 
 * My ohl lady, by Jupiter ! ' ejaculates 
 Rene. ' Lady Macbeth returned to earth ! ' 
 
 ' li'ioking all that there is lofty and unap 
 proachable — ves, I see,' replies mademoiselle. 
 • Who is she'?' 
 
 * She is Madam Valentine,' answers the 
 Sitter, ooking attentively at her ; 'and she 
 wishes very much that I should present you.' 
 
 Snowball has many things at this moment 
 to think of — the name conveys nothing to 
 her mind ; but it strikes Rsne with a certain 
 nnpleastnt consciou-n'^sf — surely it is a name 
 he hss hear'* somewhere before ! 
 
 * Wants to know me I ' exclaims Snowball, 
 with open-eyed surprise. ' Now why, I 
 wonder? ' 
 
 'Come,' says Sr. Ignatia, and leads the 
 way. Still sh clings to her captive knii:ht, 
 who now makes a second tffurt to break his 
 bonds. 
 
 ' Let go. Snowball. The severe old lady 
 in the goigeous raiment doesn't want me. I 
 will take you home whenever you want to 
 
 go' 
 
 ' Don't be foolish ! ' is Miss Trillon's only 
 
 reply. * The old lady will not keep me a 
 
 moment. " Distance lends enchantment to 
 
 the view." She will be glad to dismiss me in 
 
 about a second and a half.' 
 
 They stand before her with the words. 
 
 * Dolores,' says Sr. Igr.atia, briefly, ' this 
 lady IS Madam Valentine.' 
 
 Snowball drops her blue eyes under the 
 Hzed gaze of the piercing black ones, and 
 makes a sliding school obeisance, without a 
 word. The Sister perforce presents the 
 young gentleman. 
 
 'M. Rene Macdonald, madame.' 
 
 Rene, standing very erect, clicks his two 
 heels together, and bends his body forward 
 profoundly. The whole performance is so 
 French that Snowball gives him a mischievous 
 smile, and side glance from under her long 
 lashes. Madame Valentine stretches out her 
 hand, to the girl's threat burprise, and takes 
 one of hers in a close clasp. 
 
 ' My dear,' she says, and in the resolute 
 voice there is a tremour, ' yon do not know 
 who I am ? ' 
 
 Snowball is not embam ^od ; if she is, at 
 leaf-t, she does not show it. She lifts her 
 eyes and looks at the lady. S.'. Ignatia, at 
 the moment, feels a thi ill of pardonable pride 
 — the young lady's couipoBure is admirable. 
 
90 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ^1 
 
 ' No, madame,' «be uys, ' I have not that 
 honour.' 
 
 * My child— I am your grandmother I' 
 There i« an exclamation from II -me— it all 
 
 ruiihea upon him. He baa heard the name 
 from hia father. Snuwbaira fafinily are call- 
 ed Valentine. For her, ahe turna quite 
 white. 
 
 * Madame ! ' ahe aaya faintly, and atanda 
 — atunned. 
 
 ' You are auroriaed, dear child. It is no 
 wonder. Yea, I am your grandmother. I 
 have come here expreaaly to aee yuu. I in- 
 tdnd to take y.tu away.' 
 
 She lifta her eyea to Rene atanding beaide 
 her ; hia olive complexion haa blanched to 
 that dead white, dark faces take under the 
 intluence of Htrong emotion. 
 
 Involuntarily, uncouacioualy almoat, her 
 hand seek a hia. But on the moment he 
 turna, and with a low bow to the lady, f^oes 
 haatily dway. Siater Ijjnatia, too, turna and 
 leavea them alone. 
 
 Madam Valentiuo looka, with a sudden 
 senae of fear and pain at the face beaide her, 
 from which her words have in one inatant 
 driven colour and life. 
 
 ' Dear little one,' she says, 'you say 
 nothing. Have I been too sudden, or is it 
 — that you do not wani to come ? ' 
 
 8oow))all wakrs as from a dream. Sud- 
 den ! Yhs. Shu feels as if for a moment 
 her heart had stopped beating with the 
 shock of the surpriiie. She draws a long 
 breath, and the blue wistful eyo8 look 
 steadily into the dark ones bent upon her. 
 
 ' Ah, madame ! ' it is all she finds to say 
 for one tremulous moment. ' Yes — it has 
 been sudden — sudden I Mon Dieu ! my 
 grandmother 1 Oh, madame, are you in- 
 deed tuat ! ' 
 
 It is a very cry of orphanage. ' I am 
 sixteen and a half years old,' it seems to say, 
 ' and iu all my life I havQ known no one of 
 my blood. Why do you come to trouble me 
 now? ' 
 
 'I love them so dearly,' she goes on, 
 without waiting for a nply, ' so de.-irly, so 
 dearly. T.'iey are all I have ever known. 
 They have bt^ien so good to me — ao good ! ' 
 Her voice breaks. 
 
 ' Whom do you mean by ' they ' — that 
 young man for example ? ' asks madame, a 
 touch of her old, cold imperiouaness in her 
 voice. 
 
 ' My brother Rene ? Yea, madame ' — the 
 fair head lifts suddenly — ' he aa well ae the 
 reat. I mean all Fapn Maudonald, Mere 
 Maddelena, the Bistera, the Kirls, Johnny—' 
 
 ' Wno id Johnny, my little one ^ ' with a 
 aniiln. 
 
 * My other brother — Rene's brother. I 
 
 love them with all inv heart. I have been 
 with them all my life.' 
 
 * 1 know that. It S'lunln like a reproach 
 tu hear you say so. It ahuiild never have 
 been ; for you are mine. Uilores — you undur- 
 atanil '' -my very own 1 — my sou's daui^hter I 
 Ail 1 my little girl, I am an old woman ; 
 there is no one in all th« worid ho near to me 
 aa yt u. See I I ploa4l — bailly, I fear, for I 
 am not u<ied to wordi of plH«ilin^ I pleul 
 for your love Do not t{ive it all to tbeHo 
 good friends to whom I, too, am grateful. 
 Shall I ask in vain ? L'>ok at ine, dearest 
 child ; give me your haniU ; let your heart 
 Bpeak ; say ' I am looking at my father's 
 mother, who wishes in her old bjkc to make 
 up to his orphan daughter what hIic denied 
 to him.' It is reparation, my child. If you 
 come, it must be willingly, else nob at all. 
 I could not take with me a reluctant captive. 
 Speak, my child ; it is for you to say how it 
 shall be.' 
 
 They are in a crowded room, but to nil in- 
 tents and purpoaea they are alone. No one 
 obaerves them — if they dr>, A-hat is tiiere to 
 see ? An elderly lady in an arm-ohair, h')ld< 
 iiig the hands of a gracffwl ^irl in tlie dress 
 of (the Queen of Scuta — both fuce!4 earnest, 
 one pleading, one drooping, and atartled, and 
 pale. 
 
 ' I shall not hurry you.' the elder lady 
 goes on. * I know that you arc half-stunned 
 by the surprise and suddennesH of this, now. 
 You shall have days — weeks, if you will. 
 You ahall consult your friends— this good 
 doctor, this wise mother Matldelena. I will 
 not tear you from your dear (.nes ; you shall 
 always love them, an I vmit them : but yoii 
 shall not leave them all your heart. See ! 
 my Dolores, I am a very rich woman ; but 
 that is not to weigh with you. You are to 
 he an heiress, and my darling. All that 
 wealth can give you ahull bo yours — the 
 pleasures, the brightness, the f.iireat thinfi;s 
 of life. Love, too— the love of these good 
 people you possess a1rea<ly, and there awaits 
 your acceptance all that my heart has to give. 
 How strangely it sounds t<> ^le to hear my- 
 self plead ! I, who, I think, never pleaded 
 before. But |you must coixe, my dear oue, 
 when I go, and willingly. The life you leave 
 is «ood— you shall go to a better. Tne frituda 
 vou quit are kind — you shall still find kinder. 
 You shall travel the whole world over, if you 
 choose ; you shall see cU those fair, far-oli 
 lands of which I know you must have dream* 
 ed. Your education hhall be uoinpluted by 
 the best masters. I am proud rf uiy grand- 
 daughter to-day — I shall be fa/ prouder of 
 her years hence. ' 
 
 ' Oh, madame !' 
 
 It is tfll poor little Snowball can say, over- 
 
 whelmed 
 ttycs are 
 tii6 handi 
 her they 
 far away 
 mist. 
 
 •I will 
 return to 
 gently, 
 niood ; h 
 girl besit 
 like pear 
 otf,' aaya 
 
 niellowin( 
 strongly ii 
 
 entine cac 
 
 Hut to 
 
 easv. 
 •'There 
 
 A tall, wl 
 
 tne other 
 
 at once. 
 ' Ah 
 
 then, and 
 
 say to h 
 
 as elsewhc 
 Snowba 
 
 looka back 
 ' Siiall 
 
 madam V 
 
 • Surely 
 up.' 
 
 ' Shall 
 Saall I ha 
 
 ♦There 
 You shall 
 remember 
 If you coi 
 go " for ^ 
 
 •And t 
 
 • Say g 
 not for w 
 must be t 
 befor w« 
 send youi 
 
 Suowbi 
 takes a e* 
 prolonger 
 lows. I 
 straight i 
 is leaning 
 room, au< 
 A small I 
 eyes look 
 'Rene 
 •Yej, 
 
 • Is it 1 
 tense bn 
 she is my 
 
 * I see 
 not belie 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 91 
 
 I havt) been 
 
 ;e a reproach 
 HBver have 
 — you iitulur- 
 I'a )lnui{ht«r ! 
 [)I<1 woman ; 
 
 near to me 
 
 1 f»jar. for I 
 "\{ I pleicl 
 
 nil to tlieHQ 
 
 trn grattjful. 
 
 me, (ieureat 
 
 your huart 
 
 my father's 
 
 iilQ to make 
 
 nlie denied 
 ild. If you 
 
 uob at all. 
 ant uaptive. 
 
 Bay how it 
 
 ut to nil in* 
 e. No one 
 b is there to 
 ■oh air, hold- 
 in the ilress 
 ces earnest, 
 ;artlud, and 
 
 ekler lady 
 alf-stunned 
 ' thin, now. 
 i you will, 
 -this good 
 iia. I will 
 ; yon shall 
 1 : but you 
 art. See 1 
 •man ; but 
 ou are to 
 All that 
 yourg— the 
 r«'at thioj^s 
 these good 
 lere awaits 
 las to give. 
 J hear my- 
 tr iileaded 
 dear cue, 
 you leave 
 'lie fritnds 
 lid kinder, 
 ver, if you 
 air, faroir 
 tve dream- 
 tpltited by 
 my t^rand- 
 trouder of 
 
 say, over- 
 
 
 whehned by this torrent of persnaainn. Her 
 i-ycs are Hthd with team, hut it ii not uu 
 tiio handsome, earnest old face bt ndiug over 
 her they rust. They follow K^ne'a tall tl),tur(>, 
 far away iu the crowd, and see him through a 
 uiist. 
 
 • I will not detain you now ; you want to 
 returo to your friends,' madam aays, very 
 gently. Slie hardly knows hurRt-lf in this 
 mood ; her heart melts as she ^a^es on tins 
 girl beside her, the lait of her line. ' Muu, 
 like pears, grow mellow before they drop 
 otr,' says a wise and witty iioston poet ; the 
 mellowing procefs must indeed have Ket 
 strongly iu, when hard, haughty Madam Val- 
 entine can use such tones and wonlsas these! 
 Hut to this girl— George's daughter -it is 
 easy. 
 
 'There is the dootnr,' Snowball exclaims. 
 A tall, white head and benign face appeuis at 
 tne other end of the room, and she bnghtetm 
 at onoe. 
 
 ' Ah I the doctor. Well, my dear, go 
 then, and send him to me. I have much to 
 say to him, and it may u well be said here 
 as elsewhere.' 
 
 Snowball darts off with alacrity, pauses, 
 looks back. 
 
 ' Sliall I — ' hesitatingly, ' shall 1 return, 
 madam ?' 
 
 ' Surely, ohild, before this company breaks 
 up.' 
 
 'Shall I — ' the fair head droops again. 
 Saall I have to go with you — to your hot«;lJ?' 
 
 'There must be no have to in ilie case. 
 You shall do as you like best- quite treely, 
 remember that, hut I do not tven wuh it. 
 If you come with me it will be only when I 
 go " for good. " ■ 
 
 • And that will be, madame ?' 
 
 ' Say grandmamma, my little one. Oh ! 
 not for weeks to come, I foraee that. Yuu 
 must be thoroughly reconciled to the change 
 befor we leave St. Gildaa. Now go and 
 Bend your doctor.' 
 
 Suowball goe!>, and the doctor comes and 
 takes a seat beside madam, and it in a very 
 prolonged and earnest conversation that fol- 
 lows. For Snowball, she uoes to Kene, 
 straight as the needle to the north star. He 
 is leaning against a pillar iu an angle of the 
 room, and glances gloomily as she comics up. 
 A small pale face and two pathetio youug 
 eyes look up. 
 
 ' Rene I ' 
 
 •Yej, Snowball' 
 
 ' la it not awful— awful ! '—a long, hard, 
 tense breath. ' Oh ! Rene, do you suppoue 
 she is my grandmother ? ' 
 
 ' I see uo reason to doubt it. I really can- 
 not believe any old lady, however ecueatrio, 
 
 would come in, in cold blood, and claim yon, 
 if ntHtn duty did not drive her to it.' 
 
 Even iu this supreme moneiit It -uh cannot 
 (|Uito lay atiide the familiar style of snubbing, 
 although his tone and look are uumutukably 
 dreary. 
 
 ' Ueno' — pathetically — 'don't bo horrid. I 
 know it iH not in your natiini to be anything 
 elsM, but juat for ouoh, " uHFum<>, if you have 
 it not." Do yon know she is going to take 
 inu away ? ' 
 
 ' Poor old lady 1 • • 
 
 • Rene 1 ' 
 
 'I mean,' Rene says, lau)^hing but rut-fully, 
 ' I am awfully sorry, upon my word 1 am, 
 Snowball. Cf courne, 1 um going away my 
 self, it may be for years and it may be for 
 ever, a^ Kathleon Muvourneen suvk ' 
 
 ' Katliltien Mavouruet u suyn nothing of the 
 sort. It was—' 
 
 ' Well, the other fellow ; the fact remains, 
 whatever Iriaman said it. l^ut while away 
 enjoying life in New York, and going in for 
 sculpiute as a profession, und u;iat<>iny as a 
 study, and artists and ductors in embryo for 
 chuni", it would have bef n soothing to re- 
 niem)>er that you were pining iu your loneli- 
 netis here, the last rose of siimnu-r, a sort of 
 vestal virgin on Inle I'erdrix, i^rowmg up for 
 me expressly^ and counting ttie hours until 
 my reiurn. Now all that is at an < nd, and 
 vuu are going to start in lit'o on } our own 
 hook, and set up, I dare Hay, for an 
 heirtss. I don t wii«h your long lost 
 grandmother any harm, Snowball, but if 
 we ever get her on Drt-u Inland, ahe shall 
 never leave it alive ! ' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 Suowball stands, a youthful picture of 
 pallid woe ; Rene standi nervously twisting 
 the ends of a still innocent und youthful 
 looking niustuuhe, and feeling sore and 
 savaji^e. although his manner of expressing 
 these emotions in degage euouub. 
 
 ' 1 wish she were at the bottom of Bay 
 Chalette ! ' he bursts forth, at la8t. ' Con- 
 found the oM duine ! Alter deset ting you 
 all ttiese years, and never couceniing herself 
 iu the slighttsc degree to know whether you 
 were deaii oi alive, to come now and claim 
 you 1 Suowball, don't go I ' 
 
 * 1 must,' mournfully. 
 
 ' When does she propose to take you ? ' 
 ' Not until I am leaily,' she says, ' which 
 will be never if I have my own way. You 
 should have heard her, Rene ; oL>e would 
 think I was a prize — something piecious and 
 peerless — to hear her go ou 1* 
 
 ' Ah 1 ' relapsing into cynicisms, ' sne'U 
 get over that. Stie doesn't know you, you 
 see. I say, where does she live wheu at 
 home ? ' 
 
 
 V: 
 
,."^.. 
 
 ^"^w 
 
 ^.^. ^ 
 
 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
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 |2.5 
 
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 L25 ,.4 ^.6 
 
 
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 6" 
 
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 /^ 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sdences 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WE. MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
^ m 
 
92 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 ' I don't know. 1 never Mked. What 
 does it matter ? ' despairingly. 
 
 • It does matter. If it ia in New York I 
 could see yon. Find ont will you the next 
 time you talk to her 1 For me — I will ad- 
 dress myself ^> her no more. I am only 
 mortal— my feelings might rise to the sur- 
 face, and there might be a tragedy. I am 
 all at home in my anatomy. Snowball. I 
 could run her under the fifth rib, and she 
 would be out of the world and out of mischief 
 before she knew what had hurt her — ' 
 
 ' Rene, don't talk in that dreadful way, 
 please. Are you going home after this is 
 over ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. Ynu don't mean to say you 
 are not golner, too ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly I am going. I shall remain on 
 
 the island until , Ob, Rene, what shall 
 
 I do ? I hate to go. How shall I leave you 
 
 all? And when Johnny comes baik ' 
 
 emotion chokes further words. 
 
 • Never mind, Johnny J There are others 
 in the world, thongh you never seem to 
 think so ! Snowball,' earnestly, ' if you 
 really don't want to go, don't go. She can- 
 not make you. ' 
 
 But Snowball shakes her head, and wipes 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' It is my duty, Rene ; I belong to her, 
 not to anybody here. But it b-b breaks my 
 heart ' 
 
 ' It has been so often broken ! ' begins 
 Bene, from sheer force of habit, then stops 
 remorsefully. ' Dan't cry,' he says, 'I hate 
 to see you, and you will make the point of 
 your nose pink ! ' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 * You will write, I suppose ? ' gloomily. 
 'Oh yes.' 
 
 The pink suggestion has its effect. Snow- 
 ball dries her eyes, and represses a last sniff 
 or two. 
 
 Another gloomy pause. 
 
 * And, Snowball I ' struck by a sudden 
 alarming thought. 
 
 ' Yes, Rene.' 
 
 •There is that fellow — the nephew, or 
 cousin, you know, M. Paul told us of him. 
 He lives with this old lady — hang her J and 
 was to be her heir.' 
 • 'Yes.' 
 
 'Well — He isn't married.* 
 
 ' No ! ' not seeing the drift, 
 
 ' No, Snowball 1 ' 
 
 'Yes, Rene.' 
 
 ' You won't marry him 1 ' 
 
 •Oh-h!' a very prolonged 'Oh!' of im- 
 menee amaze. Then suddenly Snowball 
 1t)urBfc8 out into her clear, joyous laugh. 
 
 'Mo. of course not,' says Rene, not look- 
 ing at her ; ' besides he is as old as the ever. 
 
 lasting hills. Very likely he will ask you, 
 thou eh. You had better not — not — ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' impenously, ' not what ? ' 
 
 ' Mairy any one. in fact ! Fellows want 
 to marry an heiress, don't you know — for- 
 tune-hunters and others of that sort. 
 But yon won't, will you ? ' 
 
 ' No ! ' says Snowball, and it is the old 
 saucy, detiant Snowball all in a moment. 
 * No, Rene dear. Having known and 
 loved you all my life, how could I ever look 
 twice at any other man ? I will wait for 
 you, mon frere, until you grow up ! ' 
 
 And then laughing over her shoulder, 
 Mary, Queen of Scots turns her pretty 
 shoulder to this darkling young Bothwell, 
 and flits away to join her royal sister, 
 Blanche of Castile — in every-day life Mile. 
 Innocente Desereaux. » » ♦ 
 
 It is the. evening of the last day, two 
 weeks later. Her boat is on the shore, and 
 her bark might be on the sea, only they hap- 
 pen to be going by the 4.50 up express. 
 And Snowball and Rene are pacing the 
 sands of Isle Perdrix for the last time. All 
 adieux have been arranged ; Dr. Macdonald, 
 with tears in his eyes, has bidden her go , 
 Mere Maddelena endorsss his words, her 
 trunk is packed ; madam la bonne maman 
 waits impatiently, jealously, to bear away 
 her treasure-trove. In these two weeks she 
 has grown passionately fond of the child — 
 it is Snowball's sunny nature to work her 
 way into people's hearts. 
 
 For Rsne— well, he has ' looked at her aa 
 one vho awakes ' — looked at her with eyes 
 new-opened from the moment she shone 
 forth La Reine Blanche ! 
 
 ' My path runs east, and hers runs west. 
 And each a chosen way ; 
 But now— oh ! fur some word, some charm. 
 By which to bid her stay.' 
 
 Something like this is in his thoughts, a 
 cold ache aud fear of the future fills him. 
 She is going — going into a world, brighter, 
 fairer than bis, far out of his reach. She is 
 to be an heiress, a belle, a queen of society. 
 And he — well, he will have his heart's desire 
 — he will be a sculptor if it is in him — a 
 marble-carver, at the least, and dwelling in a 
 world of which she will know nothing. He 
 may return here, but there will ba noSnow- 
 ball to meet and welcome him with radiant 
 eyes and smile. And he feels he would give 
 all his hopes, the best years of his life to keep 
 her here, to know she remains 
 waiting his ooming, rejoicing in bis success— 
 his vr;y own. A selHsh wish it may be, but 
 a most thoroughly natural and masculine one. 
 He thinks of the story of the Arabian genie 
 who carried his princess about the world with 
 
 him, safelj 
 derstands 
 with him, 
 whether h 
 It is a je 
 waits, one 
 own. 
 
 They wj 
 boat wait, 
 no eye, ui 
 the lookot 
 lent. In 
 never mu( 
 The yellow 
 day lies o 
 ters, the e 
 waves lap 
 a very ha 
 
 Adi 
 
 sings 
 sings, 
 
 Quit 
 
 SU' 
 
 i 
 _ lit « 
 gray hat 
 gold hair 
 words hre 
 
 • It wil 
 comes,' si 
 < you and 
 
 • Aiwa] 
 • I belie vi 
 for Johnn 
 in the wo 
 
 ' I love 
 be cross, 
 
 •Love- 
 for Johni 
 
 'Did 1 
 Rene, Re 
 
 'Are y 
 
 He sto 
 flush risi: 
 flashing 
 Sorry to 
 
 • Sorry 
 I am? It 
 of it—all 
 pleasant 
 And I gc 
 can com; 
 dear as ^ 
 
 'You 
 you will 
 me ' 
 
 •Neve 
 you all- 
 world b( 
 
 •Ah! 
 know. 
 
will ask you, 
 
 -not—' 
 
 what ? ' 
 
 Fellows want 
 ou know — for. 
 of that sort. 
 
 it is the old 
 i a moment. 
 
 known and 
 lid I ever look 
 will wait for 
 V up ! ' 
 
 her shoulder, 
 \ her pretty 
 n^ Both well; 
 
 royal sister, 
 lay life Mile. 
 
 last day, two 
 the shore, and 
 >nly they hap. 
 
 up express. 
 6 pacing the 
 st time. All 
 r. Macdonald, 
 Iden her go , 
 is words, her 
 Donne maman 
 io bear away 
 wo weeks she 
 
 1 the child- 
 re to work her 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 93 
 
 oked at her as 
 ler with eyes 
 snt she shone 
 
 ins west, 
 iome charm, 
 
 B thonghts, a 
 re fills him. 
 )rld, brighter, 
 eaoh. She is 
 n of society, 
 heart's desire 
 8 in him — a 
 dwelling in a 
 aothing. He 
 ba no SnoW' 
 with radiant 
 e would give 
 is life to keep 
 e remains 
 his success — 
 b may be, but 
 lascnline one. 
 Arabian genie 
 le world with 
 
 him, safely locked up in a glass box —he un- 
 derstands the senie, and his sympathies are 
 with him, itAftei- to-day who is to tell 
 whether he will ever look upon her more ? 
 It is a jealous old G;rand mamma that who 
 waits, one whu will know how to guard her 
 own. 
 
 They walk in silence. Old Tim and the 
 boat wait, thtir good-by will be here, where 
 no eye, unless the the fish-hawks are on 
 the lookout, can behold. And tbey are si- 
 lent. In life's supremest hours there is 
 never much to be saiil ; the heart is too full. 
 The yellow haze and hush of a sweet summer 
 day lies over the sea and land, the bay gut- 
 ters, the eky is deepest blue, the little oily 
 waves lap and whisper. Isle Perdrix looks 
 a very haven of peace and rest. 
 
 Adieu I O plaisant pays do France, 
 O ma patrie t 
 La plus oherie. 
 Qui a nourre ma jeune enfance ; 
 Adieu, France, adieu t ' 
 
 sings Snowball, softly, not knowing she 
 singe. She wears a travelling suit of pale 
 gray, lit with ribbons the hue of her eyes, a 
 gray hat and feather, all the bounteous pale 
 gold hair falling free. She speaks, and her 
 words break the spell. 
 
 ' It will be lonely for Johnny when he 
 comes,' she says, in the same soft voice, 
 * you and me gone, Rene,' 
 
 ' Always Johnny 1 ' he says, impatiently. 
 ' I believe you care a thousand times mure 
 for Johnny than you do for — for any one else 
 in the world. ' 
 
 ' I love Johnny,' she says, gently ; ' don't 
 be oroBS, Rene — now, I like you, too.' 
 
 ' Love — like! Snowball, you always cared 
 for Johnny most.' 
 
 ' Did I ? I care for you too, Rene. Oh 1 
 Rene, Rene, I am sorry to go I' 
 
 ' Are you. Snowball ? Really, truly sorry?' 
 
 He stops and catches his hands, a swift 
 flush rising over his dark face, a quick lire 
 flashing in his brown eyes, ' sorry to go ? 
 Sorry to go from me !' 
 
 * Sorry, sorry, sorry I Don't you know 
 I am? It has been such a good life, every day 
 of it — all happy, all full as they could hold of 
 pleasant things, and thoughts, and people. 
 And I go from all that. Rene, nothing that 
 can come — be is what it may — will be half as 
 dear as what I leave.' 
 
 ' You mean that I Snowball, Snowball, 
 you will not forget us — you will never forget 
 me ' 
 
 * Never, Rene ! Never while I live. You — 
 you all — will be more to me than the whole 
 world besides.' 
 
 * Ah I you say so now. but you don't 
 know. And people change. And it is such 
 
 a different life you are goioi? to. Snowball, 
 
 if I thought you would forget ' He 
 
 stops, his heart is passionately full, full to 
 overflowing, but what is there he may say ? 
 
 ' I never will. I am not like that. I will 
 write to you often — often, I will come 
 back here whenever I may. And v, e may 
 meet, Rene — you and I — out in that world 
 beyond Dree Isle. Give my dearest love to 
 Johnny, when he comes back, if you seo 
 him before I do. And Rene — my brother — 
 forgive me for all thd things I have said, for 
 all the times I have made you angry in the 
 past. I liked you, dearly, dearly through it 
 all!' 
 
 Forgive her 1 Old Tim is waiting im- 
 patiently — it will be full time to light the 
 lamp before he gets back from the other 
 side. Will they never have done standing 
 there, holding hands, and saying good- by. 
 It is a blessed release, Timothy is thinking 
 in the depths of his misanthropic old soul, 
 as he sits and smokes his dudceu, sure there 
 was iver an always mischafe and divilment 
 wid that gerrel, and nothin' else, sioce she 
 tirst set fut in the island. 
 
 ' An' her an' Mabter Raynay— sure they 
 did be fightin' like Kilkenny cats mornin', 
 noon, an' night,' ruminates Tim, 'an' there's 
 for ye now, afth^r it — houldin bans as if it 
 was playin' ring-a-rosy they wor, instid o* 
 jumpin' out o' their skins wid joy — in their 
 sleeves. Dear knows it's many's the dhry 
 eye there'll be atther the same Miss Snow 
 ball.' 
 
 It is over. Snowball is here, running 
 with red eyes down to the boat, and Rene if^ 
 standing where she has left him — motionless 
 in the twiligiit. Old Tim shoves off; the 
 boat glides across the luminous river, St. 
 Gildas side is reached, and grandmamma in a 
 carriage awaits her darling. One backward 
 glance the girl gives. Rene is standing 
 there still, with that most desolate of feel- 
 ings, 'left behind.' She can just discern 
 him, a lonely figure on the island shore. 
 Then she is in thu carriage,in grandmamma's 
 arms, her tears being kissed away, and Isle 
 Perdrix, and Rene, and St. Gildas are 
 already as ' days that are over, dreams that 
 are done,' 
 
 I 
 
 an 
 
04 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 A 
 
 I?ART THIRD. 
 
 * With weerlnp:, and with laughter, 
 Siill la the aiory told. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 * NOT AS A CHILD SHALL WE AOAIN BEHOLD 
 
 An old-fash'oned Roman house, the por- 
 tone entrauob aa 1 stairs palatial iu size, a 
 great stoue court, where a tuuntain tosses its 
 spray high in the sunshiue ; grained arches, 
 ablaze with colour, trets, vines, birds, butter- 
 flies ; great pots, and vases of flowering 
 pUnts everywhere, and statues glearaiog 
 waitely throu^^h a glowof warmth and colour, 
 green and gold. Between the draperies ot 
 one great window there i* a last glmt tf 
 amber light. You see a loggia, overrun with 
 to cs, a sky full of leaves, a glimpse of orange 
 trees, with their deep green leave?, and 
 spiiakle of scented snow, and jessamines, in 
 profusion, rearing their solid coues of flowery 
 gold. An old- fashioned Roman sala, with 
 father faded screens, of amber silk, set iu 
 finely carved frames, walls nearly cove -ed 
 "with dark oil paintings, a great glossy cabin- 
 et, a miracle of wood-carving, and that last 
 pink and yellow giiut of sunshine lighting up 
 all. 
 
 A peaceful picture, a rustle of myriad 
 leaves iu the beautiful twilight, whose air 
 Italians so jealousy shut out and fear, a 
 twitter of multitudinous sleepy birds, work- 
 men and women going home, a crescent moon 
 rising, like a rim of golden crystal, and Ave 
 Marias linging, until the evening is full of 
 the music of belt, from storied campanile 
 and basilica, to little arches set up against 
 the sky. It is all a dreamy old-world pic* 
 tare, and the girl who stands heedless of the 
 dangerous evening air, leaning against the 
 tall, arched window, gazes over it, with eyes 
 that drink in with delight the quaint still 
 sweetness of it all. She is the|lastand faint- 
 eat touch of that fair picture, as she stande, 
 tail, supple, straight as a dart, slender as a 
 young willow and aa graceful. The last light 
 lingering there, in the fading west, falls lull 
 on her face, and fails to flud in it a flaw, so 
 fair, so fine is the lustro of her skin, so deli- 
 cate the small features, so perfect in its faint 
 colouring, the tinge of rosy light in the oval 
 ch ;el 8 Her abundant hair, of palest gold, 
 is diawn back from the broad forehead ; a 
 few cloudy pearls, and a knot of jasmine, in 
 the amber glitter. She is in evening dreas, 
 a trailing iusirous silk of so pale a blue as to 
 be almost silvery — pink roses loop the rich 
 laoe of the square cut corsage, form shoulder 
 
 knots, and drop in clusters here and there 
 among the lace flounces. She wears no 
 jewels, except the large starry pearls in her 
 hair and in her ears, and clasping the girlish 
 throat and large beautiful arms. Dress and 
 woman are lovely alike, as she stands with 
 loosely clasped handshanging, leaning'against 
 the gray stone, the cluttering viues framing 
 her, dreamily listening to the music of the 
 Ave Maria bells. 
 
 A servant entering with candles arouses 
 her presently. She looks up with a start. 
 
 ' Already, Annunciator ? Is it so late ? 
 And the signora — has she not yet returned ?' 
 
 'Not yet, signorinn.' 
 
 Tne young lady moves away from the win* 
 dow, and the Italian servant clones the shut- 
 ter and shuts out at once the exquisite eve- 
 ning pinture and the malarious eveaing air. 
 
 * How very imprudent grandmamma is,' 
 the signoriua says, glancing at the pendule 
 on the chimney piece, ' and in her weak state 
 of health. Sir Vane at least should know 
 better. ' 
 
 She begins slowly walking up and down 
 the loig sala, lit now by the wax-lights and 
 oue largf^ , antique, bronze lamp. Her lustrous 
 yard-Ioog train sweepa behind her, her pearls 
 shimmer with their milky whiteness iu the 
 amber s' rands of her hair, in the silvery blue 
 of her dress. So pacing, in pretty impatience, 
 she is a charming vision. Now and then she 
 glances at the clock, and pauses anxionsly to 
 listen for carriage wheels iu the court-yard. 
 Pi' Grrandmamma ought not,' she eays, half- 
 aloud, half impatiently. ' Does she want a 
 second Roman fever, before she is fully re- 
 covered from the first ? Sir Vane is prudent 
 enough where his own comfort and health 
 are concerned — he might interest himself, a 
 little at least, in hers.' 
 
 There is a tap at the door. 
 
 ' May I come in, dear ?" says a voice, and 
 the door is pushed a little way open, and a 
 pleasant old fMe — not Italian by any means 
 — peeps in. 
 
 ' Oh, come in, Mrs. Tinker — come in, of 
 course. It is too eaiily to go yet, and even 
 if it were not, I could not go until grand- 
 mamma comes back from her drive. She 
 promised to return early, and here it is quite 
 nine o'clock, and ' 
 
 ' Eh ? My maid, what is it yon are saying ? 
 Not back? Bless thy pretty heart, my 
 deary, she has been back these two hours, 
 and is in the drawing-room with company. 
 Leastways, may hi not company, so to say- 
 it's her lawyer, Mr. Carsoii.' 
 
 The young lady pauses in her walk to 
 regard the old lady with blue, surprised 
 eyes. 
 
 •Why, that is odd? Back these two 
 
8 here and there 
 
 She wears no 
 rry pearls in her 
 aping the girlish 
 ms. Dress and 
 she stands with 
 , leaning'af^ainst 
 g vines framing 
 ;he music of the 
 
 candles aronses 
 with a start. 
 Is it so late ? 
 i yet returned ?' 
 
 y from the win. 
 clones the shut- 
 e exquisite eve- 
 8 eveaing air. 
 andmamma is,' 
 ; at the pendule 
 I her weak state 
 st should know 
 
 q; up and down 
 nrax-lights and 
 p. Her lustrous 
 
 her, her pearls 
 irhiteness iu the 
 ihe silvery blue 
 itty impatience, 
 w and tben she 
 les anxionsly to 
 fd court-yard. 
 
 she eays, half* 
 oes she want a 
 Bhe is fully re- 
 
 ane is prudent 
 >rt and h«alth 
 rest himself, a 
 
 s a voice, and 
 
 open, and a 
 
 by any means 
 
 ' — come in, of 
 yet, and even 
 o until grand- 
 drive. She 
 lere it is quite 
 
 m are saying ? 
 ty heart, my 
 se two hours, 
 ith company, 
 y, so to say — 
 
 her walk to 
 ue, surprised 
 
 k these two 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 95 
 
 - Did she not go for her 
 the Corso with Sir Vane, 
 
 hours, and I — 
 usual drive on 
 then, after all V 
 
 * Not wi' Sir Vane, my deary. She gave 
 him the slip, so to speak. Madam doesn't 
 like to be watched and spied on, yon know. 
 Yes, she went tor her drive, but not wi' Sir 
 Vane, and not on th( Corso. She went to 
 her lawyer's, and brought him back mi' her 
 here. And there they are in the drawing- 
 room ever since.' 
 
 * Well, Mrs Tinker ?' 
 
 The young lady says this interrogatively, 
 for Mrs. Tinker looks wistful and important, 
 and as if charged with a heavy load of fn- 
 formation. and anxious to go off. 
 
 * Eh, Dolores, my maid ? - can't 'ee guess 
 what's the business ? Maybe I oughtn't to 
 tell — but it's good news, and I am right 
 glad to have it to tell. The madam' — 
 coming closer, and dropping her voice to a 
 whisper — 'is making her will 1' 
 
 * Her will I' The girl repeats the words, 
 turning pale. ' In -is grandmamma worse, 
 then? Ob, Mrs. Tinker, surely she is not 
 going to ' 
 
 'Bless my tender heart, my deary ! No — 
 it isn't that. But she is old, yon know, 
 and eh ! my dear, we none o' us can go on 
 living forever, and it's well to be prepared. 
 The last will left everything to him. It 
 wouldn't do to die sudden-like, and leave 
 a will like that. So there's a new one to- 
 day, my deary, and me and the butler, 
 we've put our names to it. And seeing that 
 I'm that long in her service, and have 
 tried to do my duty faithful, 
 my good mistress, she's had it read 
 to me. And, oh ! Miss Dolores, my maid, 
 thanks and praise be 1 all's left to you, or 
 nearly all. And who has a right to your 
 own grand r>apa'a money, that he made him- 
 self in lawful trade, if not his own son's 
 child ?' 
 
 She lifts one of the slender white hands, 
 and fondles and kisses it. 
 
 ' Eh, my sweet, but there'll be a great 
 heiress, when old Tinker's dead and gone. 
 I've been sore afeard, my birdie, that death 
 might come before I would see this day. I 
 couldn't 'bide the thought of all that riches 
 going to him. I never oonld 'bide him, from 
 tirst to last. All for himself, my deary, and 
 longing for the day to come that would make 
 him master over us all. But that day will 
 never come now, for which praise and thanks 
 forever be ! ' 
 
 The girl listens, silent, startled, pale. 
 
 * And Sir Vane ? ' she asks. 
 
 ' Gets a share— not so much, but enough 
 for him. But you are a great, great heiress, 
 my bairnie. You are your grandmother's 
 
 rightful heiress, and hsve what was left to 
 him before. An-^ right it is that it should 
 be so. I don't .old with giving the chil- 
 dren's portion to the ' 
 
 * Tinker I ' 
 
 ' To a far out cousin's son, then t What 
 rights has he, alongside o' yours, Master 
 George's own bonnie daughter? Don't'ee 
 look at me like that, honey ; it's the old 
 madam's own, to do what she likes wi.' 
 
 'No, no, Mrs. Tinker, it is not. I mean 
 this new will is unfair, unjust. What ! all 
 these years Sir Vane has been led to expect 
 that he will have the lion's share — has been 
 told it should be so, and new, at the eleventh 
 — Tinker, I must go to grandmamma. It 
 must not be.' 
 
 'Eh, my maid, that yon can't. The 
 lawyer is still there, and no one is to go in 
 until she rings. And you would not get 
 poor old Tinker into trouble, would you, my 
 bairn, because she is.too fond of you to hold 
 her foolish tongue? The madam did not 
 mean me to tell you ; she wants to do that 
 herself. Wait, my deary, until she does ; 
 there is no such haate. But I say again, and 
 will always say, that it is a right, and just, 
 and proptr will.' 
 
 ' There is the bell now ! ' the young lady 
 exclains. 'Go, Mrs. Tinker, and tell her I 
 want to see her. Tell her I must see her 
 before I go our.' 
 
 Some of the old imperiousness of Snowball 
 is iu the tone, and her ' must ' rules the 
 household. Snowball it is. and yet no such 
 person as * Snowball Trillon ' any more 
 exists, not even ' Dolores Macdonald.' This 
 fair and stately young heiress, in pearls and 
 roses, and silvery silk, is Miss Valentine, 
 granddaughter and idol of wealthy Madam 
 Valentine, a beauty and belle by right divine 
 of her own lovely face, and a power here 
 among the English-speaking circle of the 
 Eternal city. 
 
 Three years have gone since that July 
 evening, when Snowball's blue eyes looked 
 through her tears on St. Gildas. Three 
 years, and those blue eyes have looked on 
 half the world, it seems to their owner since, 
 but never more on that childhood home. 
 Three years, in which many masters, much 
 money, great travel, polished society, have 
 done ali it lies within them to do for the 
 island hoiden, the trapezeist's daughter. 
 This is the result : A beauty that is a mar- 
 vel ; a grace that leaves nothing to ;be 
 desired ; a well-bred repbse of manner, that 
 even ex:eting madam can find no f.ut 
 with. Sometimes |the old tire and spark e 
 strike through, bub ra^eh^ a grandnamma'g 
 presence. It savours ot the past, and the 
 past is to be forgotten — is to be as though it 
 
 
'6c ti" 
 
 m 
 
 had never been — persons, pUoes, alL She 
 is to forget she ever was Snowbtll— ever was 
 anythioK but a graceful blonde prinaess- 
 royal, with servants and courtiers to bow 
 'down and do her homage ; an heirees, with 
 the world at her feet ; the peerless daughter 
 of all the Valentines, with the sang azure of 
 greatness in her veins. And the girl does 
 her best, not to fc i;;et, but to please grand- 
 mamma, by appealing as though she did. 
 They love each other with a great and strong 
 love — grandmamma's, indeed, waxes on the 
 idolatrous. S>!ice the loss of her son, hers 
 has been a loveless life, a dreary and bar- 
 ren life, a sandy desert, without one green 
 spot. She has tolerated Vane Valentine, 
 never, at the best, any more — of late years 
 she has distruste<l and disliked him. But 
 this girl has come, and all has changed. 
 She loves her with an intensity begotten of 
 those many lovelesii years, and her pride in 
 her is equal to her love. Even Vane Valen- 
 tine protits by this softening change ; she 
 can aook upon him with quite kindly and 
 complacent eyes now. Peihaps a little of 
 this is owing to a marked change in him. 
 Ue has made up his mind to accept the in- 
 evitable, in the shape of this fair rival; he 
 absolutely takes pains to conciliate and 
 please. But that is within the last year 
 only ; he was literally furious at first. No 
 word of the change had reached him, 
 busied with a thousand things following 
 the death of the late baromst— paying off 
 mortgages, establishing his sister at Valen- 
 tine Manoi, making arrangements for having 
 that ancient ancestral mansion repaired and 
 renovated f ou r months had flown pleasantly 
 awav. Not once in that time had madam 
 written. She scarcely ever wrote letters, 
 certainly not to Vane Valentine. Then, the 
 English business settled, in tine health and 
 spirits. Sir Vane set out on hia return 
 journey. If madam would but make haste 
 and die ! He hardly knew where to find her, 
 BO unsettled and wandering were her erratic 
 habits; but Mrs. Tinker was mostly a 
 fixed star ; he could always find her. He 
 went to the honse in the suburbs of Phil- 
 adelphia, a sort of headquarters always. He 
 found Mrs. Tinker there, vice-regent, await- 
 ing him, and a letter. 
 
 Such a letter 1 Short as to the number of 
 lines, brief and trenchant as to words, strong 
 and idiomatic as to expression. She had 
 gone to St. Gildas, and seen and been 
 charmed by her ' granddaughter. They 
 were together at present. Miss Valentine 
 must see a little of the world. She loved 
 her very dearly— more dearly than anything 
 else on earth — already, and meant to part 
 with her no more ! As to their return, quite 
 
 impossible to tell when that time might 
 come. Her good Vane was to amuse him* 
 self well, and not be anxious. 
 
 He sits holding that letter — that cold, 
 crushing, pitiless letter, that blasted his 
 every earthly hope. He was ousted 1 Tae 
 trapeze soman's daughter in his place. After 
 his years of waiting, hoping, schemiag, this 
 was the end I 
 
 He sat silent, still, the fatal letter in hia 
 band. And if any patising artist, waating a 
 sitting for Satan^ had chanced to look in, he 
 would have found » model with the right ex* 
 pression. A rage, of bitterness beyond all 
 wvrds, tilled him. To be beaten and baffled 
 like this ! Of -vhat use now the title of 
 baronet, with nothing left to keep it up ; of 
 what use all these barren ancestral acre?, 
 the ivy -grown, turn lied, halt-ruined manor, 
 with the great Valentine fortune gone ! Fur 
 all will go to this new idol — the wording of 
 the accursed letter he holds leaving little 
 doubt of that. Farewell to all his hopes — 
 his hopes of that fair English home, freed 
 from tne thrall of debt, restored and im- 
 proved ; farewell to those ambitious dreams 
 of a seat in Parliament, a house in London, 
 fifteen thousand pounds a year, and Camilla 
 Routh for his wife. Adieu to it all — this 
 girl, this usurper, has mounted his pedestal; 
 he has been shamefully, cruelly deceived — 
 swindled as no m&n ever was before. Per' 
 haps he has some right to feel all this rage — 
 it certainly is a frightful fall. What is worse, 
 it is impossible to pour out his wrath, ana 
 wrongs upon the head of the woman who 
 has used and flung him aside with such 
 merciless ease. She has gone^ her upstart 
 with her, whither no one knows. He strives 
 in vain to discover , they might have vanish- 
 ed out of the world, for all trace of them he 
 can find. 
 
 Months pass in the quest, and these 
 months do him this good— ihey cooll his first 
 blaze of wrath, and bring those second 
 thoughts that we are told are best. He 
 thinks it over — he has ample time — and with 
 a soul filled with silent bitterness and gall, 
 resolves on his course. Nothing can be pos- 
 sibly gained by anger, much may by re* 
 sii(nation. He will accept disaster with the 
 best outward grace he may, he will accept 
 defeat with dignity, he will resist nothing, 
 he will conciliate the old woman and the 
 young one, he will warily bide his time. 
 And if that time ever comes 1 
 
 Sir Vane Valentine sets his teeth behind 
 his long black moustache, and his eyes 
 gleam with a passionate, baffled light not 
 good to see. They must return sometime — 
 all is not lost that is in danger ; perhaps 
 she may be induced to yield him the larger 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 time might 
 amuse him- 
 
 — that oold, 
 blasted his 
 
 dated 1 Tae 
 place. After 
 
 hemiag, this 
 
 letter in his 
 t, wanting a 
 ) look in, he 
 the right ex- 
 I beyond all 
 I and baffldd 
 
 the title of 
 3p it up ; of 
 istral acre?, 
 ined manor, 
 e fi;one ! For 
 wording of 
 eaving little 
 
 his hopes — 
 
 home, freed 
 id and im- 
 ous dreams 
 in London, 
 Bind Camilla 
 
 it all — this 
 bis pedestal; 
 
 deceived — 
 lefore. Per- 
 Ithis rage — 
 liat is worse, 
 wrath, ana 
 woman who 
 with such 
 
 her upstart 
 
 He strives 
 
 lave vanish* 
 
 of them he 
 
 and these 
 ooli his first 
 lose second 
 
 best. He 
 
 -and with 
 B and gall, 
 can be pos- 
 nay by re- 
 >er with the 
 will accept 
 list nothing, 
 m and the 
 
 his time. 
 
 eth behind 
 his eyes 
 light not 
 
 sometime — 
 ; perhaps 
 the larger 
 
 share yet. It ia his right — his right in 
 view of all these years of waiting and 
 expectation. If all sense of justice is not 
 dead in Katherine Valentine, she must see 
 it herself ; she must be made to see it. And 
 so in grim silence and resolution Sir Vane 
 establishes himself in the Philadelphia 
 h'luse, autl waits for them to come. 
 
 They come — lifteen months from the time 
 they left St. Oildas. And fifteen months of 
 travel, of maatur^, of madam's society, have 
 done much for the wild £(irl of Perdrix. She 
 has shot up, tsUl and graceful as a stem of 
 wheat, with huir like its pale silken tassels, 
 all that is best and brightest in her made 
 the most of, the blonde beauty enhanced — a 
 lovely, womanly girl of eighteen. 
 
 A vision thus to dazzle any man — gilt as 
 it ia with rc;Hned goll. Sir Vane Valentine 
 looks on with utidazzled eyea. He is too de- 
 fective in circulation ; too cold-blooded, too 
 wrappe<i up in self, to be a susceptible man, 
 nd his heart — such narrow and contracted 
 heart as he ever has had — waa given away, 
 many years ago. Tbe immature of eighteen 
 has no charois for him. The lady who 
 waits for him in E.iglaud can certainly not 
 be slighted on the score of immaturity, but 
 she has lost her youth waiting for him. And 
 to do him justice, his allegiance never for 
 one hour has waned . Still if in this way for- 
 tune lies — if there is no other, he ia prepar- 
 ed to make the aacrifije even to Miss Camil- 
 la Routh ! The best of his life has been 
 wasted in the pursuit of this ignus fatuus — 
 the Valentine fortune — without it the Val- 
 entine name, lands, titles, are worse than 
 worthless. No matter what the pride, it 
 must be paid. Come what may now, it is a 
 road on which there can be no turning back. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 . t. . , 
 
 • THERE CAME A LADDIE HERE TO WOO.' 
 
 And ahe ia a pretty girl ! He looka at her 
 with those cold, critical eyea of hia, and ad- 
 mita that much. Stie is a pretty girl at 
 eighteen— at eightand-twenty she will be a 
 moat beautiful woman. He might do worse 1 
 Sae will do him honour. And he prefers 
 blondes naturally. All this fair, fresh, young 
 beiUty will fittingly adorn Valentine Manor ; 
 all men will admire his taate, and envy hia 
 luck. Even if ahe had been ugly, she would 
 still have been a gilded pill — to be taken with 
 an inward' grimace or two, perhaps, but 
 st 11 1) be taken. And he and Camilla Routh 
 need not part — quite. His home is with his 
 sister, as it has nearly always been , they 
 are installed at Manor Valentine now, wait- 
 ing for the golden age to come. Even if he 
 7 
 
 marries this Dolores, it followx, ns a matter 
 of course, that Camilla will still remain as 
 much apart of his home as the ancestral elms, 
 or Dorothy herself. She has no other home, 
 poor girl ; it would be brutal to turn her 
 adrift upon the world because the hard 
 chances of fortune have forced him to many 
 Madfim Valentine's heiress. His sister will 
 manage the housekeeniog as she has alwayt 
 done, even after Sir Vane and Lady Valen- 
 tine return from their wedding tour. Thit 
 petted beauty knows nothing, naturally, o' 
 the manifold duties of house mistress. AnO. 
 Cousin Camilla will remain — prime minister 
 He grows quite complacent as he settles it 
 thus — after all, matters niiifht be worse ; it 
 is the consummation that will present itself 
 as moat desirable to the mind oi Madam Val- 
 entine. 
 
 It haa already done ao. The truth ia, 
 madam, strong-minded though she be, has 
 been a little afraid of the meeting with Sir 
 Vaue — her grand-daughter by her side. But 
 he has disappointed her agreeil)ly - if there 
 caa be such a thing ; he is diguitied, it is 
 true, and silent, but not sullen, and. not 
 more than the situation justifies. 
 
 ' I do not pretend I was not indignant at 
 first,' he says to her, 'and deeply disappoint 
 ed. You see, I never thougtit of such a 
 thing as your going to S3. Gildas and fallint; 
 in love after this fashion with the pretty 
 girl there. She is charming enough to make 
 almost any one fall in love with her, I admit,, 
 but then that sort of thing did noc seem in 
 the least like you. Sdll it ia natural, I sup- 
 pose, ' with a sigh, ' and my loss is her gain. ' 
 
 ' It need not be your lossT-unlesa you 
 wish,' says madam. Sne is seated at a table, 
 playing with a pearl paper knife, and doee^ 
 not look up. 
 
 There is a pause. 
 
 '1 think 1 understand,' Sir Vane says, 
 gravely. * Of course, I don'c exactly claim 
 to be disinte^rested in this matter — it would 
 not be in human nature— and after all these 
 years of waiting. The best of my life is gone 
 — I am fit for nothing now, atter yield- 
 ing up all these years in the ex- 
 pectation of being a rich man in the 
 end. Without wealth to support it, the 
 title must sink ; Valentine Manor and park 
 must go. All this you know ; compensation 
 is due to me in justice. We might combine 
 our interest, as you say. I might marry 
 Miss Valentine.' 
 
 •As you say 1' madam retorts, quickly, 
 almost angrily. ' I have never said it.' 
 
 ' No ? I thought that waa your meaning. 
 Does it not strike you as the simplest — the 
 only way of reconciling the ditfiouiiy ?' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 7. 
 
.98 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 Iff 
 
 i 
 
 Sir Vane Btands, tall, cold, dark, passioo* 
 
 leas, by ttie maotel. Madam aita at the 
 
 table, and taps with the paper-kuife. The 
 
 thuu^ht hai bCruck her butuiu, but it utrikea 
 
 htir with atiort of chill uuw — a preaencimuiit, 
 
 . ic may be, as ahe luuka at the man. She 
 
 . ahrinka fioiii it with a auddun avuraion for 
 
 which aliO uauuot uccuuut, aadhia t'aue dark- 
 
 > eua »H he aeeu it. 
 
 •Wuat ia your objection?' he coldly 
 aakd. 
 
 ' There ia a threat disparity,' madam aaya. 
 
 ' More thaufcwunty yuara. It ia tuu much.' 
 
 ' You will be guud euou^h to recollect I 
 
 . have spent thoae twenty yeara in your 
 
 r aervice — by your desire. Do you think it ia 
 
 the life I — any man — would choo8e,if left to 
 
 himself?' 
 
 There is auppreased passion ia uia tone, 
 fire iu his eyes, auger in hia voice. Madam 
 looka up. A spark hua bjen atruck fioin 
 the manhood within him, aud she likes him 
 none the lesa fur it. 
 
 ' I forget nothing, my good Vane,' she an- 
 swera, nut ungeutly. ' Compensation is due 
 you. I ailnnt it. My granddaughter la 
 young — she has seen nothing of the world iu 
 one aunae, in spite of her fifteen months of 
 travel -nothing of men. iShe ia a chUd in 
 heart and yeara— a beautiful and innocent 
 child. Give her time, let her aee a little of 
 life before we trouble her with questions of 
 marriage, or fortunes at stake. I love b' 
 very dearly ; there la nothing so near to 
 heart now as her happinesa. If you 
 make it, I am willing — after a time — to 
 sign her to you Indeed, in many waya, for 
 many reasons, I should prefer to see you her 
 husband. I know you. You are of one 
 fjiue — the honour of our name is in your 
 k ^eptng— you two are the last of a very old 
 I f mi y. But iu spite of this, I shall never 
 .ijrce her heart, her inclination. If — in a 
 year from now say— you can win her, do so. 
 I shall favour your suit* Should she accept 
 yiiU, all queationa of conflicting intereata 
 will be at rest foiever. Suould she refuse 
 you, you shall not have wasted thoae best 
 years you apeak of in vain. But she ia to be 
 m/ heiresa — that must be understood. The 
 . balk of her grandfather's fortune shall go to 
 : htsr. Aa your vtife, it wil* come to you in- 
 directly, through her, but the income only 
 — the tortune itaelf shall be settled upon her 
 and her chilaren . 8be is Greorge'a daughter ; 
 her intereat must ever be paramount now. 
 Meantime your chances are good ; you will 
 be with her ; she will see you daily, and 
 leara to care for you — I hope. For you — 
 . you ren e nbt r the words of Shakespeare : 
 
 • The man that hath a tongue I say ia no man 
 If with that tongue he cannot win a woman.' 
 
 She rises with a smile aa she says it, and 
 holds out her hands more gently than he has 
 ever known her before. 
 
 ' You have my wiabea, my dear Vane,' she 
 says kindly. 'I believe it la in you to make 
 a good husband ; aud my Dolores ia a mate 
 for a king ! ' 
 
 ' Shall I speak to her, sunt ? ' he asks, 
 holding the hand she extends iu both his, 
 'or shall I ' 
 
 ' Mo,' she interrupts ; ' not yet— not for a 
 ye»r at least. Let her enj >y tnis one year 
 uf girlhood unfettered aud Ir^ie. Wait this 
 one more year and woo aud win, aud wear 
 her then if you can.' 
 
 So the compact is made, and Sir Vane 
 Valentine, with stately aud old-time gallant- 
 ry, lifts the jeweled hand to hid lips and so 
 Btals it. Indeed Sir Vane ia stalely, and 
 alow, and stiff, ana solt-mn, and sombre by 
 nature, aud walks throuk{h life in fall dress, 
 as though it were a perpetual minuet. 
 
 Miaa Valentine meeta hun and gives him 
 one slim white hand, and looks him over 
 with the frank impertinence uf eighteen. 
 
 * Tall, lean, yellow, sourish ; little bald 
 spot on the top of his head ; eyes like jet 
 beads — don't think I shall like him,' aay tne 
 saucy, blue, learless eyes. ' Uh 1 to have 
 Johnny here — my own ever dearest Johnuy! 
 — or even Rene 1 Life would be too delij^ht- 
 for anything if only it waun't quiie so prim 
 and ceremonious, aud if only 1 nad my two 
 ijya.' 
 
 . 'And it seems to me I have seen Sir Vane 
 Valentine somewhere before,' she adds, tak- 
 iug a second survey of the baronet. But she 
 fails to place him. Indeed, she had but bare- 
 ly honoured the paaaing guest oi lale Ptrdrix 
 with the most careless aud casual of glances. 
 
 Miss Dolores Valentine has certainly not 
 got her ' two hoya ; ' but one cannot have 
 everything. She haa her till of the good and 
 pleasant tnings of life. She does not include 
 iha professors who still visit her- her music, 
 and German, and arawing masters —in tbat 
 category, but she does her best to please 
 grandmamma, and takes to dancing and sing- 
 ing by instinct, as a kitten takes to milk. 
 French she is proficient in, of course ; Ger- 
 man and Italian follow in due order. Sbe is 
 apt and ready, a ' quick study,' and bids fair 
 presently to be a very accomplished young 
 woman indeed. Madam inatila the habit of 
 good society, the repose of manner becoming 
 in the daughter of a hundred Valentines. 
 She reads a great deal — history, travels, bi- 
 ography, fiction, poetry — she ia quite raven- 
 oua in the matter of books ; learns riding, 
 and delights in daily gallops over the hills 
 and far away, with a groom behind her. In 
 a quiet way she sees gradually a good deal of 
 
 seen 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 99 
 
 ie says it, and 
 bly than he haa 
 
 lear Vane/ she 
 in you to make 
 orud ia a mate 
 
 unt ? ' he askp, 
 » in buth hia, 
 
 yet— not for a 
 ' tais one year 
 I. Wait thia 
 ma, aud wear 
 
 and Sir Vane 
 (1 -time gallant' 
 hid lipa aud ao 
 a ataieiy, aud 
 nd Bombre by 
 i in tiili dreua, 
 minuet. 
 Eiud gives him 
 )ok8 him over 
 t° eighteen. 
 Ii ; little bald 
 
 eyea like jet 
 I him,' aay tne 
 
 Oh ! to have 
 areat Johnuy! 
 be too delight- 
 
 quiie BO prim 
 uad my two 
 
 Been Sir Vane 
 the adds, tak- 
 net. But Bhe 
 hud but ^are- 
 t lale Ptrdrix 
 tal of glauces. 
 certainly not 
 cannot have 
 the good and 
 :s nob include 
 r- her music, 
 iters —in tbac 
 3at to pleaae 
 ingand sing- 
 kes to milk, 
 course ; Ger- 
 rder. She is 
 and bids fair 
 liahed youug 
 
 the habit of 
 ler becoming 
 . Valentines. 
 ', travels, bi- 
 
 quite raven- 
 arus riding, 
 er the hills 
 iind her. In 
 i good deal of 
 
 society ; goes out more or leas to youthful, 
 innoxious evening parties, the theatre, the 
 opera ; is admired wherever she goea as a 
 beauty and aa heiress, and leads altogether 
 quite a charmed life. It ia a very different 
 life in every way from that old one, so far 
 off now that it seem j like a dream, but in 
 ita diHerent way, to the full aa good. 
 
 Every day, every hour, ia full to over- 
 fiowiog with bright and pleasant life. She 
 regreta her boys, and writes to them when 
 she haa time to think — to Mere Maddelena, 
 aiid her,fiieudInaocente|Desereaux, but'their 
 memory is a tntitj dimmed by time, and ab- 
 sence aud new delights. Even Sir Vane, 
 seen with daily familiar eyes, ^rows leas 
 gruesome, lesa el'^erly, becomes indeed rather 
 a favourite cavalier servant, a friend and 
 cousin, without whom the smoothly-oiled 
 wheels of life might jir a little. He so sees 
 to the thousand and one little hourly com- 
 forts — the pit asant petits|souvirs that go to 
 mvke up life, that she tinds herself wonder- 
 ing sometimes how she and grandmamma 
 would ever get on without him. When he 
 rides out with her he is a much more agree- 
 able esuort than the groom ; he attends them 
 everywhere ; half ttie good things she 
 so mucii enjoys would be unattainable with- 
 out him. A.nd he is really not so elderly — 
 and then he 1:2? % title, and ia treated with 
 deference, and is, takeu as a whole, the sort 
 of cavalier one can be proud of. And the 
 ' snmmiug-up of the whole thing is that Miss 
 Valentine decides that she likes Sir Vane 
 very much, aud that if he leaves them, and 
 goes to England, as he talks of doing, &he 
 will m 89 him exceedingly. 
 
 How it comes about that the truth dawns 
 upon her it would be hard to say. He ad- 
 heres to his contract with the madam, and 
 gays nothing directly. But there are other 
 ways of aayiug than in spoken words. In a 
 hundred ways he makes her see his drift. 
 The blue-bell eyes lift in a sort of consterna- 
 tion) Marry ! she has not begun to think of 
 it. She has literally had no time — she has 
 seen no one — to be looked at twice at least. 
 She is busy thinking of a hundred other 
 things. Marry Sir Vane 1 he wishes it, 
 bonne maman wishes it—she has found that 
 out, too. Sir Vane looks upon the Valentine 
 fortui^ as his right, and bonne maman 
 means to give it to her. That she also learns 
 — who is to say how ? If she marries him 
 everything will arrange itself as everybody 
 wishes ; if she does not, there promises to be 
 worrj and disappointment, and a great deal 
 of bitter feeling. Marry Sir Vane Valentine 1 
 Well, why not? 
 
 Why not ? Miss Dolores Valentine has 
 been brought^up in all the creeds and tradi- 
 
 tions that most obtain in French demoiselle- 
 hood of the haute noblesse. First and 
 fureinoat among theae is the maxim — 
 mademoiselle marries without murmur 
 the parti papa and mamma select. To have 
 a choice of her own, to fall in love — could any- 
 thing be in wcat taste, be.moru vuUar, more 
 glaringly outre aud indelicate ? i'apa aud 
 mamma decide the alliance, there is an iuter- 
 viewatten, under maternalaurvuiiauueduiiug 
 which monsieur is supposed to sic, aud 
 look and j^long, and mademoiselle to be mute 
 and demure, and ready to accept the goods 
 her gods provide. If monsieur be tolerably 
 young, aud agreeable, and good to look upon. 
 BO much the better • if he be old, saus teeth, 
 sans hair, sans wit, sans e>firythiog hue 
 money, so much the worse. But appeal there 
 can hardly be any from parental authority. 
 There is always the cloi»ter ; yes, but woat 
 will you ? We all cauuut have a vocation for 
 the nun's vail, and the couveut grille. And 
 these very old husbands do not live forever 1 
 She has not thought much in all her bright 
 summer-day life, she has never had occasion 
 for anything so tiresome ; others have done 
 it for her. She knits her delicate blonde 
 brows, and quits Irowns her i^rjtty 
 forehead into wrinkles over this. She even 
 
 writes, and lays the case— suppositioually 
 
 before her infallible oracle. Mere Maddelena. 
 Mere Maddelena has been married herself 
 aud knows all about it. Tne answer comes' 
 But certainly, my child, aays notre mere, it 
 is^all light — that. If the so good bonne ma- 
 man wishes it, and great family interests are 
 involved, and he is worthy as you say, and 
 you esteem him, then why hedtaie. A daugh- 
 ter's first duty is obedience, always obedi- 
 ence ; le bon Dieu blesses the 'dutiiui;;hild ' 
 — and so on through four pages of peaky 
 writing and excellent French advice. Jisteem 
 him ? Well yes. But the pretty penciled 
 brows knit closer than ever. How about this 
 love, her poets and novelists make so much 
 of, lay such stress on ; positively insist on 
 indeid, as the first and moat important in- 
 gredient in the matrimonial dish ? Is this 
 kindly, friendly feeling she haa for Sir Vane 
 love ? Who knows ? Notre mere says here* 
 it is not necessary, it may be most foolish and 
 unmaidenly ; esteem and obedience are best 
 and almost always, safe. And then what 
 does it signify ? She likes him well enough, 
 better than any other. Since one must be 
 married, better marry a gentleman one knows 
 and likes than a stranger. A strange gentle- 
 man would be embarrassing ; one would not 
 know what to say to him after marrying him ! 
 But one could always talk to Sir Vane. And 
 he is never tiresome, at least hardly ever I 
 Since marriage or convents are states girls 
 
 
 ,,;^;;iMVe>5^l8S 
 
 B'!'.t lOTM'ICA 
 
100 
 
 L03T FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 are born t<> ohooae between, by nature, and 
 aa Bparks Hy upward, why make tmnhle and 
 vex one'a friends ? Why not accept the in- 
 evitable and the bridefi;room oh laen 
 
 There is her friend la Oontesxa Paladino, 
 only nineteen, the count nearly sixty, quite 
 fat and gouty, and she does not seem to 
 mind. And la oontessa, who was altogether 
 poor and obscure, and a little nobody be- 
 fore her marriage, is a personage ot import- 
 ance now, and sister-in law to a great nion- 
 signore, who, in his turn, is a great friend of 
 il Papa-ll'). She lives in a big palazzo, and 
 drives on the Corso every day, and mya she 
 did not begin to live until she was la con- 
 tessa. 
 
 Oa the whole one might do worse, a 
 Milordo Valentine, a^ they call him here, is 
 far better than a Conte Guigi Paladino of 
 Bixty, all fat and gouty. Oue'need never be 
 ashamed of him at least. Her decision, you 
 perceive, is much the same as the bride- 
 groom's own ; it is not what one would 
 most desire, but it might easily be worse. 
 80 the fair brows unbend, and the inconse- 
 quent girlish mind is made up. Since it 
 must be to please dearest grandmamma she 
 will marry Sir Vane Valentine I 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 * TO LOVB OR HATE — TO WIN OR LOSE.' 
 
 So matters stand on this bright evening, 
 when Miss Dolores Valentine walks up and 
 down the lamp-lit Sala in lustrous evening 
 robe, and listens to Mrs. Tinker and her 
 talk of the new will. No one has ever said 
 to her directly one word on the subject 
 matrimonial, but it is in all their minds, 
 nevertheless, and mademoiselle knows it. 
 Why not take the initiative herself, come 
 generously forward and put them out of 
 their misery. It is through a sense of deli- 
 cacy and consideration for her, no doubt, 
 they hesitate. Well, she in turn will show 
 them she is not lacking in nice perception. 
 One must marry it seems ; it appears to be 
 a state of being no pr tperly reguated young 
 lady can hope to escape — since it must be 
 done, then it were well 'twere done quickly. 
 
 Of late Sir Vane has been looking more 
 tban commonly black and bilious, and 
 Eugene Aramish ; has talked in moody 
 strains of returning to England, and lather 
 committing social suicide, than otherwise. 
 Bonnemaman has been rather silent and 
 grave, a little perturbed, and as if in doubt, 
 and has contracted a habit of regarding 
 them both with anxious, half'closed eyes. 
 The moral atmosphere is unpleasantly 
 charged with electricity. Mist Valentine 
 
 feels it incumbent upon her to apply a match 
 and touch it off, and with one graud explo- 
 sion uiear away the vapours forever. 
 
 ' Mti Tinker,' she says, pausing in her 
 meditative walk, ' go to grandmamma, 
 please ; see if the lawyer has gone, and if 
 she will admit me.' 
 
 Mrs. Tinker goes. 
 
 In all things, great and small, this young 
 prinoesi' will is autocratic. In a minute or 
 two she IS back. Madam is alone in the 
 drawing-room, and bids her comd. 
 
 Gathering up her lustrous, shimmering 
 train. Miss Valentine sweeps away, bearing 
 herself like the regal little personage she is 
 — golden head well erect, slight figure held 
 straight as an arrow. 
 
 * Bless you, my pretty — my pretty ! * 
 murmurs adoring Mrs. Tinker, ' look where 
 I will, among contessas, and marchc'tas, and 
 them, I see no one tit to hold a caudle to 
 you.' 
 
 Swinging lamps sparkle like fire-flies 
 down the lofty length of this blue drawing- 
 room. Madam, in black silk and guipures, 
 sits enthroned in a great blue and gilded 
 chair, with rather a weary, care-worn look 
 upon her pale face. But it changes to a 
 quick, glad, welcoming light, as her grand- 
 daughter enters. 
 
 ' Dressed, my dear ? ' she says ; ' have I 
 kept you wa^tog? It it still toj early, i 
 it not ? • 
 
 For they are due at a party at the big, grim 
 palazzo of the laughing oontessa — not one of 
 the great Paladino state balls. Miss Valen- 
 tine not being yet properly * out' — a rather 
 small reception— madame's weekly At Home. 
 
 'Too early? Yes,' Dolores answers ab- 
 sently. She draws up a low seat, sits close 
 to madam's side, folds her small hands on 
 the elder lady's silken lap, looks up with 
 two, wide, blue, utterly unembarrassed eyes, 
 and plunges at once into her subjeci;. 
 
 ' Grandmamma, Mr. Tinker says you have 
 been making a will.' 
 
 ' Mrs Tinker is a foolish old gossip. Bat 
 it is true. Mr. Carson has just gone/ 
 
 * Mrp. Tinker says it is a will in my favoar, 
 leaving me almost all your money. ' 
 
 ' Tinker ;s worse tban a gossip ; she is 
 an old fool . But it is true again. I have. ' 
 
 One jewelled hand rests lovingly,«linger. 
 irigly on the fait head. She looks down with 
 worshipping eyes on the fair, upturned, sweet 
 young face. 
 
 , My pretty Dolores,' she says, 'you will 
 be — you are— a very great heiress. You are 
 dowered like a princess, do you know it ? ' 
 
 ' I know that you must be very rich, 
 grandmamma.' 
 
 * And it is a very fine thing to be very 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 101 
 
 ipply a match 
 
 grand explo* 
 
 jver. 
 
 using ia her 
 
 randinamma, 
 
 gone, aad if 
 
 I, this young 
 
 a minute or 
 
 i,lone iu the 
 
 (Id. 
 
 ehimmnring 
 way, bearing 
 onage she is 
 i figure held 
 
 ly pretty ! ' 
 * look where 
 rcheias, and 
 a candle to 
 
 ke fire'flies 
 lue drawing- 
 id guipures, 
 and gilded 
 e-worn look 
 shatigea to a 
 
 I her grand* 
 
 ys ; ' have I 
 to ) early, -a 
 
 ;he big, grim 
 —not one of 
 Miss Valen* 
 t' — a rather 
 ly At Home, 
 answers ab* 
 it, sits close 
 
 II hande on 
 cs up with 
 rassed eyes, 
 jeci;. 
 
 ys you have 
 
 ossip. Bat 
 ;one.' 
 
 my favour, 
 t.' 
 asip ; she is 
 
 I have.' 
 igly.Jinger- 
 I down with 
 rned, sweet 
 
 ' you will 
 You are 
 now it ? ' 
 very rich, 
 
 to be very 
 
 rich, my dear. It brings the world to your 
 feet, ffave you found that out in these last 
 two years ? All our English circle here in 
 Romy— ay, and these titled Italians also, 
 tilk of the rich id beautiful Signorina 
 Valentine. And you have known poverty, 
 too, there on your island. Which do you 
 fiink is befet ? ' 
 
 She puts back the strands of yellow hair 
 witi» a oomplacpnt smile, and waits, sure of 
 the answer. Hut that answer is not quite to 
 order when it comes. 
 
 • I was very happy there on my island, 
 gaandmamma— ah, happy I happy I Every- 
 body was good to me—sio good. And I lov- 
 ed them all dearly. 1 never wanted for any- 
 thing. I never thought of being rich— never 
 wanted to be. But, yes, I suppose it i«i a 
 fine thing ; it gives me music, and books, 
 and pr*>tty dresnes, and jewels, and handsome 
 horstis and oarriagns, and oarties, aijd pleas- 
 ant people, and it mhkea the beggars shower 
 one with ble^sjings ; but somehow, I think I 
 could be quite happy without so much money. 
 It's not everything. I suppose I am not am- 
 bitious. At least,' seeing madam's brow 
 darken, * it's not worth quarreling over, and 
 having hard feelings about. And I am afraid,' 
 nervously, ' there may be much hard feeling 
 about this new will.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Dolores i ' a little 
 sternly. 
 
 ' Don't be displeased grandmamma. Only 
 is it quite fair to Sir Vane ? ' 
 
 ' It ia quite fair— it is perfectly fair. My 
 money is mine to do as I please with ; to 
 dower hospitals, if I see fit. 1 see fit to give 
 it to my grAiiiidaughter. Wnat more right 
 or natural than that?' 
 
 *Ye8, );;rand mamma, but still you know 
 Sir Vane expects * 
 
 'My dear,' sarcastically, * Sir Vane ex- 
 pected I would die some fiftefn or more 
 ^ears ago and leave him my ducats. I be- 
 lieve he considers him?elf a wronged man, 
 that I have not done so. Perhaps he is no 
 more mercenary and lelHsh than the ma- 
 jority ; perhaps it is natural enough he 
 should wish me out of the way, and my for- 
 tune his, but you see even Sir Vane Valen- 
 tine cannot quite have everything to suit 
 him. I do not think he has much to com- 
 pltia of, on the whole. I do not fetter him 
 any way. If he remains here constantly, it 
 his own wish. I think he finds me liberal 
 in all ways. And if I have re-made my will, 
 and left you my heiress, I have not forgotten 
 him. Something is due him — much is due 
 him. I grant that, after all these years of 
 waiting and expectation. Noblesse oblige, 
 my dear — I forget nothing. I an\ as desirous 
 as he is to see Valentine restored, and the 
 
 old name, a power in the land once more. 
 Your inheritanon would amply do that. 
 Dolores, you plead hii cause — plead against 
 your own interests. It is possible— child, 
 let me look at you — is it possiblo you care 
 for Vane Valentine V 
 
 Red as iho heart of a June roue, for a 
 moment, grows the upturned face, but the 
 blue, frank eyes neither falter nor fail. 
 
 • Ai my very good friend and yours, giand- 
 mamma — ves* I see him every day, you 
 know,' naively, as though that was a reason. 
 ' I am sure I don't know half the time how 
 we would get on without him. * Oh, yes, 
 madre carrisima, I like him very muon I' 
 
 ' Ah !' grandmamma laughs a sarcastic 
 little laugh, ' in that way — I understand. 
 As you like the family cat ! Vane in a tame 
 cat in his M-ay too. But as a husband. 
 Petite, we have not time to mince matters 
 — it grows late. As a husband, how does 
 Sir Vane strike you ?' 
 
 The blush fades, the little hands fold re- 
 signidly— a deep sigh comes from the pretty 
 lips. 
 
 ' Oh, grandmamma, I don't know. It ii 
 very tiresome to have to mairy. Why need 
 one — at least until one is quite, quite old 
 — four and twenty say ? Grandmamma, I 
 wish — I wish, very earneitly, this, that you 
 would destroy this last will. Let it be as 
 it was before — let Sir Vane have the great 
 Valentine fortune, and then it will not be 
 necessary for me to marry him. or anybody. 
 Money makes so much trouble — it is so hard 
 to make enemies, and bitterness, and family 
 quarrels just for its sake. If I aui not an 
 heiress, no one will want to marry nie. I 
 could live with you, for years an 
 years to come, pleasant life of ours, and then 
 — mav be — by and by ' 
 
 • W^ell ? and by and by ?' says grand- 
 mmama, half amused, half provoked, ' Oh ! 
 you great baby ! how differently you will 
 think when you come t«> that antiquated age 
 — four-and-twenty ! You would hardly 
 thank me then if I took you at your word 
 to-night. No, my dear, as it is, so it shall 
 remain. You are my heiress — it is your 
 birthright. If you have a mind to marry 
 Vane Valentine, well and good ; you might 
 easily do worse, and great interests will 
 then be combined. It is what I would de- 
 cidedly prefer. If you have not a mind, 
 then there is no more to be said — your in- 
 clinations will not be forced, and he must 
 take what I give and be content.' 
 
 • But he will not be,' says the young lady, 
 ruefully, ' that is the worst of it. And he 
 will look upon me as his rival and enemy, 
 and iae bitter and angry, and feel wronged. 
 If [ have a mind to, indeed I 1 wonder at 
 
 
102 
 
 LOST rOR A WOMAN. 
 
 you, grAndmkmin* I Of course, I have no 
 mind to him, or any one else, but right is 
 li/ht, and if you with it—' 
 ' I do wish it.' 
 
 ' And he wiHhe« it — why, then — ' 
 ' You consent, my dearest Dolorea, is 
 that your meaning ?' 
 
 MadcmniHelle rises hastily to her feet, 
 with a little foteitfo gesture of both hsn^ls, 
 palms downward, but she makes no answer 
 in words, for nt the moment enters Sir Vane, 
 ready to escort them to the party. 
 
 They ro in silence. The Corso is all 
 ablazfl with light, and thronged with people 
 and carriages, as thoy drive slowly through. 
 Overhead there is a purple sky, golden stars, 
 a shining half-ring of silver ; and Dolores, 
 lying back in a corner, wrapped to the chin 
 in snowy cashmeie and swan's-down, looks 
 up at it, and thinks of the moonlight nights 
 long auo. Bay Cholette. one great sheet of 
 polished silver ; the black crags of Isle Per- 
 drix tipped with shafts of radiance ; the 
 little white cottages, looking like a minia- 
 ture ivory temple. Where are they all— 
 thoy who dwelt together on lonely Ijle Per- 
 drix, now ? Old Tim is there still in his 
 lighthouse ; Ma'am Weesy dwells alone in 
 her cottage ; Johnny is among those who go 
 donnto tie 'great water.' in ships; sn I 
 Kene is— somewhere — studying his beloved 
 ait. It is more than a year ago since she 
 heard from him. He too was traveling ; 
 and that too rt-minds her, she has never 
 answered that last letter. Mere Maddelena 
 is still at Villa des Anges, and Dr. Macdon- 
 aid — ah 1 Dr. Maodonald's name is written in 
 marble, and he has gone to be a citizen of 
 that City whose maker and builder is God. 
 The great, grim stone front of that tall 
 palazzo is all a glitter of light ; music comes 
 to them as they enter. A dashing young 
 officer, in the glittering uniform of the 
 Giiardia Nobile, meets them on the thres- 
 hold, and devotes himself with empressment 
 to the fair Signorina Iiiglese from that mo- 
 ment. He is a handsome lad, and a gallant, 
 a cousin of the Paladin, and deeply, hope- 
 Jessly in love with Meess Valentine. A dim 
 «u?l)icion that it is so dawns on Miss Valen- 
 tiufe'h mind this evening, but she is not sure; 
 she is quite pathetically innocent, for eigh- 
 teen, of the phases and working of thegrande 
 passion. 
 
 ' May I, grandmamma ?' she says, looking 
 over her shoulder gayly, as, permission 
 granted, she flits away by his side. 
 
 For Sir Vane— he is distinctly cross. He 
 * 1 J ^'* stand near madam's chair, with 
 folded arms and moody brow, looking darker 
 «nd thinner, and older than usual and 
 frowning on the gay company before 
 
 him. He watches with jealous eyes, the 
 ffolden head, pearl-orowned, of bis youthful 
 kinswoman with her glitti ring NoMe (hiard 
 t>y her side. Is this to be the end ? The 
 young fellow will be a marchese one day ; he 
 IS in the deepest depths of the sovereign pas« 
 siou. It is patent in his linuid Italian eyea 
 for all the world to read. Is this to ho the 
 end ? And Carson was at the house to day, 
 and a new will was made — a final one this 
 time, no doubt, and the Valentine foitune 
 has been left irrevocably to this amber hair- 
 ed girl. After all his wasted yearn, his lost 
 youth, his hopes, is this to be the end ? 
 
 ' Is there anything the matter with yon, 
 my good Vane ?' madam asks at last, struck 
 as no one can fail to be> by the dark look 
 his face wears. 
 
 ' There ii nothing the matter with my 
 health, if that is what you mean,' he an* 
 swers, shortly enough, 
 
 ' Ah ! that is satiNfactory. Your illness 
 then is a mild disease, I take it.' 
 
 ' Does it follow,' still curtly, ' that I must 
 be ill at all, beoaase I do not choose to talk 
 in this din ?' 
 
 Sir Vane has often been irritable — so dis- 
 tinctly as this, never before. But she is in 
 exceptionally good humor herself, and great 
 allowarce is to be made for bir Vane, she is 
 aware. 
 
 ' If you do not choose to talk, that is an- 
 other thing,' she says, coldly , when you 
 do I have a word or too to say to you, you 
 may like to hear.' 
 
 * Indeed ?' ' anything pleasant will 
 be rather a welcome change. My let- 
 ters from home to-day were most con- 
 foundedly unpleaa^nt. Everything is going 
 wrong, everything from the manor to the 
 cottagts tumbling to pieces. I musr, go over, 
 Dorothy saye, if anything is to be done. I 
 can go, of course, although I fail to see of 
 whai particular benetit my goinj^; can be. I 
 feel rather hipped, I must confess, in the 
 face of all this. And that does not add to 
 one's comfort.' 
 
 He motions to where Dolores, still on his 
 arm cf the N be Guard, is waltzing ovtr tie 
 waxed floor, to the music of Gourond. 
 
 ' It is of that I speak. Come closer, my 
 good Vane, we can talk here as securely as 
 at home. You saw Mr. Carson at the house 
 to-day, I infer ?' 
 
 • Ye8,'cnrtly. 
 
 ' 1 have made a will— a new — will — my 
 final disposition this time. The bulk of my 
 fortune is left to my granddaughter— natur- 
 ally.' 
 
 'Naturally,' he repeats, with a half sneer, 
 setting his teeth behind his mustacbep and 
 biting babk a sullen oath. 
 
 • Doloi 
 
 objiclc'. 
 share. ^ 
 pleaded 
 
 'I am 
 —the fu 
 Mhe IB 
 shiu is B 
 obj<]Ct to 
 is a que 
 spoke of 
 it, you w 
 • VVel 
 ' Consi 
 good Va 
 There 
 for a iii( 
 is a noin 
 he bearti. 
 low in 
 after ail 
 eyes, tri 
 tune is 
 pretty — 
 ofl 'All 
 ess ! Oil 
 and now 
 surge an 
 
 • You 
 piciously 
 derstand 
 
 • That 
 speechlei 
 There ar 
 You 1 
 I was it 
 moment 
 thing t( • 
 return h 
 for that ! 
 
 'Do ; 
 and lool 
 care for 
 that von 
 
 •You 
 think,' 
 man see 
 I do da 
 hardly c 
 doubt' 
 
 ♦ParH 
 very gl 
 spire lo' 
 parity o 
 b 5 over 
 Vane ? - 
 
 And : 
 her aid* 
 them, I 
 hours i! 
 talk of 
 of the h 
 
un eyeii, the 
 bi« y"«thful 
 Sol.'le(Jii»r4 
 
 end? The 
 one dfty ; he 
 vereiyn paa> 
 
 Italian pyet 
 M to he the 
 OUR6 to day, 
 inl one thin 
 ine fnitune 
 amber hair- 
 trn, hia lost 
 » end ? 
 r with yon, 
 lant, struck 
 I dark look 
 
 ter with my 
 san,' he an- 
 
 ''our illness 
 
 that I must 
 ose to talk 
 
 le— 80 dig. 
 it she is in 
 , and great 
 ^^ane, she is 
 
 that is an> 
 
 when you 
 
 to you, you 
 
 Dant will 
 My let- 
 moat con- 
 Dg is going 
 >U')r to the 
 at go over, 
 ie done. I 
 il to aee of 
 can be. I 
 Fess, in the 
 not add to 
 
 atill on hia 
 ng ovtr tie 
 ond. 
 
 closer, my 
 
 securely aa 
 
 the house 
 
 —will — iny 
 )ulk of my 
 er— natur- 
 
 half sneer, 
 itache, and 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ICS 
 
 * Dolores diaoovered, and, atrange to aay, 
 obj«jo;c''. She wiahed you to have the larKer 
 ahitre. 8ne oouHidered it due to you, iShe 
 pleaded your cauite mo^t urgently. 
 
 ' I am intinicely obliged to my fair oouain 
 — the fu ure MuruKusa 8.tlvui ' 
 
 '•She 18 not your oousui — at least, the ooufin- 
 ehiu ia ao remote that it need not count. I 
 objdot to bhe marriage of uouaina. And thnre 
 ia a queatiou of marriage hure, Vane. We 
 spoke of it, alie aud 1. I tidd her X wiahed 
 it, you winhed it, aud she ' 
 
 * Well ?'— broathlesHly. 
 
 ' Consents. Dolores will marry you, my 
 good Vane.' 
 
 There ia ailence. He standa erect, and 
 for a moment diawa hia breath in hard. It 
 ia a nomeut before he can (|tiite realiz) what 
 he heara. Marry him ! Tiien that Call fel- 
 low in bl»ck and g lit ia no favored lover 
 after all. He looks at her with kindliog 
 eyes, triumphant eyes. At last T The for- 
 tune ii) secured ! And ahe ia pretty — very 
 pretty — yea, beuutilul — a bride to be proud 
 of ! Add she ia dowered like a grand-duoh- 
 
 ess ! Ouly u moment ago all seemed loat^ 
 
 and now — Limps, (lowers, waltzes, muaic, 
 surge around him a8 things do iu a dream. 
 
 * You say nothing,' madam saya, sus- 
 piciously, aud in some anger. ' Am I to un- 
 derstand ' 
 
 * That a man may Le daze.l, stunned, 
 speechless, from sheer good fortune — yes. 
 There are shocks and shocks, my dear aunt. 
 You have just given me one. — 
 I was in despair — I may tell you now— one 
 moment ago. I meant to throw up every- 
 thing t( -iiorrow, to go back to England, aud 
 return here no more. I thought ahe cared 
 for that fellow. And now — to know this ' 
 
 Do you mean to say,' demandd mada 
 
 uj. 
 
 and looks up at him earnestly, ' that you 
 care for the child apart from her fortune— 
 that von love her, in short ?' 
 
 • You need hardly ask that question, I 
 think,' he answers, calmly. ' Could any 
 man see her, in her beauty and sweetness, as 
 I do day after day, and not love her 7 You 
 hardly compliment our lovely Dolores by the 
 doubt • 
 
 ' Pardon. I thoucht— I mean— well, I am 
 very glad. Yes, she ia lovely enough to in- 
 spire love in any one. There is a great dis- 
 parity of years,* with a sigh ; 'hut that must 
 bj overlooked. You will be g'lod to her, 
 Vane • — mv poor little tender one !' 
 
 And Sir Vane protests, and takes a seat by 
 her side, aud while the music swells around 
 them, and the dancers dance, and the rosy 
 hours fly, they two sit there and plan, and 
 talk of the future, and the restored fortunes 
 of the house of Valentine. 
 
 CHAlTEll IV. 
 
 •NOTIIINO COMKS AMt.HS HO MONEY COMES 
 WITHAL, 
 
 There is a piouio three days after, and they 
 go to the Ville Ludovia . It ia lovjly pio ui. 
 weather, and thd gay little oonteHaa is uevrr 
 happy but when in the midat of something of 
 tilt) sort. T. • lay they a • a narti ca le — Sir 
 N'ane, madam, la conteash, and Doloris. Aud 
 to day Sir Vane dotorminea to put his fate to 
 tlio touch— to spea'i to Dolores detinitely. 
 Not that there ia aay real need of such a pro- 
 uceiiiug, but Sir Vane it not a bVcnchman, 
 and helievea iu djiug this aort ot thing pro- 
 perly and iu order, and in Eiii{li«h fashion. 
 
 They drive through the suuay streets, 
 where hooded capuchins, and picturesque 
 ar»iB 8 and il wer girls, and fruit-sellers, aud 
 friara of or.iers gray, aud cavalcades with 
 jingling bells, and brown beggars lie in the 
 Buu, aud the sharp chirp of the cioala cracks 
 through the green gloom, and Howers end ; 
 oranve trees, aud roues, and Koman violets, 
 and Vitt tr Emanuerssoldiers are everywhere. 
 Overhead there is a hot, hot sun, but with it 
 there is a bre<>ze, an air like velvet, the streets 
 are a blaze of light, and life, and colour. It 
 ia not the old picturesque, papal picture, of 
 cardiual'e carriages— il i'apa Ke — benign and 
 white robed iu their midst — but a glowing 
 vista of moving life and colour still. 
 
 Tliey a>oeud to the hti^hts amen? ruins, 
 ami the red petticoats of c<>ndatii ft into the 
 dense kIooiu of olive and ilex woods, where 
 luncheon has been ordered, aud waits them. 
 There ia hard brown bread, aud ciisp, silvery 
 lettuce, and tigi* that ure like globes of gold, 
 aud ice-cold wine. And ft ter dinner as they 
 stand under the sh^^de ot the ilex for a mo- 
 ment alone, Sir Vane finds his opportunity, 
 aud rp -aks. 
 
 yhe is looking very fair, and very young' — 
 too young, the man ot forty bet'ide her thinks 
 —impatient of those forty years. She ia 
 dressed iu white, crisp, gauzy bilk, as spot- 
 less as her own maiden heart. The amber 
 hair falls long and loose over her shoulders 
 in girlish fashion, tied back with a knot 
 of pale pink ribbon. Her cheeks are flushed 
 with the heat to the same rose pink glow. 
 Thr.^^ glow deepens to scarlet aa she stands,, 
 with white drooping lids, and listens, 
 
 S'le wishes he would not — she shrinkp, irom 
 wliat he B^y^ His wo dsof love and pv /.am 
 sound forced, cold ; they repel Y\n\ No 
 answering sympathy aws)«es with' a bfjr — she 
 shrinks an stiti hears. Was ik neoe.ssary to 
 say this? Grandmamma has toUl him Love? 
 uo, she feels none of ik.-*shedr,eg not believe 
 he does either. She vi r«lie ved when he ia 
 
 '1 
 
104 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 
 silent, and looks about her, half incliofsd to 
 run avay. But he baa caught one of her 
 hands, and so huLia her. 
 
 ' Dear little hand,' he says, clasping it be- 
 tween both bis own, ' when is it to bu mine, 
 Dolores ? ' 
 
 'Orandmamma will arrange all that,' 
 answers niademoiselle, aod hastily with- 
 draws it , * it is a matter in which 1 desire 
 to haf e no choice. I should like it to be as 
 far off as possible — ' 
 
 'Ah! that is cruel — the first unkind 
 word you have spoken to-day.' 
 
 •Otherwise.' quite calmly, ignoring the 
 interruption, ' I urn prepared to obey. Anti, 
 23 "ai time, I , should be glad, Sir Vane, if 
 you will nob speak of this again. It is not 
 needed, and — 1 find it embarrassing.' 
 
 There is no necessity to say eo : her deep- 
 ly flushed cheeks speak for her. 
 
 Sir Vane promises with alacrity. He is 
 Dot at all Sony to be rid of the bore of 
 wooing. Her wish renders it easy to make 
 a merit of his own desire. He lights a 
 philosophic cigar, and strolls .ff to enjoy it, 
 as la oonteesa comes up with madam. 
 
 Later that afternoon, strolling down the 
 hilJaide, Dolores flads herp<^lf alone ; the 
 others have paused to admire a ruin farther 
 up. Where she stands is just beneath a 
 shrine — a shrine set in a tall, precipitous, 
 flawer-crowned cliff -a Madonna, in a little 
 blue grotto, with claspod hands and up 
 raised eyes, and a tiny lamp burning like a 
 star at her feet. Some devout client has 
 wreathed the feet with flowers, but they are 
 withered now and drooping, after the noon- 
 tide glare. 
 
 It occurs to Dolores to say a little prayer 
 and remend the tlaral offeriog. Wild roses 
 are in a'oundance ; she breaks off some long, 
 spiky branches, wounding 'her fingers in the 
 effort, and mounts some loose laage rooks to 
 reach Our Lady's feet. 
 
 Standing so, two white arms uplifted, the 
 gauzy nleeves falling back, both hands tilled 
 with rose branches, she is a picture. So the 
 young man lying quietly on the tall grass a 
 few feet iff, watcning her at bis ease, him- 
 , self unseen, thinks. 
 
 She statids on the stones, and essays to 
 'twine the ro^es round the base of the statue. 
 rBut her footing is precatious, the topmost 
 • stone — loose aiwaja— slips, fads her. She 
 tries to p asp something, fails in this too, 
 Aud is toppling i^gloriously backward, when 
 like uupeeu watcher springs from the grass, 
 -*"* witii ci;e leap catches her in his arms 
 
 *n4 
 
 8he drops into them with a gasp, a horrified 
 ' Oh V tbeii draws precipitately back. 
 
 ' Sense 1' begins the rescuer, trying to un- 
 cover, but ac the M)uad of hi& voice, with a 
 
 second look in his face, there is a quick 
 little scream of ecstasy ; two milk-white 
 arms are flung round his neck, and hold him 
 tight, tight, and a voije brimful and running 
 over with transport, cries out : 
 
 • eene r 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ' NOTHING COMES AMISS, SO MOXEV COMES 
 WITUAL.' 
 
 'Rene! Rene! Rene!' cries this ecstatic 
 voice, 'dou'c you know me? Oh! Rene, 
 how glad — how glad 1 am !' 
 
 ' Snowball !' he says, blankly. Intense 
 surprise is his first feeliog— his only feeling 
 for a moment— mingled with doubt. 'Is it 
 Snowball ?' 
 
 * Snowball, of course. Oh ! my dearest, 
 dearest Rene ! how good it seems lo see you 
 after all these years once more !' 
 
 She loosens her arms by this time, and 
 looks at him again. He stands half laugh- 
 ing, half embarrassed, wholly glad, but not 
 glad iu the sanr>e effusive way. And with 
 that second look, it dawns upon this impul* 
 sive young person that she has been em- 
 bracing a Rene very different in appearance 
 from the Rene of old. This is a tall young 
 gentleman, and, in a dark way, an exceed- 
 ingly good-looking one. And he wears a 
 mustache. And he is a mau 1 And &11 the 
 blood of all the Valentines arises up, in 
 deepest contrition and cuufudiou, in the fair, 
 pearl-like face. 
 
 It is Rene, and not Rene. And he is 
 laughing at her — that is to say, there is a 
 smile in his dark eyes, and justt lurking at 
 the corners of that new mustache, though 
 he is evidently making a decorous effort tO' 
 efface it. Wnat would grandmamma, and„ 
 oh, what would Sir Vane say if he bad 
 seen. Red as a r<ise is she — the sweetesf„ 
 the prettiest, the most charming picture of 
 confusion — and Rene longs to take her in 
 his arms this time and return the hug; 
 with compound interest. Only he does not, 
 you understand. Ou the contrary, he 
 stands, hat in hand, and looks as though, 
 he could never grow weary of looking. 
 
 'It is Snowball,' he sayti ; 'and to tkink 
 that for ten full minutes I have been 
 watching yout efforts to decorate that 
 Ktatue, and never knew you, liow yoa 
 have changed.' 
 
 ' Not half so much as you, I think. I 
 haven't grown a mustache. But you alwaya 
 were rather stupid about recoguiaing your 
 old friends, Rene.' 
 
 fie laughs on tright — her toneiisso exaeb> 
 
 
 Iv th( 
 Trilloi 
 
 •Hj 
 vitupc 
 you fa 
 anyth 
 of fin< 
 ball, 
 
 '0- 
 find it 
 
LOST FOR A V'OMAN. 
 
 105 
 
 is a quick 
 
 milk-white 
 
 nd holtl him 
 
 and ruauing 
 
 XEV COMES 
 
 thia enstatic 
 Oh 1 lienf , 
 
 y. Intense 
 only feeling 
 ubt. *Is ic 
 
 my dearest, 
 18 10 uee yuu 
 
 i time, and 
 
 half lau^h- 
 
 lad, but not 
 
 And with 
 
 this impul' 
 ^s been em< 
 
 appearance 
 a tall youpg 
 
 an exceed- 
 he wears a 
 4.nd G.11 the 
 ites up, iu 
 
 in the fair, 
 
 And he ia 
 
 there is a 
 
 lutkiug ui 
 he, though 
 IS effort to 
 nma, and» 
 
 if he had 
 3 Bweete»t„ 
 
 picture of 
 ike her ia 
 the hug; 
 e does not, 
 itrary, he 
 
 as though 
 
 ckiog. 
 
 \ tu thick 
 
 kave been 
 rate that 
 
 iiow you 
 
 think. I 
 ou aiwaya 
 ising your 
 
 so «xaftt> 
 
 
 Iv the disputatious tone of wild Snowball 
 Trillon. 
 
 * Have you never gu'en up your habit of 
 vituperation ?' he asks ; ' or is it only me 
 you favour with it ? I am glad if you keep 
 anything exclusively for me — even yi ur <^ick 
 of finding fault. But my dear little Suow- 
 ball, how glad I am to see you .' 
 
 ' O-h h ! it has taken you some time to 
 find it out. You are like the man who had 
 so much mind it took him a week sometimes 
 to makn it np. I knew I was glad to see 
 you at first siizht. ' 
 
 ' You don't quite jound so,' still laui^h- 
 ing ; ' ma foi ! hew iall you are, and how — ' 
 
 ' Well,' imperiously, ' what ? ' 
 
 * Pretty. Pardon my out outspokeneas. 
 We never etood on ceremony with each 
 other, you may remember.' 
 
 ' I remember. I am sorry I cannot re- 
 turn the compliment,' gravely. 'You have 
 not grown up at all pretty, Ilene.' 
 
 * No ? ' laughing once more. * Ah I how 
 sorry I am to hear that. I never regretted 
 being u^ly before. But handeooie is as 
 handsome does, you know, Snowba'i, and 
 I am doing most handsomely, I assure you.' 
 
 ' Are you ? At sculpture, I supnose. Do 
 you know, I don't think much of sculptors 
 and artists. Oue sees so many of them. 
 And they are all alike — smoke grimy pipes, 
 wear blouses, and never comb their hair.' 
 
 ' Mine is cropped within half a quarter of 
 an inch of my hea<i. I have none to comb, 
 my dear Snowball.' 
 
 * And Johnny,' says Miss Valentine, 
 ' where h Johnny ? Ah ! how homesick I 
 have been many a time for Johnny. I 
 never can sleep stormy nights for thiuking 
 of him. Does he still go to sea ? ' 
 
 ' Still goes to sea— happy Johnny ! Gone 
 for a three years' cruise to China. I don't 
 see how you can reconcile it to your con- 
 science — if you have any — to like Johnny so 
 much better than me. He never liked you 
 best ! ' 
 
 * Oh I but he did,' cries Miss Valentine, 
 warmly, and flushing up, 'a great deal the 
 best. You never cared for anybody in your 
 life — well, perhaps, except Ma'am Weeny, 
 when she was cooking something particular- 
 ly nice ! ' 
 
 * How unjust,' says Rene, ' how extreme. 
 ly unjast. I am h»ve cmoealed my feel- 
 ines, but I always had— I have at this mo« 
 meat,' lifting two dark, laughing, yet 
 earnest eyes, 'the very friendliest regard 
 for you.' 
 
 ' Your power of concealment then, past 
 and present, do you infinite credit, mon- 
 sieur. I rejoice to be able to oongratulate 
 
 you on anything. What are you doing in 
 Rome ? ' 
 
 ' What lo all who aspire to carve their 
 names among the immortals in sculpture do 
 in Rome ? ' 
 
 , Amon(( the immortals 1 Let me con- 
 gratulate you once more ; this time on your 
 modesty. Since when aie you here ?' 
 
 ' Since four months ai;o.' 
 
 ' Did you know 1 was here ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Snowball, there are some 
 fortune-favoured people, who can no more 
 hide themselves than the sun up yonder. 
 You are of these elect. Evt.m to my obscure 
 workshop the fame of the fair, the peerless, 
 the priceless Signorina luglese has been 
 wafted ! ' 
 
 ' How priceless, please ? ' 
 
 ' Need you ask ? Need the heiress of the 
 great Begum ■' 
 
 She stup.i him with a motion, and a rising 
 flush. 
 
 • And, knowing I was here, you never 
 came, never cared to see me all thia time I 
 Was I not right when I said you were made 
 of the same stuff aa your own statues ? 
 You never cared for anybody, my friend 
 Rene, in your life.' 
 
 ' But, Snowball, think. You are — what 
 you are ; 1 am Rene Macdouald, obscure 
 and unknown to fame, with the poverty of 
 the proverbial church mouse, and 
 
 * And the pride i>f Luciter ! Yes, I under* 
 stand. Ah ! they have missed me ; here is 
 grand mama.' 
 
 Grandmamma ascends the slope, and ex- 
 claims somewhat at the sight of her missing 
 granddaughter, standing quietly here, in deep 
 converse with a ' rank ' siranger. 
 
 Dolores springs forward, and offers her 
 strong young arm. 
 
 ' See, grandmamma ! an old friend — the 
 oldest of old friends. You have heard me 
 speak of Rene MacdouaM. This is he.' 
 
 ' 1 know M. Rene Macdouall very well,* 
 says madam, smiling, and holding out her 
 hand. ' I have hearu his name on su average 
 ten times a day for the last three years. I 
 think I may claim him as an acquaintance of 
 my own, however. I aur^ almost certain I 
 have met him before. ' 
 
 • Very likely, madam. 
 Rome several months.' 
 
 * Not in Rome — at a certain sohool fete, at 
 a certain quaint little Canadian town. A 
 young person we both knew played the role 
 of Marie Stuart, and two young gentlemen^ 
 sitting near a certain eloerly lady, very fully 
 and freely discussed the actress.' 
 
 ' Pardon,.' Rene says, laughing ; 'I recol- 
 lect. Madam has excellent ears and eyes, to 
 remember «o long and so well.' 
 
 I have been in 
 
 
 
106 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN: 
 
 ' Grandmamma never forgets a face or a 
 name/ says Misa Valentine, quite proudly ; 
 
 * she is gifted with a second sight, I think. 
 Dear me I how very, very long ago that day 
 seems now.' 
 
 • Life has drogcjed so wearily, you aee, 
 monsieur,' says madam, pinching one rosy 
 ear, ' with this young lady since she has b<9en 
 torn from her island friends. Three years 
 appear like a little forever, do you hear ? 
 But I know to my cost, that, 'though lost to 
 sight, to memory dear,' Johnny, Rene, Ino, 
 Weesy, notre mere— the changes have been 
 rang on those beloved names every day, and 
 many times a day, since.' 
 
 ' And madam has been bored to extinction 
 by us all,' says M, R^ne. ' I fear so much of 
 us in the past will naturally prejudice you 
 against iia in the present.' 
 
 ' It will not be difficult to make you an 
 exception, young sir,' grandmamma says, 
 graciously. She is in high good hvimour with 
 herself, her heiress, and all the world to-day. 
 
 * Here come Sir Vane and la contessa.' 
 
 They come up, surprised in their turn, but 
 in a moment la contessa has recognized an 
 acquaintance. 
 
 ' II Sitjnore Scultore I' she exclaims. 'My 
 dear Dolo, I told you I was having a bust of 
 myself done, did I not ? No 1 Then I am. 
 I go to the signore's studio every day. You 
 must come with mo tomorrow and see it. 
 The signore does the most exquisite things, I 
 assure you.' 
 
 Sir Vane, standing a littleapart, comes for- 
 ward at thii) moment, and there is a presenta- 
 tion. Rene bows rather stiffly, and in a mo- 
 ment recognizes the dark, Uitmeless stranger 
 whom he, and Snowball, and Johnny rowed 
 over from St. Gildas that evening years ago. 
 
 ^ ' So you are the man,' thinks Rene, eyeing 
 bim with but half-hidden disdain ; ' and you 
 etme as a spy.' 
 
 Next day, what he has hoped for, but 
 hardly dared expect, comes to pass. When 
 ]a contessa arrives to sit for the bust. Miss 
 Valentine is with her. But — his workmen 
 around him; the double doors of his studio 
 open to the world, the sculptor at his work 
 is a dreamer of dreams no more. On the 
 contrary, he is rather a despotic young 
 autocrat. He places la contessa, cives her 
 her directions, requests Miss Videntine 
 rather peremptorily to amuse herself with a 
 volume of designs in the recess of a window, 
 and not talk. That young lady opens her 
 blue eyes at the tone— it is one she has not 
 been used to of late— then smiles a little to 
 herself, and proceeds to examine every 
 article in the studio. In due course she 
 reaches the statute called ' Waiting/ and 
 
 twitohea off the covering unceremoniously. 
 There is a faint feminine exclamation. 
 Rene, chipping and cutting in silence, is 
 thrilled by it. Then she stands, as he did 
 last night, a very long time looking at it. 
 She glances at him once, rather shyly, but 
 his eyes— dark and stern they look to-day — 
 are fixed on the marble features of the 
 Contessa Paladino. At last she obeys his 
 first command — goes to the window recess, 
 takes up the big book and tries to interest 
 herHelf in the pictures. But she cannot — 
 her thoughts interest h. r more. She lies 
 back dreamily, and looks out of the window 
 instead. A flood of quivering sunbeams, the 
 sound of bird voices, the flutter of multi- 
 tudinous leaves, an odour of roses and 
 jasmine, the plash of a fountain down in the 
 stone court — that is what she sees and hearc , 
 She is in a dream. Rene is yonder — the 
 brother she loves ; she wishes she could sit 
 here and go on dreaming forever ! 
 
 The sitting ends. A shower of silvery 
 chatter from the vivacious young countess 
 proclaims it as she rise, and flutters her 
 silky skirts. She admires il Sicrnoie 
 Scultore very mu<:h — la contensa. He is 
 handsomer; she thinks, than any work of 
 art in his studio — she admires those lua< 
 trous, beautiful, dark, grave eyes of his, 
 that reticent, stately manner. If only one 
 CDuld have all this and that, too, she some* 
 times has thought. All this means the 
 glory of the world, and the splendour there- 
 of — a big palazzo, family diamonds, weekly 
 balls, all that comes when one accepts a 
 n.)ble husband with sixty years and much 
 gout. That stands foi a tall, slendour 
 artist sposo, with 1 aidsome oyes and grave 
 glances, a dark Saint Sebasti.'in sort of face, 
 and a perfect manner. Only theae things 
 never go together, and one must take which 
 one likes best— no mortal is so favoured by 
 the gods as to have ail. 
 
 Maaam Valentine, going home from her 
 afternoon outing on the Corso, drives up in 
 s*'ate, presently, for her granddaughter, Sir 
 Vane in attendance as a matter of course, 
 and ofi^ers him a commission. W^ill he make 
 her a bust of Dolores 7 She has wished for 
 one for a very long time, but never could 
 induce the restless child to sit. She ex- 
 claims at the beauty of la conteRsa's, and 
 some others, for though Rene dislikes por- 
 traits, he accepts commissions as yet, being 
 much too poor in fact to decline. One or 
 two rather great people have eat to him, he 
 is bep'*^ning to be known and talked of, and 
 to swim away to the golden shore of success. 
 Will he execute a bust of Miss Valentine, 
 
 and will he so very good ? It is a blank 
 
 cheque madam offers in her moat empress* 
 
fnoniounly. 
 olamation. 
 silence, is 
 , as he did 
 tin^ at it. 
 »hyly, bat 
 k to-day — 
 res of the 
 obeys his 
 tow recess, 
 to interest 
 I cannot — 
 She lies 
 he window 
 ibeams, the 
 ' of multi* 
 roses and 
 own in the 
 and hearp. , 
 onder — the 
 ) could sit 
 
 ■ of silvery 
 ig countess 
 lutters her 
 1 Sienoie 
 sa. He is 
 ly work of 
 
 those lus- 
 yea of his, 
 I only one 
 
 she soma- 
 means the 
 dour there- 
 id?, weekly 
 accepts a 
 I and much 
 slendour 
 
 and grave 
 ort of face, 
 eae things 
 take which 
 
 voured by 
 
 e from her 
 Irives up in 
 uji;hter, Sir 
 
 of courfie, 
 ill he make 
 wished for 
 lever could 
 t. She ex- 
 :es8a's, and 
 islikes por- 
 
 yet, being 
 le. One or 
 ; to him, he 
 ked of, and 
 
 of success. 
 
 Valentine, 
 t is a blank 
 )Bt empresB* 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 107 
 
 like manner. ' and M. Rene will fill it up to 
 suit himself.' 
 
 An angry glow suffuses the olive pallor of 
 his face for a moment ; then his eyes lift, 
 fall on the young lady in question, and the 
 reply on his lips— a rather haughty reply, 
 too, dies. What business have impecunious 
 young marble carvers with pride ? it is a sin 
 lor their betters. Let him take his blank 
 cheque, fill it in handsomely, and put it in 
 his pocket. If madam deais with him as a 
 queen, is she not the Great Be^um he called 
 her? Does she not so deal with all trades* 
 men whose wares she purchases ? Let him 
 pocket his pride and his price, do his work, 
 take his wage, and be thankful. 
 
 Snowball will be here daily, and for many 
 hours each day ; she looks as if she would 
 like the sittings to begin this moment. 
 
 And so M. Rene Macdonald bows in that 
 grande seigneur manner of his la contessa so 
 much admires, and which would be much 
 more in keeping with the eternal fitness of 
 things madam thiuks, if he wrote his name 
 Don Rene ; and it is settled that Miss Va- 
 lentine is to be immortalized in marble, and 
 that the sittings ate to commence at unce. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 ' whatever's lost, it first was won.* 
 
 Sir Vane Valentine stands a little apart, 
 and strokes his mustache, and looks cynical. 
 What a fool the old grandmamma is, after 
 all ! And the fellow is so picturesque in 
 that dark green working-blouse, with his 
 four-and-twenty years, and old acquaint- 
 anceship too ! Well ! it is not a question in 
 which he is going to interfere. He is not in 
 love — let her take care of herself. She has 
 promised, and will keep her promise — he 
 knows her well enough for that. What 
 does the rest signify ? 
 
 The sittin g;s begin. Sometimes' la contesra 
 comes, and plays propriety ; sometimes 
 Mrs. Tinker ; sometimes grandmamma her- 
 self. There IS nothing to alarm any body; 
 they seem on the verge of an open quarrel 
 half the time, these two. Dolores is espe- 
 cially and perversely contradictory and 
 disputatious. Monsieur Rene does not 
 say much ; he smiles in exaE>perating supfri- 
 ority at her perpetual fault finding. But the 
 sharpness, the acidity is only surface deep ; 
 la contessa at leant, sees that. Even Mrs. 
 Tinker has an inkling that the feud between 
 them is not deadly — that it is not absolute 
 hatred that flashes out of the blue eyes when 
 they meet the brown. 
 
 ' My pretty ! ' that good old person sayn, 
 ' what a handsome pair you two do make i 
 
 Oh, my dearie, if it was only him and not 
 t'other one 1 ' For MrR. Tinker does not like 
 •t'other one,' does not approve « f the coming . 
 alliance. ' £h, my maid, 'tis but ill always 
 to mate May and December,' she says, with 
 a dismal shake of her head. Never in her 
 life has she liked Sir Vane Valentine : never 
 has she forgiven him for stepping into the 
 place of her lost Master George ; never has 
 she swerved from her first affttctiun. He is 
 in love with old madam's money, not with 
 this sweetest maid under the sun, and she 
 could find it in her heart to hate him for it. 
 
 ' Don't 'ee, my lovely ! don't 'ee, dearie ! ' 
 she has said, over and aver again — 'don't 'ee 
 marry Sir Vane ! he is no match for thee, my 
 pretty ; he is old enough to be thy father , 
 and he is dour and dark, inside and out. 
 Don't 'ee, my maid !— don't 'ee marry him 1' 
 
 ' I must, old lady,' Dolores answers, sigh- 
 ing ; ' it is kismet — it is written. Grand- 
 mamma wishes it ; I must please grandmam- 
 ma, you kuow. And I have promised — it is 
 too late now. Sometimes * 
 
 ' Yes, my maid. Sometimes ? — ' 
 
 'Sometimes.' dreamily, half to herself, 'I 
 have wished— of late — 1 had not. If 1 had 
 only waited another day even — ' 
 
 ' It was the day you promised like, you 
 first met Mr. Re«»ney ? ' says, with artful art- 
 leiisness. Mrs. Tinker. 
 
 And Dolores starts up from her dreams, 
 flushing to the roc s of her fair hair. 
 
 ' Hush, nurse 1 What am I saying ? You 
 must not talk of such things. It is wrong — 
 wrong ! ' She lays her hand on her heart, 
 beating wildly. 
 
 «^' You must not say harsh things of Sir 
 Vane. He is vtjry good, and — and I havo 
 promised. It is too 'ate now.' 
 
 There is a pathetic ring in these last words; 
 they end in a stifled sob, as she hurries from 
 the room. But it is only that she is very 
 tired, perhaps . she was up at a party, the 
 largest she ban yet attended, last uight, and 
 the weather — Lent is drawing near, and the 
 weather grows oppressive. It is so oppress- 
 ive, indeed, that she dots not go out at all 
 that day, although M. Rene Macdonald ex- 
 pects her, and la contessa, who is more than 
 willing to do chaperon duty, drivett up, 
 punctually for her. Stie has a headache, she 
 says, and' lies in her darkened room, and 
 sends away grandmamma, umler pretence of 
 trying to sleep, and lets Tinker sit be- 
 side her instead, and bathe her 
 hands and head with cologne. She does 
 not go to the studio for a week, 
 although the bust is nearly completed now, 
 and only a few more sittings are required. 
 Weeks have passed since that meeting on the 
 hill aide, and madam is talking of quitting 
 
 1^ 
 
lOS 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 %K0 
 
 Rome immediately after Easter, and goiug 
 to Florence. They have lingered, indeed, 
 more on ccoonnt of thia veork of art th %n any- 
 thing elae ; and this last whim of Dolores is 
 rather trying in conRequence. It is not quite 
 all whim, though. The girl really droops this 
 warm spring weather, and all her bright, 
 wild-rose colour deserts her. 
 
 Grandmamma is very impatient for the 
 completion of the work. To have thia marble 
 likeness of her darling will be such a comfort 
 to her when Dolores ts far away. Ic is not 
 a^bust-, as was at first intended; thejidea and 
 the tigure have grown, and the sittings have 
 been mostly standings. It is called ' At the 
 Shrine.' It is a slender girl, with uplifted 
 arms, hands tilled with rose branches, head 
 thrown back, face upraised, trying to reach 
 and adorn a shrine of the Madonna. The 
 pose is grace itself ; every outline of the 
 beautiful hands and arms, every curve of the 
 slight, supple form is there in the marble. 
 The fair, youthful face, like a star, a flower, 
 a rose, is tilled with the sweet seriousness of 
 whispered prayer. Madam is charmed — is 
 lavish of praise. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ' You have caught her very trick of ex- 
 pression when she is in church — or looking 
 at a holy relic — or listening to the grand 
 mu»ic of a mass. I can never thank you 
 BUtfiuiently, my dear M. Rene, for this trea- 
 sure.' 
 
 ' M. Rene has all the talents,' cries la con- 
 tessa. * I think I like best our Dolores 
 when she is a little mutinous — coquettish — 
 what you will. Not with that look of the 
 angele. She is everything there is of the 
 most charming, but she is only a girl after 
 a'l.' 
 
 She glances keenly at the silent artist. 
 
 ' How say you, M. Rene ?' she demands, 
 gay}y ; ' is our Dolores most charming as an 
 angul— a saint tike this,' tapping the marble 
 face with her fan, 'or as we kn'>w hci- — a 
 bewitching, alluring little coquette /' 
 
 ' A coquette,' repeats grandmamma, not 
 best pleased. ' Dolores is never that. The 
 child is a perfect baby where that fine art is 
 concerned — who should know that better 
 than you, contessa mia — past mistress as you 
 Are of the profession.' 
 
 But the little countess only laughs at the 
 rebuke, still looking at the sculptor. 
 
 ' Signer Rene declines to commit himself. 
 Well, he is very wise. You will have an ex- 
 quisite likenebs „t least, madame, of our 
 dearest Dolores when — by the by, 'innocent- 
 ly.' ' when is it to be ?' 
 
 ' In the autumn,' madam ana wen, absent* 
 
 ly, her glass still up, exclaiming critically 
 the statue, ' thry will spend the winter in 
 travel, and go to England in the Soring, I 
 shall remain in Rome, I think.' She sighs 
 and drops hfar glass. ' When will you send 
 me my treasure, Mr. Macdonald ?' 
 
 ' In a very few weeks now, madame.' 
 
 He answers gravely, buR li cou tessa still 
 keenly watching, is not much the wiaer. He 
 is always so grave, this austere ynung M. 
 Rene ; it becomes him, she thinks. One 
 cannot figure him frivolous, or frittering his 
 time away with foolish talk and teeble 
 platitudes. Silence is golden on such lips as 
 his. But all thu same he is hopt-lesslv, irre* 
 trievably, despairingly in love with Dolores 
 Valentine. 
 
 It chances — for the first time in all these 
 months of meeting — that next day Miss 
 Valentine and >.. Rene find themselves alone 
 together, in the studio. Mrs. Tinker ia 
 there, it is true, in the flesh — in the spirit 
 she is countless worlds away in the land of 
 dreams. It is a very warm afternoon, there 
 IS that excuse for her. And the slumbrous 
 rustle of the leaves, the twitter of the 
 birds, the heavy perfume of the flowers out- 
 side the open window, are soporific in their 
 tendencies. The sitting is almost over ; 
 Rene has chipped away in the drowsy still* 
 ness, without a word, Miss Valentine too is 
 half asleep in the perfumed g'-eeuish hush. 
 It is near the hour of Ave Maria and tb« 
 time to go. And there is to be but one more 
 coming after this. 
 
 ' Only one more,' he says aloud, as if in 
 answer to her thought. 'Can -you realize 
 that it is almost three months sii^ce we met 
 there at the villa Ludovisi? When have 
 months so flown before? ' 
 
 She sighs, and is silent. Yen, they have 
 flown — life's best days always do fly. 
 
 ' You leave Rome soon ? ' Ueuti as'tr. 
 
 'Next week,' another sigh. ' I suppose 
 you stay on, Rene ? ' 
 
 ' At my work — yes, I have all I can do. 
 Snowball, suddenly stopping in his chipping 
 and looking at her full, ' you are going to be 
 married ? ' 
 
 It is tVio first time, the very first, that the 
 subject has ever been alluded to. Sir Vane 
 has been there many times, of course. And 
 it is no secret, and la contessa has discussed 
 it freely. Of course he knows, has always 
 known, but no syllable has ever passed his 
 lips before. His eyes, his voice, are stern 
 now ; she feels arraigned guilty. Her 
 head droops, her eyes fall before his. 
 
 'Yes, Rene.' 
 
 'To Sir Vane Valentine?" 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
LOST .VOR A WOMAN. 
 
 Ii09 
 
 ; critically 
 i winter ia 
 Surio^, I 
 She sighs 
 1 you send 
 
 dame.' 
 lutesaa still 
 wiser. He 
 yi'ung M. 
 ir.ks. One 
 ttbrmg bis 
 aud treble 
 Ducii lips as 
 leaslv, irre- 
 itb Dolores 
 
 in all these 
 day Miss 
 selves alone 
 Tinker is 
 n the spirit 
 the land of 
 -noon, theie 
 i slumbrous 
 ter of the 
 lowers out- 
 ■iBu in their 
 most over ; 
 irowsy still- 
 ntine too is 
 senish hush, 
 ria aud the 
 >ut one more 
 
 ud, as if in 
 ^ou realize 
 ice we met 
 
 When have 
 
 they have 
 tiy. 
 
 k! as'tr. 
 1 suppose 
 
 1 I can do. 
 
 his chipping 
 
 going to be 
 
 st, that the 
 Sir Vane 
 urse. Aud 
 diacuBsed 
 has always 
 r passed his 
 e, are steru 
 lity. Her 
 his. 
 
 .8 
 
 He works again ; Mrs. Tinker sleepb. 
 Slanting suubeams quiver about them ; 
 Dolores droops a little in her chair. 
 
 ' Do you remember,' he says, presently, 
 •the way we parted on Isle Perdrix? Do 
 you remember our last walk — our last talk 7 
 I asked you then not to marry this man, and 
 you ' 
 
 'Rene!' 
 
 * And you said you would not. Even 
 then, you see, I was among the prophets, I 
 felt it would come. Snowball,' suddenly 
 again, in deepest, tersest tcues, ' why do you 
 marry him ? ' 
 
 'Rene ' 
 
 ' Why do you marry this man ? You do 
 not care for him ; he cares nothing for you. 
 There is the fortune — yes. Is money every- 
 thing, then ? are you, too, mercenary, 
 Snowball?' 
 
 •Rene, listen ' ' ' • ' ' ' "' ' 
 
 • Ah, what is there to say ? I know — I 
 know." Your grandmother wishes it — you 
 owe her much — he wishes it ; a fortune is 
 at stake. Yes, I admit all that. But there 
 is something else in marriage besides money ; 
 there is love. Where is the love here? 
 There is love of riches ; Sir Vane has that, 
 1 grant you. But are you to be so bought 
 and sold, Snowball ?' 
 
 Her answer is a sob ; she covers her face 
 with her hands. • He icaves her nothing to 
 say. Love ! What is this rapture that fills 
 her as she listens — tills her with ecstasy and 
 agony at once ? He throws down chisel and 
 n^allet, and comes and stands beside her, 
 with ail that is in his heart. 
 
 •Is it too late?' he asks. 'Siovball, 
 listen to me — look at me. My heart's dar- 
 ling, don't you know that I love you ? How 
 can I see you given to this mart — so old, so 
 c( 1( ,, so mercenary, so unworthy, and not 
 speak ? I have no right — no, I am poor, a 
 struggling artist ; you are an heiress, but 
 you are my Snowball too, whom I have 
 loved always — always, always !' 
 
 * Always ?' she repeats, and tries to laugh ; 
 ' how can you say so ? We have been quar- 
 relling all our lives.' 
 
 ' Ab, there are quarrels and quarrels. I 
 have loved you always. How can I stand 
 by in silence and see you given to this love- 
 less marriage — this unloving man ? It is 
 never too late. Snowball j draw back while 
 there is yet time.' 
 
 •There is no time ; it is too late. No one 
 urged me, only I knew it would please them 
 all. That very day of our first meeting, not 
 an hour before you came upon me, I gave 
 him my word.' 
 
 'One hour before— one hour too late !' he 
 says, bitteriv. ' Well, perhaps there is a 
 
 late in these things. What hope could there 
 be forme, at the best? Yonr grandmother 
 would never have given you to me. It he 
 were but worthy — if he but cared for you, 
 you for him, ever so little, I would die before 
 I would Bpeak . I would have bidden God 
 to bless you, and gone on my way, my 
 secret in my heart, to the end. But it is be- 
 cause I know you will not be happy. 
 Happy !' he starts up, and begins walking; 
 up and down, with flashing eyes ; 'you will 
 be miserable ! That man is capable of any 
 baseness — of being brutal, even to you.' 
 
 • Rene, hush ! you frighten me. You must 
 not. Oh, how wrong all this is. Do not 
 say another word 1 How can you make me — 
 make me ' 
 
 She covers her face again, and cries aloud. 
 
 ' Forgive me !' he says. He is by her 
 side in an instant, stricken with remorse. 
 ' You are right. 1 will say no mote ; I should 
 not have spoken at all. But your happiness 
 is so dear to me — so dear. I (vould give my 
 life to secure! it. And after to-morrow we 
 may meet no more. The thought o" that has 
 been maddening to me all these weeks ; the 
 thought that so soon —as soon as you will be 
 that m^n's wife, and cone out of my life for- 
 ever ! Fp*' deals hardly by some of us. 
 Snowball. ' 
 
 There is silence for a little. He stands by 
 her chair. Has the weeping ceased ? The 
 drooping face is hidden still ; the loose 
 bright hair vails it, and falk across his 
 arms, as he leans lightly on her chair-back. 
 
 • Snowball,' he says, ' little friend, tell me 
 this. I will ask no more, and it will be 
 something — everything— in aJl the years 
 without you, that are to come. If I had 
 been sooner that day on the hill-side — that 
 fatal first day ' 
 
 He breaks off, he can see the quiver that 
 goes throu&;h me bowed figure as be speaks, 
 but man-like, he will not spare her. 
 
 • Tell me,' he pleads, • one word only, it is 
 so little — so little, Mon Dieu, and 1 lose so 
 much ' 
 
 But the word does not come. There is a 
 movement instead, a small cold hand slips 
 into his, the slender, chilly fingers clasp his 
 close. He is answered. 
 
 • Miss Dolores, my maid,' murmurs a 
 sleepy voice, • it is nearly over ? I've been 
 dozin a bit, I'm afeard, ia the stillness like 
 and the heat. There's them evening bells ; 
 it must be time to be going.' 
 
 So Mrs. Tinker brings them back •-o the 
 world, and out of their dangerous dream. 
 Ave Maria is ringing from campanile and 
 belfry, up against the purple Roman sky, 
 and it is time to go home to grandmamma, 
 and dinner, and Sir Vane. ,^ It ia very warm 
 
 
 W 
 
no 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 c 
 
 still, the air quivers with a sort of white 
 after-glow, but the girl shivers as she rises. 
 It is going straight out of paradise to — well, 
 to a gray, grim, old-fashioned house, and 
 gray, grim, old-fashioned people. But duty 
 calls, and there is a silent hand.clasp, and 
 she goes. The carriage is w iting outside 
 the'wide stone court, and they enter and are 
 driven away. Long after they have gone, 
 long after the workmen depart, long after 
 Ave Maria ceases ringing, long after golden 
 clusters oorue out, and burn in the purple. 
 Rene Macdonald stands there with folded 
 arms, and stares out at the gemmed, flower- 
 scented twilight with blank eyes that see 
 nothing of the beauty, with blank mind 
 that holds but one thought — a thought that 
 keeps iterating itself over and over again 
 with the dull persistence of such things, 
 putting itself into words of its own volition, 
 and diugdiuGiing through his brain : 
 
 ' One hour too late ! One hour too late I 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ' FIRE THAT IS CLOSET KEPT, BURNS MOST OF 
 ALL.' 
 
 Madam's treasure, ' At the Shrine,' 
 comes home duly, and Miss Valentine goes 
 no more to the studio. Whether la contessa 
 has dropped a hint, whether madam herself 
 suddenly awakens to a sense of latent 
 danger, whether Sir Vane has sneered 
 audibly ia spite of himself, who knows ? 
 Miss Valentine goes no moro to the studio, 
 and by grandmamm<i's express desire. She 
 looks rather keenly at the young lady, and 
 madam's looks at all times are exceedingly 
 keen, piercing, sidelong— none may hope to 
 escape them — as she speaks, but she sees 
 little. The girl is very pale, she looks a 
 trifle fagged aud weary, and out ol sorts, 
 but it is opptessive spring weather, and 
 what is to be expected in these sultry 
 weeks T She says nothing — nothing at all, 
 except in a spiritless voice, strangely unlike 
 the clear ringiug joyous tones of Dolores. 
 
 * Very well, grandmamma,' and so turns 
 and walks slowly aal 1 Bblessly up to her 
 room. 
 
 Grandmamma decides she is not in love 
 with the dark and picturesque M. Rene, the 
 fortuneless sculptor with the Vandyke face, 
 and grave brown eyes, but all the same the 
 child needs change, needs it badly, aud must 
 have it at onco. So they prepare to go. 
 
 On the day but one ht fore their departure 
 for fresher holds, and breezes new and cool 
 a surprise cumes to goid Mrs. Tinker. She 
 accompanies the family of course. Msdam 
 goes nowhere witliout her, and she is busy ia 
 
 the midst of much packing, when she is sum* 
 moned to her own particular sitting-room, to 
 see a visitor. Going in hast6, and rather 
 breathless she Hods awaiting her a young 
 woman, whose face and dress proclaim her 
 nationality before she speaks a word. Tnat 
 tirst word puts it beyond doubt. * 
 
 i|* I guess you've forgot me likely, ' Mis' 
 Ticker, says this youug woman in a nervous 
 tone, rising as she speaks. ' It is a pretty 
 cousiderable spell since we met afore — nigh 
 onto fifteen years, I reckon.' 
 
 'Why, lord bress me!' exclaims Mrs. 
 Tinker, adjusting her speotacles in direst 
 ama;;ement. ' I do declare if it isn't Jemima 
 Ann 1' 
 
 ' Yes, Mis' Tinker ; I'm awful glad yon 
 ain't forgot mo. I'm over here with a family. 
 Bosting folks they be, and now, the lady, 
 she up and died. She vai 8(r'^ o' p '.'ky and 
 pinin' like all the passage. And so I'm out o' 
 place, and hearin' you was here. Mis' Tinker, 
 1 thought, for old time's sake, and poor Aunt 
 
 Samanthy ' Here Jemima Ana pats her 
 
 handkerchief to her eyes, and Mrs. Tinker 
 sighs responsively. Aunt Samantha has gone 
 the way all landladies, even the best, must 
 go sometime — >the way of all flesh. 
 
 At this moment the door opens suddenly, 
 and a young lady — an apparition, it seems to 
 Jemima Ann — in gray silk and amber ring- 
 lets, comes in, and pauses at fcight of the 
 stranger. 
 
 ' Ob, come in, my dearie I' says MiS. Tink- 
 er. ' 1 was just going to you to ask your 
 advice. You've often heard me speak of Je- 
 mima Ann, who was so good to you when you 
 stopped for a week at her aunt's, acd who 
 waited on ' — lowering her voice — ' your poor 
 ma ? ' Well, this is Jemima Ann, Miss Do* 
 lores, my |lovey, and she is out of a place, 
 aod ' 
 
 But the young lady waits for no more. 
 Her fair face flushes up, she crosses the room 
 and holds out both hands. 
 
 ' And you are .Jemima Ann I Oh ! I have 
 beard all that — of your goodness and affec- 
 tion — all that you did for me, for my poor 
 mother, in the past. I was a bal^y then, too 
 young to know or thank you, or feel grateful 
 — but I feel all now. I thi^nk you with my 
 whole heart. If there is anything we can do 
 for you — anything — you may be sure it shall 
 bedono.' 
 
 Jemima Ann gasps, stands, stares. 
 • You !— you !— why. Lor' I You never 
 air little Snowball, grown up like this I' 
 
 ' Little Snowball — no one else — to whom 
 you were so very, very good. N<.t so little 
 now though, you see. And what are you 
 doing in Rome, of all places, Jemima Ann V 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 she is Hum- 
 ng-room, to 
 
 and rather 
 ler a young 
 roclaim her 
 rord. Taat 
 
 kely, • Mis' 
 
 In a nervous 
 
 t is a pretty 
 
 afore— niKh 
 
 claims Mrs. 
 B9 in direst 
 isn't Jemima 
 
 rul glad you 
 ith a family, 
 w, the lady, 
 o' p I ky and 
 so I'm out o' 
 
 Mis' Tinker, 
 ad poor Aunt 
 Ann pats her 
 
 Mra. Tinker 
 itha has gone 
 ae best, must 
 h. 
 
 3D8 suddenly, 
 n, it seems to 
 d amber riog- 
 j bight of the 
 
 rs Mi'S. Tink- 
 to ask your 
 speak of Je- 
 you when you 
 nt's, acd who 
 — • your poor 
 inn, Miss Do- 
 Lt of a place, 
 
 for no more. 
 isses the room 
 
 Oh 1 I have 
 less and affec- 
 
 for my poor 
 »aVy then, too 
 r feel grateful 
 . you with my 
 ing we can do 
 le sure it shall 
 
 itares. 
 
 You never 
 
 ce this 1' 
 llge— to whom 
 iNc.t so little 
 
 phat are you 
 lemima Ann ? 
 
 Jemima Ana explains, with considerable 
 oonfusioo, caused by the shock of hudiog 
 little Snowball in this graceful young ?ady. 
 Aunt Samauthy died, the boarders dispers* 
 ed, Jemima A'ln went down to Boating 
 (strong na^al twang on the first syllable, 
 (Look anrviuH there with a lady out of health. 
 Be'u liviu' with that lady right along Fence. 
 Lady ordereii to Europe by doctors for 
 change of air. To ik Jemima Aun with her 
 as kind o' nurse- leader. Up and died, here 
 in Romp, a week ago, after all her trouble 
 orostiiu' over. And Jemima Ann finds her- 
 self a stranger in a strange land. 
 By chance she had heard the Valen- 
 tine family were here, and allowed Mia' 
 Tinker might be atill with them. On that 
 chance has come, and — is here. 
 
 ' And here you shall stay ?' cries impetu- 
 ous Miss Valentine. ' Why should you 
 think of going back all that way and friends 
 who owe ycu so much here ? Some day I 
 will go back myself if I can,' — a wistful, 
 longing, homesick look comes into the blue 
 ayes — ' and I will take you. Meantime,' 
 — gayly — 'consider yourself my maid.' 
 
 'And that is little Snowball !— little 
 Snowball I So peart, and chipper, and 
 sassy, and cunniu'-like, as she used to be I 
 Little Snowball growed up into such a 
 beautiful and elegant young lady as that !' 
 says Jemima Ann, still dazed. 
 
 Shj accepa the offer, of courae, ' r'ghtghd 
 to get it,' as she says, and is especially de- 
 tailed oil into Miss Valeutinb's particuL - 
 service. 
 
 Sir Va .le puts up his glass, an 1 stares at 
 her, the 1:; :r time they chance to meet, aa 
 though she were a monster of the antedelu- 
 viau world come to light here in this Roman 
 household. Certainly she is as unlike as 
 possible their Italian servants. He has for- 
 gotten, of course, the slipshod handmaid of 
 the Clangviile boardius; house, but Mias 
 Hopkings has not forgotten him. 
 
 • Oh ! you may stare,' she remarks, men- 
 tally ; ' you aint so ni'ich to look at your- 
 self, when all's said and done. You never 
 weie a beauty the beat c' times, and fifteen 
 years standing to sou' ain't improved you 
 much. I'm awful sor*^/ to hear Misa Snow- 
 ball is going to throw herself away on you. 
 Don't know what she sees in you, I'm sure. 
 I wouldn't hev you if you was hung with 
 diamonds — 'though you mayn't think so. 
 
 Madam hf is her eyebrows over this latest 
 whim of Dolores, but laughs and makes no 
 objection. She will be an unique maid cer- 
 tainly, but if it ia the child's fancy— and a 
 servant more or less in an establishment like 
 this matters little. She is an American, 
 friendless in a foreign laud ; it is like the 
 
 dear girl's gentle, generous heart to compas* 
 sipuate and care for all such. But if madam 
 knew — knew that this atolid, homely, 
 rather clumsy Yankee woman had closed the 
 dying eyes of Mile- Mimi Trillon, had min- 
 istered to her for days before, knew 
 the whole wel' hidden secret of the 
 trapezist's life and death — be very 
 sure the massive portona of the old 
 Roman house would never have seen her 
 pass in, ani many leagues of blue water in- 
 tervened between her and the fair, stately 
 daughter of the house. 
 
 But grandmammas are not to know every- 
 thing ; the long, long conferences of the past 
 are held with closied doors, in the dim, fra- 
 grant dusk of mademoiselle's boudoir. Ly- 
 ing back, her sliai tii;ure draped in those 
 pale lustroys silks and Hue laces madam loves 
 to deck her darling in, her fingers laced be- 
 hind her golden head. Miss Valentine 
 nestles in the blue BtCiin depths of her low 
 chair, and ll8^en8 by the hour to Jemima 
 Aun Hopkins, telling of that time so long 
 ago, when little Suobwall Trillon came sud- 
 denly into her life to brighten its dull drab, 
 and of the beauty and brightness, and tragic 
 death of the young mother. Of the belated 
 suppers, of the many lovers, of the hilarious 
 state in which poor Mimi sometimes came 
 home, she discreetly says nothing. Jemin a 
 Ann has a delicacy and tact of her own, 
 under her ginger coloured complexion and 
 down- east dravil. 
 
 •At the Shrine ' comes home, and is placed 
 in madam's most private and particular sit- 
 tingroom, with a pink, silk curtain so 
 draped as to throw a perpetual rosy glow 
 over it, and friends come and gaza, and ad- 
 mire, and other orders flow in upon the 
 talented young artist. Only the young lady 
 herself says nothing— she stands and looks 
 at it, with loosely clasped hands, and a misty 
 far away look that madam has an especial 
 objection to in her great star-like eyea. 
 
 'Well, Dolores,' she says, sharply, 'are 
 you asleep— lu a dream— that you stand 
 there, and say nothing ?' Do you not admire 
 this exquisite gem ?' 
 
 ♦It ia very pretty, grandmamma.' 
 
 ' Very pretty, grandmamma,' mimicking 
 tlie liatlesB tone, ' and that is all you find to 
 say. I must tell this to my clever Mr. 
 Rene, that you are the only one who has not 
 seen h?i statue and not been charmed. I 
 say he has caught your very expression— it 
 is the moat perfect thing of its kind I ever 
 saw. It will be a great— the greatest com- 
 fort to me, when I - when you are gone.' 
 
 'Dearest grandmamma.' The girl comes 
 and puts her artns about her, as she sits, and 
 the fair head droops in her lap. ' You are too 
 
 
112 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 good to me. You love me too much. No 
 one will ever care for me a><ain like that. lb 
 is not well to be spoiled. Graadmamma, I 
 wish I were not >;oinf? away.' 
 
 •Nonsense, my dear. An old grand- 
 mother, however fond, cannot expect to 
 keep her little one to herself always, /i.nd 
 what do you mean by one loving you again ? 
 Sir Vane ' 
 
 • Ah,* says Dolores, and something m the 
 sound of the little word makes madam 
 pause a moment. 
 
 ' You doubt it? Yon need not my dear. 
 He is fond of you— very foud of you, believe 
 me. He is reticent — reserved by nature — it 
 is not his way to show it, and he is older 
 than you — it is the one thing I object to in 
 this union, but for all that, my dearest, T 
 am confident he loves you wih ail his heart.' 
 
 •Ahl' repeats Miss Valentine, and 
 laughs, "has he told you so, grandmamma ? 
 It is more than he has ventured to tell me. 
 With the best inclinations in the world to be 
 credulous in suuh a point, I fear the effort 
 would be too great. But what does it mat- 
 ter after all,' a si^h htre, that is half a sob, 
 * it will be all the same fifty years hence.' 
 
 ' My darling, that is a dreary philosophy 
 from youthful lips. Why are you so sad — so 
 listless, of late, so weary of all that used to 
 set you wild with delight ? Is it that you 
 are out of health — that this heat ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, grandmamma I ' rather eagerly ; 
 ' that is it — this heat. Any one would wilt, 
 with the thermometer up among the nine- 
 ties. And the spring is so long, so long. I 
 gri)W tired of this perpetual staring sun- 
 shine, and the omell of the roses and orange 
 trees. 1 would give a year of my life for one 
 day of poor old Isle Pordrix, and its sea fogs, 
 and bleak whistling winds.' 
 
 And then, to madam's infinite dismay and 
 distress, all in a moment, the fair h?ad is 
 buried low, and the slender form is rent and 
 shaken with a ver tempest of sobs. 
 
 > ' My child ! my child ! ' io all madam can 
 say in her deep consternation. ' Oh I my 
 little one, whac is this ? ' 
 
 But with a great effort, the summer tem- 
 
 gest ends as quickly as it began ; a few 
 ysteric sobs hurriedly suppressed, and then 
 a great calm. 
 
 ' Forgive me, grandmamma — dear, dearest, 
 best grandmamma that ever was in the 
 world — forgive me for this I I did not 
 mean — only I am so tired, so tired out with 
 it all. If I were away, I would be better. 
 Take me away from Rome, grandmamma. ' 
 
 ' Is there anything in it ? ' thinks madanA, 
 in dire dismay, a little later, and alone. 
 ' Did she go too much to that studio ? He 
 is very handsome, and she knew him always. 
 
 How foolish, how extremely foolish and 
 rash, I have been I ' 
 
 But it is not too late yet — at least madam 
 thinks so ; one may always hope so much for 
 yonng persons under twenty and time and 
 distano are such capital cares. 
 
 They depart at once, with their maid ser> 
 vants and their man-servauts, and the hou^e 
 in Rome is shut up for the present. Madam 
 proposes, drearily enough, to occupy ib with 
 
 her faithful Tinker this winter alone. 
 
 * * * » • 
 
 M. Rene Macdonald, among his clay casts, 
 and plaster figures, and brown, dark eyed 
 Roman models of saints and brigands, works 
 away alone these sul ry M >}| lays. He does 
 not mind the heat, lie likes ix, ; he is absorb- 
 ed in his work, feverishly so, indeed. He 
 grows thin in these long, lonely, hard-work- 
 ing hours ; his brown eyes — ' eyes like 
 golden Geuor velvet,' la coutessa has once 
 said — take a deeper, darker orbit ; his olive 
 cheeks grows hallow. ISu la contessa, who 
 Hits in and out at times, like the birds of 
 Paradise she is, tells him gayly. But he 
 grows no less handsome, bhe thinks—pining, 
 pouf ! for la bambioella. Pretty ? Yes ; ia 
 contessa could make a prettier face in pink 
 and white wax, any day 1 And it is for her 
 this Signore Rene, who looks like one of his 
 own gods, and carries himself like a king ; 
 who bas the face of a R iphael, and the 
 geti.is too — grows thin and silent, and stern, 
 and shuts himself up like a hermit in his 
 cell. 
 
 \j% contessa does Signore Soultore the 
 honour to be deeply inierested in his face, 
 introduces him to half his patrons, lavishes 
 invitations upon him, and meets with the 
 usual reward of goodness ia this world — in- 
 difference, ingratitude. M. Rene wishes, 
 irritably enough sometimes, this flirting 
 little butterfiy would spread her gorgeous 
 wings, and fly off to other victims and leave 
 him alone. But la contessa thinks other< 
 wise — she can plant her sting like a wasp, 
 butterfly though she be. 
 
 If this artist —marble like his own crea- 
 tion — will not fall down and admire, shd will 
 at least awake within him some other > f eel« 
 ing. He munt be human at least in some- 
 things^ — human enough to feel pain. All she 
 can inflict he shall have as his punishment. 
 She flutters in to tell him in her vivacious 
 way when the Valentine's leave Rome ; she 
 flutters in to tell him cue sparkling October 
 day, just five mouths later, of a fashionable 
 marriage at Nice. 
 
 He has spent these months in the solitude 
 of his workshop, and sculpture at its best, 
 is not a sociable art. He has been working 
 hard, commissions have been plentiful 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 lift 
 
 >U>h and 
 
 ,Bt madam 
 
 ) much for 
 
 time and 
 
 maid ser- 
 
 , the hou^e 
 
 Madam 
 
 ipy ib with 
 
 Due. 
 
 • 
 
 I clay castB, 
 dark eyed 
 ,nds, works 
 1. He doea 
 I ia abBorb- 
 ndeed. Ho 
 hard-work- 
 • eyes like 
 la has once 
 t; hia olive 
 utessa, who 
 the birds of 
 ly. }iut he 
 ika— pining, 
 ,y ? Yes ; la 
 face in pink 
 it is for her 
 le one of his 
 ike a king ; 
 lel, and the 
 t, and stern, 
 lermit in his 
 
 ouUore the 
 I in his face, 
 08, lavishes 
 its with the 
 g world — in- 
 ene wishes, 
 this flirting 
 er gorgeous 
 19 and leave 
 ;hink8 other. 
 Iif.e a wasp, 
 
 ^ own crea- 
 aire, she will 
 I other - f eel- 
 aat in some- 
 iin. All she 
 Ipunishment. 
 ^ vivacious 
 P Rome ; she 
 [ling October 
 fashionable 
 
 I the solitude 
 
 at its best, 
 
 leen working 
 
 plentiful 
 
 ennngh, and a fair guerdon n{ both fame 
 and ^old has been won. He might have 
 woo friends, too, frienda well worth the 
 winning, had he ao chosen. But he ia un- 
 Bouiiil in these days ; evon amona; his 
 brothers of the chisel he cares to cultivate 
 few frieniiships. But he is in fairly good 
 spirits on this particular day, for the early 
 
 fiost has brought him a letter from a friend, 
 oDg liviug ia Russia, but now en route for 
 Rome. 
 
 Piiul FarDvr is on his way to Italy, and it 
 is to Paul Farrrtr, Rene owes everything, 
 the recognition and cultivation of his talent 
 — his ftfciidio in R »me, his first aucoesa. In 
 a couple uf weeks at most Paul Farrar will 
 be here. 
 
 So R^ne i^ whistling cheerily as he ciiins. 
 and for onue the haunting ghost that seldom 
 leaves hini ia laid — a ghost in ' sheen of 
 satin and shimmer of nearls' ' °th bright hair 
 anii biuH-hell eyes. Tnen, litie a scented, 
 silk-draped aupiritiou, the Contessa Paladi- 
 no stands before him. 
 
 She la not alone — a Neopolitan marchese 
 and a British attache form her bodyguard, 
 Shu has Leen absent from Rome nearly all 
 summer, and is full of uparkliug chatter and 
 silvery talk as usual. 
 
 * And the wedding is over — mi^^prdo's — 
 but you have heard that, of course, signore 
 mio ?' she says, gayly, apropos of nothing 
 that has gone before. 
 
 * I hear nothing, madame. News from the 
 great world never pierces the wallsof my work 
 shop, except what you are good duuu^h to 
 tell me.' 
 
 The little touch of sarcasm in the last 
 are not lost on la contessa. Neithei is the 
 quick contraction of eyebrows and lips, and 
 a perceptible paling of the dark face. 
 
 ' Che I Che ! then it is for me to give you 
 the good news. But I surely thought — such 
 friends as you seemed— that she would have 
 done it herself. And it is all quite two 
 weeks old, and you have not heard.' 
 
 She has her victim, as naturalists impale 
 beetles, on a pin, and watches with dauoinf?, 
 malicious eyes the efiFect of her words. But 
 ho works on, and gives no sign. 
 
 * Li Signorina looked lovely, exquisite— 
 every one said so ; and Dio mia ! how she 
 was dressed I Itwaathe wedding-robe and 
 jewellery of a princess. The bricie-maids — 
 eight of them— were all English ; four in 
 pink and four in blue. Milordo was solemn 
 and stiff, and black as usual— blacker l.han 
 usual, I think. They are to travel until 
 spring, and then return to their native fogs. 
 Bonne mamma comes here you know. Of 
 your charity go to see and console her, Sig- 
 
 nore Rene; the poor grandmamma I She ia 
 desole soonaolato.' 
 
 He says something ; it ia brief, and aounda 
 inditfereiit, and still works on. 
 
 'I aaw Sir Vane and Lady Valentine,* 
 says the Englishman, who is examining thr 
 figure * Waiting ' through his glass. • She i* 
 very beautifnl, quite the most beautiful per- 
 son I have — ' he checks him.«elf just in tim 
 for la cnntflssa's eyes are already looking.dafj 
 gers — ' this face resembles her, I think. 1 * 
 jt aportait ?' 
 
 And Rene works on, only cnnscioua of on 
 thing — an nnutterel wish that they woul 
 go. But they do not. Tney linger, an • 
 look, and admire, and criticise, until he feels 
 as if the Hounil of their voices were driving 
 him mad. La contesRa remains until she is 
 absolutely forced to depart, and goes with a 
 petulant sense of disa)ip>iintment under her 
 gay * Addio pipnore.' Sie really cannot tell 
 whether this exa>jperating young sculptor, as 
 I c<dd, as hard, as any of his own blocks of 
 marble, cares or not. 
 
 Cold, hard ! if she could only but have 
 seen him. when the atelier doors closed, 
 locked, he stands there alone with his love, 
 his Ins". his despair ! Marr'el, and to Sir 
 Vane Valentine I Ah ! la contessa, even 
 your outraged vanity, from feminine spite — 
 the hardest tiling under heaven to satisfy — 
 miiiht have had its fill and to spare, could 
 you have looked through those locked doori. 
 and seen. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 ' FORTUNE BRINfiS IN SOME BOATS THAT ARB. 
 NOT STEERED.' 
 
 It is the aft*>rnoon of a raw and rainy 
 October day. x^n express is thundering 
 rapidily Romeward in even more of a hurry 
 than usual, for it is trying to make up half 
 an hour lost time. 
 
 In - compartment there flits by himself a 
 man, bearing upon him, from head to foot, 
 the stamp of steady travel.' He is big, he is 
 brown, he has dark resolute eves— eyes at 
 nnce gentle and strone, kindly and keen. 
 The mouth suits the eyes ; it is rquare-out, 
 determined looking, with just that upward 
 curveat the corners that tells you it would nob 
 be necessary to explain the point of a joke to 
 him. Hia hair is profuse and dark, sprink* 
 led a little with gray, though he looka no- 
 more than forty, and is inclined to > e kinky 
 aud curl. His square, broad shoulders and 
 erect mien give him a little the look of & 
 military man~. But he is not : he is only ib 
 successful speculator, co»ning to Rome after 
 a prolonged sojourn in Russia and the East. 
 
 n 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 C 
 
 
 A fevr (lays ago he landed at Maraeillea, 
 uow he in speeding aloag rt a tbunderint( 
 rate toward the Utdy City, and » certain 
 greatly eHteeined, young friend he expects to 
 
 . lind ttiere. 
 
 ' Rene won't know me with all the beard 
 off,' he thinks, stroking from custom the 
 place where a heavy mustache used to be. 
 ' It was a pity, but it had to gA. It was ho 
 
 • confoundedly hut there in Cairo I would 
 have taken ufl my tlush as well, if I could, 
 and sat iu my bunes. Let us hope no one 
 who ever knew me in the old days will bo 
 loating around Rome. If so, I shall be found 
 out to a dead certainty.' 
 
 For it is Paul Farrar, minus that silky 
 black-brown beard and drooping mustache 
 thst became him so well. The ohangfl alters 
 him wonderfully. It is the Georgu V.ilen- 
 tine of twoandtwenty years ago ; somewhat 
 bigger, somewhat browner, much more man- 
 ly and distinguished-looking, but otherwise 
 BO much the same bright, boyish-looking 
 George that any one who bad ever known 
 him in those old Hays — before he was drown- 
 ed in the Btlle O'Brien — must have recog- 
 nized him now, despite that melancholoy 
 foot, almost at a glance. 
 
 • if I were going to the New World now,* 
 he thinks, half smiling, as they fly along, 
 ' instead of the very oldest city of the old 
 world, it would never do. I don't covet re- 
 o'>goition at this late day. No good could 
 come of it. I am unforgivfin still, and every- 
 thing is disposed of, as it should be, to the 
 little one. Pity she married Sir Vane — 
 never will be half good enough for her. let 
 him try as he may. But I don't think he 
 will try. Rene would have suited her — 
 pity, again, they could not have hit it off. 
 Not that madam would ever have consented 
 — her hopes and ambitions are the same to- 
 day as they were when her only son dis- 
 appointed her, like the headstrong young 
 
 ' fool he wa Ah, well, these things are 
 -written in Allah's big book — it is all Kis- 
 
 t met together. Whom among ua is stronger 
 
 y than his fate ?' 
 
 The train stops at a station and Mr. Far- 
 rar gets out to light a cigar and stretch his 
 legs. A drizzling rain is faliins, a chilly 
 
 -wind is blowing, he pulls down his felt hat, 
 pulls up his coat collar, and strides up and 
 down tne platform during the few minutes 
 
 ■ of their stay. Doing so he glances carelessly 
 into the carriages as he passes. One, a 
 first-class compartment, holds two elderly 
 women, a lady, evidently and her maid. 
 The lady, a grand-looking personage, of 
 serene mien, and silvery hair an.i face, rests 
 against the cushions with eyes half clo^ied. 
 
 . The servant sits near the window and gazes 
 
 out. At sight of these two Mr. Farrar re- 
 ceives such a shock that for a moment he 
 stands stands stock-still, a petrified gazer. 
 His face pales startingly under his brown 
 Kkin, he Ijoks as though he could not be- 
 lieve his own aense of si^ht. That woman 
 looks at him, sits up, looks again, with a 
 low, frightened ej icuiation, and glances at 
 the miittreH9. A second later, she looks out 
 again — in that second he in gone. 
 
 'What i<« it, Tinker?' aitks, wearily, 
 MadaM "tine. 
 
 *0 ami my doar mistress, I saw a 
 man, v .^iy a glimpse of him, but it made me 
 think of— of ' 
 
 • Well ?• pettishly. 
 
 'Master George. It was that like him. 
 Dear heart, what a start it did give me, to 
 befcurp.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' madam says, sharply. ' How 
 can you be such an old idiot, Tinker. You 
 should have more regard for my feelings than 
 to speak that name in that abrupt way. 
 Does' it stili rain?' 'vearily. 'Tinker, I 
 wonder where my dear child is by this 
 time ?' 
 
 ' lu better weather than this, poor lamb, 
 wherever it is,' responds Mrs. linker, with 
 a shiver. ' Lawk, my lady, I feel chill to 
 the bone. I do hope now Anselmer will see 
 to the flres all through the house. It would 
 be the very wust thing that ever wus, for you 
 to go into dnmp rooms after such a journey 
 as this.' 
 
 ' Do you think she looked happy. Tinker, 
 when we left t' pursues madam, unheeding 
 the weather, absorbed in the thought of her 
 resigned treasure. ' She cried, of course, at 
 the parting, but do you think she looktd 
 happy, and as a young biide shuuld? I grow 
 afraia sometimes— afraid * 
 
 ' Well, ma'am, to speak ) lain truth, Sir 
 Vane ain't neither that young, nor that plea- 
 sant as he might be. I always thought him 
 a melancholy and sad gnntlemac, myuelf. 
 But tastes differ. Maybe Miss Dolores is 
 happy.' Mrs. Tinker's face, as she says it, 
 is dismal beyond expression. ' I'm sure I 
 hope and pray so, poor sweet young lamb- 
 no more fit to be used bad than a baby. 
 But ' 
 
 She breaks oft as her mistress has done- 
 unfinished sentences best exprees their fears. 
 Both are filled with foreboding and vague re- 
 gret, now that the deed is done beyond all 
 recall. Her darling is not haypy — she sees 
 that at last. And the fault is hers — she wi o 
 would give the remnant of her old life to make 
 her BO. She has, indirectly at least, forced her 
 into a loveletis marriage, with a man double 
 her age, a man ill-tempered and mercenary, 
 a man uo more capable of valuing the s^'ett- 
 
 ness, b< 
 
 has of I 
 
 deed. 
 
 and she 
 
 the arnr 
 
 the rer 
 
 upon h 
 
 latel 
 
 The 
 
 evening 
 
 5^ he doa 
 
 the Bin' 
 
 unrest t 
 
 the we(l 
 
 old friei 
 
 thero t 
 
 the new 
 
 tines ; ii 
 
 a proloo 
 
 if all is 
 
 The loc 
 
 with wh 
 
 the part 
 
 night an 
 
 she afraii 
 
 'Oh, u 
 
 old lips r 
 
 you back 
 
 should ta 
 
 with agli 
 
 And tl 
 
 face— a r 
 
 deep, ser 
 
 young ti 
 
 altogethe 
 
 mate, eve 
 
 heiress 
 
 •She 
 
 pang; 
 
 given hei 
 
 happy . 
 
 always — s 
 
 without h 
 
 he has ta 
 
 she said t( 
 
 — is mon 
 
 why did I 
 
 he will no 
 
 the fortui 
 
 stake.' 
 
 But this 
 
 very heavj 
 
 wet, wild 
 
 toward th 
 
 bells of Eo 
 
 Suddenl- 
 
 of the carri 
 
 the sound 
 
 screams, a 
 
 heaven stri 
 
 ness. 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 lis 
 
 Farrar re- 
 moment he 
 tied g»zer. 
 
 his browa 
 nUl not be- 
 'l»at woman 
 (tin, with a 
 
 gUncei at 
 >e louki out 
 
 • 
 
 9, wearily, 
 
 ess, I BftW a 
 it made me 
 
 lat like him. 
 L give roe, to 
 
 ply. • How 
 inker. You 
 feelings tbau 
 abrupt way. 
 •Tinker, I 
 d is by this 
 
 9, poor lamb, 
 linker, with 
 feel chill to 
 elmer will see 
 le. It would 
 r wus, for you 
 ich a journey 
 
 appy, Tinker, 
 in, unheeding 
 bought of her 
 
 of course, at 
 k she looked 
 
 ould 1 1 grow 
 
 lain truth, Sir 
 
 luor thai ple»- 
 
 Is thought him 
 
 smac, royaelf. 
 
 iiss Dolores is 
 
 |as she says it, 
 
 • I'm sure I 
 
 youue lamb — 
 
 than a baby. 
 
 Us has done- 
 rs their fears. 
 t and vague re- 
 bne beyond all 
 [ypy — she sees 
 fhers— she wlo 
 lid life to make 
 ^ast, forced her 
 I a man double 
 Ind mercenary, 
 liug the B^vett- 
 
 ness, beauty, youth, he has won, than he 
 has of doing a great, generous, an unseltish 
 deed. Her ohild wished to remain with her, 
 and she forced her from her — thrust her mto 
 the arms of Vaue Valeutina. And now that 
 the remorse, and sorrow, and fear, come 
 upon her, it is too late — for all time, too 
 late t 
 
 The train rushes alon j( on its iron way ; 
 evening oiusing, fogkty, and windy, and wut. 
 8be doaiis a little as she lies wearily Mmong 
 the staiFy cushions, but she is too Hlled witu 
 unrest to sleep. It is three weeks nosv since 
 the wedding day, and she and her f.iithful 
 old friend are journeying back to lluuie, 
 thero to spend the winter. Next Kprwig 
 the newly- wedded pair are to go to the Valen- 
 tines ; in the summer she is to join them for 
 a prolonged visit. Tiiat is the programme, 
 if all is well. But will all be well, be happy '.' 
 The look of pale, shrinking fear of mm, 
 with which her darling clung to her, just at 
 the parting, haunts her — will haunt her 
 night and day. until they meet again. Is 
 she afraid of Vane Valentine ? 
 
 ' Oh, my debrest, my sweetest 1' the poor 
 old lips murmur in the darkness, ' if I had 
 you back — all my own once more — no man 
 should take you from me, unless you went 
 with a glad and willing heart,' 
 
 And then there rises before her a man's 
 face — a dark, delicate head, a grave smile, 
 deep, serious browu eyes, a slender, strong 
 young figure, a broad, thoughtful brow, 
 altogether a face unlike Sir Vane's, a fitting 
 mate, even in beauty, for the golden-haired 
 heiress. 
 
 'She loved him,' madam thinks, with a 
 pang ; ' and he is worthy of her. If I had 
 given her to him she would have been 
 happy. And I might have had her near me 
 always — always 1 What will life be like 
 without her ? Poor ? Yes, he is poor ; but 
 he has talent ; he will win his way ; and as 
 she said to me, with her pretty baby wisdom 
 —is money everything ? My little love 1 
 why did I give you to Vane Valentine ? But 
 he will not dare to be unkind to her. No ; 
 the fortune is hers ; there is too much at 
 stake.' 
 
 But this is sorry comfort, and her heart is 
 very heavy, as they speed along through the 
 wet, wild ni^ht, and the windy darkness, 
 toward the many towers, and palaces, and 
 bells of Bonae. 
 
 Suddenly— what is it ? There is a swaying 
 of the carriages, a dull, tremulous vibration, 
 the sound of many voices, of women's 
 screams, a shock that is like earth and 
 heaven striking together, and then — nothing* 
 nesa. 
 
 ' Cloar the way I let me through 1 ' cries 
 out an impetuous voice, and a man strides 
 between the atfrighted throng, suddenly 
 huddled here on the wide Campagna. 
 
 Overhead there is the black, wind swept 
 sky ; beneath there is the sodden, rain- 
 swept grass, the wrecked train, women and 
 ohddren, terriHed, hurt, talking, sobbing, 
 screaming — ooufuaion dire elsewhere. 
 
 Those who are safely out are tiying to 
 extriitate thosn who are still prisoners, fore- 
 most among them this tall, sunburned man, 
 who forces his way to one particular 
 wrecked carriage, and wrenches open the 
 door. 
 
 • Mother 1 ' he cries ; ' Mrs. Tinker 1 
 Are you here ? For God's sake, speak I ' 
 
 There are groans ; they are there, but 
 past speaking. Mrs. Tinker is not panu 
 hearing, however. Through all the shook of 
 pain and fright, she hears and trembles at 
 that call. 
 
 Help comes, they are brought out, both 
 hurt. Madam Valentine quiet insensible. 
 
 Mrs. Tinker looks up through the mists 
 of what she thinks death, and tries to see 
 the face on which the lamplight shines, the 
 face that is bending over her mistress. 
 
 ' Bid him come,' she says, faintly ; ' bid 
 him speak to me again before I die ! It was 
 the voice of my own Master Geurge ! ' 
 
 He is with her in a moment, holding he ' 
 in his arms, bending down with the hand* 
 some, te' der face she knows so well. 
 
 • My d \r old friend ! ' is what he says. 
 
 ' Master George ! Master (George I m^ 
 own Master George! Has the great As. 
 come, then, and the sea given up its deat 
 that I see and hear you tlus night ? ' 
 
 ' Dear old nurse — no. 1 never was 
 drowned, you know. It has been a mistake 
 all these years — it is George Valentine in 
 the flesh. Do not talk now — lie still— we 
 will take care of you. I must go back to 
 my mother.' 
 
 ' My dear mistress ! is she much hurt ? ' 
 
 '^Very muob, I fear; she is senseless. Take 
 this stimulant and keep quiet. You are not 
 going to die — do not think it.' 
 
 But Mrs. Tinker only groans and shuts 
 her eyes. She is bruised, and broken, and 
 crushed, and hurt, but no bones are broken, 
 and her injuries are not serious. She is so 
 stunned and bewildered with fright and pain 
 that she can hardly wonder or rejoice to find 
 her Master George after all these years 
 alive. 
 
 The accident, after'investigation, turns out 
 to be comparatively slight. A few persons 
 are hurt more or less, all are badly scared. 
 Madam Valentine se< ms to be the only one 
 seriously iujar'>d. That she is injured there 
 
 1 
 
116 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 o»n be no question. She liei, while they 
 tr«v«l alowly int<i Home in her lou'e arini, 
 without si^ui of life. They reaoh the great 
 city, aii'l the it drivea slowly through the 
 ■treeta to the Case Valentine, but all the while 
 ■he liea like one dead. Mrs. Tinker so far 
 recovered already ss to be able to sit up, 
 chafes her hands, and ories and moans dully 
 to herself, ftnd alternately watches Manter 
 George. 'Grown suoh a tine figure of a man, 
 Uud bless him ! ' she thinks admiringly. 
 
 Anselmo, the major-dumo, av«atts them ; 
 the rooms are warm, beds are aired, all is in 
 or.ier. Madam is undressed and put to bed, 
 the best medioal skill in Rome is summoned, 
 and when the sun is two or three hours high 
 she opens her eyes and moaas feebly, and 
 strugi{le8 back painfully out of that dim lantl 
 of torpor, where she has lain so long. H'.rug- 
 glea back to life, and pain, and weariness, 
 and a SHUse of stiflldg oppression that will 
 not let her breathe. Ma lam's life is drawing 
 to a close — ' it is toward evening, and the day 
 is far spent.' She will never look upon her 
 darling'H face in this world attain. 
 
 MrH. Tinker sits by her side— it is on that 
 tear wet face her eyt:a first fall. A glint of 
 suaahine steals in between the closed jalous 
 ies— it turns the rose silk curtains to flame, 
 and bathes in a rubv glow the marble faoe of 
 the fijure, 'At the Shrine.' Her eyes leave 
 Mrs Tinker, and rest on that. 
 
 ' My darling I ' she whispers, 'never again 
 — never in this world again.' 
 
 For she knows the tath. She is quite 
 oalmi, and a sort of smile dawna on her lips, 
 as she looks at the weeping servant by her 
 side. 
 
 ' My goo,i old friend,' she says, 'you will 
 see the last of me after all. I used to wonder 
 Bonpetimes, Tinker, which of us would go 
 firat.' 
 
 ' My dear mistress, ray dear mistress I ' the 
 old servant sobs. 
 
 ' A hard mistress, I am afraid, sometimes 
 —an imperious mistress.' Stie sighs, glances 
 at the statue, looks back wistfully. 'I 
 should like to see that young man before I 
 die,' she says, ' I liked him. 
 
 ' Mr. Raynay, ma'am ? The young gentle> 
 man that made that ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; send for him, Tinker, will you 
 Tell me ' — a painful effort — ' how long— how 
 long do these doctors give me ? I see thei^n 
 in consultation in the room beyond. ' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear mistress,' crying wildly, 
 ' not long, not long— till to-morrow, they say,' 
 sobs choke Mrs. Tinker,' 'till to-morrow, 
 maybe.' 
 
 A spasm crosses the strong old face. She 
 shuts her eyes, and lies still. Then she opens 
 
 with the same earnest, wistful 
 
 them again 
 gase. 
 
 * Tinker, it is strange, but just at that 
 time, when the crash and thedarkrr.s came, 
 I lenmed to hear a voice, and it called me — 
 it said mother I It was the voice of my son, 
 Tinker — my deaf, dead son.' 
 
 Mrs. Tinker is on her knees by the bed- 
 side, with clatped hands and ntreaming eyes. 
 
 ' Not dead I mispress 1 O^, praise and 
 thanks be. Not dead — not dead I Living 
 all this t.ime, and with us now. It was his 
 %oioe yuu heard call — his own dear living 
 voice. Mistress 1 mispress !' with a scresm 
 of affright, ' are you dying ? Have I killed 
 you ?• 
 
 She has fallen back among the pillows, so 
 white, so death-like, that Mrs. Tinker starts 
 from her knees with thut ringing shriek. The 
 doctors fly to the bedside. It is not death, 
 but a death-like swoon. 
 
 ' I told her, Master Oeorgp, I told her, and 
 the shock killed her a'm ost. On ! do'ee go 
 away, before she com^s to agiiii. The sight 
 of you will kill her outright for fitire.' 
 
 But George does not go. His mother'^ 
 eyes open at the moment, and rest on his 
 fau<^ — rest in long, solemn, silent wonder. 
 
 ' Mother,' he says, gently, * dearest moth 
 er, it is I — George. i)o you not know me ? 
 Mother I' 
 
 • My son.' 
 
 She lifts one faint hand by a great effort, 
 and lays it in hia hand. She lien and looks 
 at him with wide, dilating eyes, that have in 
 them as y^t only solemn, fearful wonder— no 
 joy. 
 
 ' Dear mother,' he kisses the other hand 
 lying on the quilt, ' are you not a little glad. 
 I love V'ou, mother. I have wanted to come 
 back all these years, but I was afraid — I was 
 afraid I was not forgiven. Dearest mother, 
 say you forgive me now.' 
 
 ' Hia eyes, his voice, his words. It is my 
 George — my George — my George 1' 
 
 ' You are glad then, mother ? You will 
 say it, will you not ? If you only knew how 
 I have longed all these years for the words: I 
 forgive you.' Let me hear you say them 
 now.' 
 
 ' Forgive you I' she repeats. 'Oh 1 my 
 God, it is I who must be forgiven. I have 
 been the hardest mother the world ever saw. 
 Forgive you I My best beloved, I forgave 
 you long ago. 1 forgive with all my heart. 
 Oh ! to t hink of it I to think of it ! a wan- 
 derer and an exile all these years, and all the 
 while my son, my heart has been breakiug 
 for the sight of your face. If it is death that 
 has restored you to me, then death is better 
 than life. My son ! piy son ? kiss me, and 
 say yott forgive me 1' 
 
 Hid 
 
 on her i 
 'loi 
 to go W 
 son w«fl 
 is found 
 It is I 
 n^aia tc 
 lie ro8< 
 marble 
 
 RO litis, 
 
 see it to 
 by her « 
 othnr d.'i 
 ' A.id 
 way, foi 
 for you 
 Grtorge. ' 
 
 H« 81 
 
 little— ti 
 but the ( 
 no new t 
 No, he V 
 ' That 
 are the t 
 of that b 
 
 • Do n. 
 matter? 
 
 •It do. 
 i« right,' 
 iiishea in 
 veice. * 
 must clai 
 you will 
 
 • Moth 
 'It is w 
 
 while. J 
 nun wit 
 ledge you 
 of claim c 
 fortune ii: 
 sign it. 
 me.' 
 ' Moth< 
 * Pro mi 
 Throuu[h 
 have lost 
 what I oa 
 tors in 
 my serva 
 you ; pro I 
 aoknowl^c 
 rightful 
 Promise n 
 the last re 
 No— he 
 turhed as 
 'I prom 
 he slowlv 
 •You'h 
 terrible ea 
 es of the sc 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 m 
 
 irnest, wiatful 
 
 t jiint at that 
 imrkrf.'S cAtne, 
 it called me — 
 tioe of ray •on, 
 
 ea by the bed- 
 breaming eyes. 
 1, praise and 
 dead I Livini? 
 It was his 
 irn dear living 
 with a scream 
 Have I killed 
 
 the pillows, so 
 I. Tinker starts 
 ing Hhriek. The 
 It is not death, 
 
 T told her, and 
 On ! do'ee go 
 
 lin. The sight 
 
 iV otire.* 
 His mother's 
 
 and rest on his 
 
 ent wonder. 
 ' dearest moth- 
 
 k noc know me ? 
 
 y a great effort, 
 le liea and looks 
 es, that have in 
 •ful wonder— no 
 
 the other hand 
 not a little glad, 
 wanted to come 
 as afraid— I was 
 Dearest mother, 
 
 eordi. It is my 
 orge !' 
 
 her ? You will 
 
 I only knew how 
 
 for the words:! 
 
 r you say them 
 
 lats. • Oh 1 my 
 orgiveo. I have 
 ( world ever saw. 
 doved, I forgave 
 ith all my heart. 
 uk of it ! a wan- 
 rears, and all the 
 as been breakiui; 
 f it is death that 
 m death is better 
 a ? kiBS me, and 
 
 Ui iUftn as she bids him, ani his tears f al 
 on her fuue. 
 
 ' I om die now,' she says ; ' tell th«m all 
 to Ko while wo lilexs do 1. " K.»r this my 
 son was d.ad and is alive again, was lo«t and 
 is found."' 
 
 It is noontide of another day. They are 
 nyaia toyother, there in that durkened ronm. 
 Tie rose light H kmIs the pur**, piHsionleas. 
 uiarblo fiico of D )lores. The dyini< woiimn 
 BO li«s, propped up with pillows, that she may 
 see it to tho end. For iivrtn the son who ttits 
 by her auU cannot drive out of her heart her 
 otht^r diirliiig. 
 
 • And then it is only loving you in another 
 way, for she i^ yours,' she s/iys. ' I love her 
 for your sake as well ati for her own, my 
 Grtorge. ' 
 
 H«j siys nothing. His brow* oontract a 
 little — there in something he wouldlike to say, 
 but the «n I drawn near now, she id fitted for 
 no new shocks. And she loves the child. 
 No, he will nut speak. 
 
 • That remiudH me.' she says, faintly, 'you 
 are the baronet, not Vaue. 1 did not think 
 of that before.' 
 
 • Do not think of it now. What does it 
 matte;? L"t it go.' 
 
 ' It does matter. It shall not go. Right 
 is right,' some of her old imperious command 
 tlisheu in her dim eyes, rings in her feeble 
 voice. * You are the baronet » not he. You 
 must claim yonr right, George. Promise me 
 you will when I am gone.' 
 
 • Mother, is it worth while ?' 
 
 'It is worth while — a thousand times worth 
 while. Itight is right, I say. Hd is a just 
 min with all h^ faults; he will ackuow- 
 ledge your superior rik^ht. He has no shadow 
 of claim on the title while you live. And the 
 fortune ia yours too - your daughter will re- 
 sign it. It must be so, George — promise 
 
 me. 
 
 Mother- 
 
 * Promise me, if I am to die content. 
 Through my fault, through my cruelty, you 
 have lost both title and fortune. Let me do 
 what I oan to repair it. Before those doc- 
 tors in the next room, before my lawyer, 
 my servants, I have already acknowleil^ed 
 you ; promise me you will make the world 
 acknowledge you, that you will resume your 
 rightful rank, your place in the world. 
 Promise me before I die. You cannot refuse 
 the last request of a dying mother.' 
 
 No — he cannot, but he looks iutiiitely dis- 
 turbed as he reluctantly gives the pledge. 
 
 'I promise— to let Dolores know,' is what 
 he slowly says. 
 
 ' You hear this ? ' she asks, appealing in 
 terrible earnestness tothe two silent witness- 
 es of the scene— Mrd. Tinker, kneeling beside 
 
 her, Rene Maodnnald standing at the foot of 
 the bed. ' You are liateninx. Monsieur 
 Rene? You will witn«-si for ino that he 
 keeps his pledge ? He must assert his rikihts. 
 Dolores is your friend — I comritission you to 
 tell her this. Sie will do nhat is right, I 
 know —it is a heart of gold. And it is her 
 own father. How glad the child m ill br. 
 You will love h»-r very much, (Jeora^, and 
 care for her? Do not iHt her husbiuid be un- 
 kind to her. Ho is a just man— Vane — iiut 
 hard, and a little grim. When I am gone, 
 Mousieur Rnne, go to K igland and t« 11 tho 
 little one. Stie will gladly ^dve up a fortune 
 aud a title for her fatlier's sake.' 
 
 ' M/ dear mother, you do wrong to auitate 
 yourself in this w>iy. D.i not talk. 11 titu 
 is going now. Will you say guid-hye to 
 tiim. and try to sleep?' 
 
 ' To sleep, to sleep,' she murmurs, heavily, 
 ' I shall sleep souudly soon, my son —soon, 
 soon. 1 am sorry to leave you. Do not 
 go away, stay here with me until the cud.' 
 
 ' I am not croing mottier — it is Rme.' 
 
 ' Addio siKUore,' she says with a wan 
 smile, *I like \ou, I always liked you. 
 And you will tell my little one when 1 am 
 gone. She liked you, too -she liked you 
 best. I know it now. Do not t«ll Sir 
 Vane ; he would not like it. Yei, she 
 liked you best.' 
 
 ' Her mind is wandering,' her son says, 
 hurriedly, but he glances questioningly at 
 R^neashe says it. In the dim gray-gri>en 
 light of the deatl. -room, he sees thn profound 
 pallor of the dark face. So, poor ilene ! 
 
 They watch by the bedside during the 
 lon^', slow hours of the afternoon. She 
 rambles sometimes, and murmurs broken 
 sentences- generally, though her mind is 
 quite calm. George sits by her side, holiing 
 her hand, administering stimnlants and 
 medicines, watching every breath. And so 
 death finds her when it comes, quite peace- 
 fully and painlersly, her last smile, 
 her last look, her last word, for him. 
 When Ave Maria rings out in the pearly 
 haze of twilight, Katheriue Valentine lies 
 dead. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 * IN HIS DRE.4.M3 HE SHALL SEE THEE AND 
 ACHE.' 
 
 The studio, the late afternoon lights filling 
 gayly its big chill length. The sculptor 
 stands busy, bis fingers deep in molding wot 
 clay,, two swinging bronze lamps sparkling 
 like K re flies in the half light. The autuma 
 day has been damp and dark, the sky out 
 there, Been between the wet vines, is the 
 
118 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 i I 
 
 colour of drab paper, a fopr that London 
 could not flurpasB fihrouds the Eternal City. 
 LookiDf; rather moodily out at it, sits 
 George Valentine, ensconned in a great 
 carved and gilded chair, and encircling him- 
 Belf with a second fog of hia own making — 
 the smoke of his cigar. Both are silent, the 
 younger absorbed in his clay cast, the elder 
 in his thoughts. A week has passed since 
 the funeral. Presently George Valentine 
 leaves off staring at the yellow tog, and turns 
 his Attention to the artist, still busily ab- 
 sorbed in modeling hia wet clay, and stares 
 at him*. 
 
 * What an odd fellow you are, Rene ! ' is 
 what he says. 
 
 Kene looks up. It atrikes Mr. Va- 
 lentine, aa it has not struck him 
 hitherto, that his young friend is 
 altogether too worn and hollow-eyed 
 for the number of his years, and that he has 
 grown more taciturn than he ever used to 
 be. ! 
 
 * What 18 it you say I' Rene asks. 
 
 ' I say you are a queer fellow. Why, 
 look here. For the past sixteen years or 
 more you have known me as Paul Farrar. 
 All in a moment, aa it must seem to you, I 
 start up, like the hero of a melodrama, not 
 myself at all, but somebody else ; not Paul 
 Farrar, bnt the lone-lost son of a lady you 
 very well knew— a Tichborne Claimant No. 
 2. You are summoned suddenly to a death- 
 bed ; you meet me thero. under another 
 name and identity, and you accept the 
 metamorphosis without question or comment. 
 Over two weeks have gone since then, we 
 have met daily, s^ill not a word. It may 
 be delicacy of feeline:, it m*y be indifference, 
 it may be good breeding— I don't know what 
 name you give it, but it is queer, to say the 
 least. ' 
 
 •It is good breeding,' says Rene, laugh- 
 ing. ' I have been always taught that it 
 is impolite to ask questions. Besides, mon 
 ami, how could I intrude on your secrets — 
 painful recollections, perhaps ? You knew 
 me ; when you saw fit, you would tell me. 
 Meantime — ' 
 
 ' Meantime, absorbed in secrets of your 
 own, you don't burn with curiosity to hear 
 those of other men. You look hipped, my 
 You work too hard, and you don't eat enough. 
 I've watched you. No wonder you grow as 
 thin as a shadow. No touch of Roman 
 fever. I trust, my boy V 
 
 * Wtill — who knows ? There are so many 
 kinds of R .man fever. Yes,' Rene says, 
 half jestingly, half seriously ; • I suppofie 1 
 may call it that. I certainly cauijht it here 
 in Rome. Never mind me,' impatiently ; ' I 
 will do well enough. I am a tough fellow, 
 
 lean though 7. be. I'il pull through all right. 
 Tell me of y jurHelf, tres cher. You give me 
 credit for l^ss interest in you than I possess, 
 if you do not see I am full of curiosity — 
 though that is not tho word either — to hear 
 your story. It should be a romantic one. 
 As to being surprised— I don't know. You 
 always seemed a man a little out of the or- 
 dinary to me — a man with a history. No ; 
 I was not much surprised to find you were 
 somebody besides my father's friend, M. 
 Paul Farrar, 
 
 George Valentine has gone back to hia 
 scrutiny of the weather ; he watuhts it 
 through the blured panes with dreamy, re- 
 trospective eyes. There is silence ; he 
 smokes, Rene plunges his fingers into the 
 soft clay, and an angel's face breaks through. 
 I'he elder man's thoughts are drifciug back- 
 ward to that other life, that seems now like 
 a life lived in a dream. 
 
 * What a little forever it is to look back 
 upon I' he says, 'and yet like yesterday, too. 
 That old time at Toronto, when I led the 
 luxurious, idle life of a youthful prince, as 
 spoiled, as flattered, as headstrong, as self- 
 induglent as any prince — how it comes back 
 as I sit here, and I am no longer the George 
 Valentine of forty years — battered, world- 
 worn, gray — but the lad George, who rode, 
 and danced, and dreamed, and thought life a 
 perpetual boy's holiday, and who fell in love 
 at nineteen with a trapeziste, and ran away 
 with her and married her.' 
 
 Half to himself, in the tone of one who 
 muses aloud, half to Rene, who listens and 
 works in sympathetic tileuce, he tells the 
 story — the story of the one brief love idyl of 
 his life. 
 
 ' I came back to my senses more quickly 
 than I lost them,, he says, 'as I suppoHO most 
 people do who make unequal marriages. I 
 had simply made utter wreck and ruin of my 
 life. She is lead, poor soul, this many a 
 day— she was Snowball's mother. I will say 
 nothing about her that I can leave unsaid. 
 Only — when I left her, after tea months of 
 marriage — you may believe me when I say I 
 was justilied in doing it. She was not in 
 love with me. I found that out soon enough ; 
 she was not of the women who fall in love. 
 She was so utterly wrapped up in herself, she 
 had no room in her poor little starved heart 
 for any other human creature. Perhaps she 
 may have been fond of her child, but I doubt 
 it.' 
 
 * You left her after ten months,' Rene re- 
 peats. Something in the statement seems to 
 tit badly with some other fact in his mind. 
 He regards his friend with a puzzled look. 
 
 * Juat ten months, my young friend— we 
 parted thus for our mutual benefit. I never 
 
 
ongh all right. 
 
 You ^ivu me 
 ;haD I possess, 
 )f curiosity — 
 ither — to hear 
 romantic one. 
 
 know. You 
 out of the or- 
 history. No; 
 find you were 
 's friend, M. 
 
 » back to hia 
 le watuhts it 
 h dreamy, re- 
 sileuce ; he 
 igers into the 
 "eaks through. 
 Irifciug bauk- 
 eems now like 
 
 is to look back 
 ^'csterday, too. 
 (vhen I led the 
 hful prince, as 
 strong, as self- 
 it comes back 
 ger the George 
 ttered, world- 
 ge, who rode, 
 thought life a 
 (rho fell in love 
 I and ran away 
 
 ne of one who 
 i^ho listens and 
 i, he teils the 
 ief love idyl of 
 
 a more quickly 
 I suppose most 
 1 marriages. I 
 and ruin of my 
 1, this many a 
 er. I will say 
 a leave unsaid. 
 ■ ten months of 
 le when I say I 
 \he was not in 
 t soon enough ; 
 rho fall in love. 
 J in herself, she 
 e starved heart 
 >. Perhaps she 
 Id, but I doubt 
 
 inths,' Rene re- 
 ement seems to 
 ict in his mind, 
 puzzled look, 
 uiig friend — we 
 ecefit. I never 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ^U 
 
 
 saw her again nntil I saw her ^all from the 
 slack-rope in Badger's circus, one day sonito 
 six years after. * 
 
 'Six years after,' again repeats Rene, the 
 pupzled look deepening in his face. ' And 
 Suowball was but three years old then !' 
 
 * Precisely. I^'s a deuee of a busmess. 
 Rene ' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 * Saowball is not ny daughter.' 
 
 A stunned pause. ""And yet— Rene could 
 not tell you why -the sh^ck of astonishment 
 is not so great as it ought to be, 
 
 * I thought you would say that.' he says, 
 in a hashed tone. • And your mother— we 
 all, she herself, her husband— have been de- 
 ceived.' 
 
 'It's c bid business, old fellow, I dt)n't 
 deny, and all owing to the false report of my 
 death. But the merest accident — a slip on 
 the ice, a sprained ankle— I did not sail in 
 the fatal Bale U'Rrien. Another man took 
 my place — a poorer devil even than myself — 
 so poor that to keep him from freezing to 
 death that bitter winter weather I shared my 
 scanty wardrobe with him. He, George Val- 
 entin^, as his clothes led all to think, perish- 
 ed that stormy night, and the Paul Farrar 
 who lived, and had a hard tight with fortune 
 for many a year, was a castaway about whom 
 no one was likely to be concerned. I did not 
 know I was forgiven. I only knew another 
 heir had been found for the great Valentine 
 fortune. I did not know Mimi, my wife, had 
 married again, in good faith enough, Tom 
 Randal. I was engaged in a hand-to-hand 
 tight for bread in those early days. When 1 
 did ,know, it was too late. I came to Clang- 
 vdle, honestly resolute to see my mother, and 
 obtain her pardon. Time might have softened 
 her, I th u^ht, and condoned my offdioa 
 It seemed such a very extraordinary 
 thing that Mimi, my wife — Tom Randal's 
 widow, if you like -should be there at the 
 same time. There she was, with little 
 Snowball, and I soon discovered, from Vane 
 Valentine, that he knew all about her) ex- 
 cet.t the fact of her second marriage ; that 
 very few people ever knew) that she had 
 visiced my mother, an I threatened to make 
 public h«^r nurriage with me, unless boui^ht 
 otF Vane Valentine only knew me as Paul 
 Farrar, of course. I had met him at Fayal 
 somt) tune before. A new thought struck 
 me. Without presenting myself in person 1 
 could judge of my mother's feeliu; toward 
 me by her conduct toward the child Huppos- 
 ed to be mine. If, after Miini's tragic.il fa e, 
 she showed pity for the child, I would have 
 come forward at once, and revealed myself. 
 I longed f r forgiveness, R ine ; I longed to 
 go back iu the world of living men, from 
 
 which fot years I had seemed to b>) thrust 
 out : I longed to be once more my mother's 
 son. One kindly, womanly act toward the 
 child— I would have asked no more — I 
 would have come forward, pleaded for par- 
 don, and striven in the future to repair the 
 pasc. But that act never came. The child 
 — unseen, uncared for, as though she were a 
 dog or a pet bird of the dead woman's — was 
 banished, and given over to the hands of 
 stranneri". She thought her her grand-child, 
 and still banished her unseen. Perhaps it 
 was the doing of Vane Valentine — Heaven 
 knows. It secured to kill my last hope for* 
 ever* The heart that could be so hard to 
 the child was not likely to soften to the 
 father, 
 
 ' 1 accepted the decision in silence and 
 went my way, taking the little one with me. 
 Of course 1 tell in love with the child at 
 sight — every one did that. She was the 
 most bewitching baby iu the world ; but you 
 remember her, no doubt. You know my 
 life since then, the life of a wauderer always. 
 But for the accident that night on whiiih we 
 met there never would have been either re- 
 conciliation or forgiveness. I had made up 
 my mind, you see, after the episode of Snow- 
 ball, that there was no hope f jr me. But it 
 has been decreed otherwise. My poor 
 mother 1 her's was a lonely life. She wrapp- 
 ed herself it^ silence and pride, and shut out 
 the world. Cau a mother forget her child? 
 Ou her death- bed she told me I had been 
 forgiven always. It will comfort me when 
 I am on mine to remember that.' 
 
 Rene stands silent. After a pause George 
 Valentine goes on : 
 
 ' Perhaps there, just at the last, I should 
 have told my mofier the truth. 1 think I 
 would, but that I knew the explanation 
 would bo too great a shock for hr-r to bear. 
 And she loved the girl so dearly, as I do, as 
 you, as we ail do. Dear little Snowball ! 
 what does it matter? If she were my 
 daughter in reality I could never be fonder 
 of her than I am.' 
 
 Jjg'It matters a gread deal,' Rene answers, 
 • and so Vane Valentine will think, and say, 
 when he hears if. It robs him at a word of 
 title and fortune. How do you think he 
 will take that?' 
 
 *Ho had better take it quietly, or it may be, 
 worse for him. If he is harsh to that cbila 
 he shall rue it. And you, too, my friend — 
 you have becDme involved in thib family 
 tangle. It will devolve upon y(m, I sup- 
 pose, as y»u have already promised, to go 
 and tell Suowball. I wish— I wish my 
 mother had not insisted upon that, ^he 
 expitse, if it must come, will be the auce 
 and all to stand.' 
 
 
120 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 ' Right is right,' says !(leoe. 
 ' To be Bure ; but if a man prefers the 
 wrong ? Supposing he ia the only one to 
 Ruffer ? It is rather a nuisance, isn't it to be 
 forced into a court <>f app^^al whether or not. 
 Look here, Rene, Vane Valentine will not 
 resign what he baa waited f )r so lon^, got- 
 ten so hardly, without ti^hiing it out to the 
 bitter end. Do you know wh<it th-ib nieaus 
 for me ? It means taking the whole world 
 into my confidence — telling what a con- 
 founded ass I have been, all my life, seeing 
 my name, and hers, and my mothers, iu 
 glaring capitals in every hingli^h and Ameri- 
 can newspaper I pick up Do you know 
 what it means for S lowball ? The exposure 
 of her birth, as the daughter uf a lawless 
 circus woman — an heiress under iahe pre- 
 tenses—a wife whom Vane Valentine no 
 more would have marri«d, knowing the 
 
 truth than Good Heavens ! Rene, don't 
 
 you see the thing is impossible ?' 
 
 Rene stands silent. Right is right — yes, 
 but to hold fast to the right through ail 
 things, simply because it is right, sometimes 
 requires a courage superhuman. 
 
 ' It will break her heart, it will brand her 
 with infamy, it will blight her life, it will 
 compel her to face an exposure, for which a 
 crown and a kingdom would not repay. No, 
 no, Rene ; go over and tell her, if you like, 
 since the promise was extorted on a death- 
 bed, but there we will stop. Sir Vane shall 
 be Sir Vane to the end. It shall be no new 
 Orton and Tichborne atfair, this, with the 
 ame ultimate eadiug, no doubt. It is a 
 thousand pities it must he told at all — it 
 will make the child miaerable all her life. 
 Rene, need it be told ?' 
 
 * Uudoub-edly, ^ince I hove proniaed. 
 Better be miserable, knowing the truth, 
 than happy in a fool's paradise of igno*'anae.' 
 
 • A fool's paradise . Ah, poor liitle Suow- 
 bUl ! I doubt the paradise, even a fool's, 
 with Vane Valentine. If he be unkind to her 
 — then, Rene, I will face all t'lings, and 
 have it out with him. Let him Ic >k to it, if 
 he is harsh with her. Come wiiat may I 
 glial not spare him.' 
 
 Still Rene is silen^. He stands with 
 foldedarmsand knitted brows, staringmoodil}' 
 out at the pale flood of moon-rays silvering 
 the stone court. George Valentine has 
 risen, too, and is pacing up and down. 
 
 ' You will see for yourself,' he says, ' when 
 you go there. There need be no haste ; 
 TUey do not return to E igland, I be ieve, 
 until spring. Go over then, and see, and 
 tell her. For mvself, I shall remain in 
 Rome this winter. Oae look at her will tell 
 you, more than a score of letrera. whether or 
 no she is happy. I seem to have a sort of prc- 
 
 hti 
 thou- 
 
 sentiment about it, that she ia not— that she 
 never will be* I distrust that fellow— 1 al- 
 ways have. He has the soul of a miser, 
 grasping, sordid, cruel ; and he was in luve 
 with another woman, a cousin. Snowball 
 never cared for him, I feel sure. How 
 could she?— old, cold, self centered, unfitted 
 for her iu every way. Ddar little Snowball, 
 so fresh, so bright,' so joyous— how soon 
 will change all that, it is a pity, a thi 
 
 sand pities, mon ami, that you ' 
 
 ♦For heaven's sake, hush I' Rene Mac- 
 donald cries out. fiercely. 'Do you think I 
 am made of this?' striking passionately the 
 marble against which he stands—* that I 
 c- listen to you ? Do you think there la 
 ever an hour, sleeping or wakine', in which 
 she ia absent from me ?' .1 try to forget 
 sometimes— I force mybelf to forget, lest in 
 much thinking of what might have been but 
 
 for this fortune and that man, I should go 
 
 mad.' , . v.- 
 
 Gdorge Valentine lays his hand on ms 
 shoulder, and stands beside him— mute. 
 S >mething of this he has suspected. How 
 could it be otherwise ? But ha speaks no 
 word. Tne voioe that breaks the silence is 
 the voice of a girl singing, to a piano, in the 
 apartment above. An English family have the 
 second floor. The voice of the girl, singing 
 an English song, comes to them through 
 the open windows, through the slumbering 
 sweetness of the night. 
 " In the day-time thy voice shall go through 
 
 In hid dreams he shall f=ee thee, and ache. 
 
 Thou sha t kindle by niRht, aud suudue mm 
 
 Aaleep or awuHe.' 
 
 'If you would rather not 
 Valentine says, at last, * it may 
 for you ' , . 
 
 'I will go,' Rene answers, between his 
 teeth ; ' I must see for myself. If he makes 
 her happy— well, I shall try and be thank- 
 ful and see her no more. It he is what you 
 think him— what I think him— let him look 
 to it. Say no more, tres cher, there 
 B )me hurts that simply w U uut bear 
 ling ; this is one of tnem.' 
 
 go,' George 
 be too hard 
 
 are 
 haud- 
 
 •Mar 
 Aesop 
 mi.uta 
 to a w« 
 
 A 81 
 to piei 
 silvery 
 ing wt 
 Aq air 
 
ot— that she 
 
 eliow — 1 al- 
 
 of a miser, 
 
 wan in love 
 
 Buowball 
 
 ure. How 
 
 ed, unHtted 
 
 e Siiowb*lJ, 
 
 ow soon hti 
 
 ity, a thou- 
 
 Kene Mac- 
 you thiuk I 
 oaately tho 
 8—' that I 
 ik there is 
 in which 
 ry to f«)rget 
 ■get, lest ia 
 ve been but 
 I should go 
 
 and on bis 
 him — mute, 
 cted. How 
 3 speaks no 
 le silence is 
 lano, in the 
 lily have the 
 ;irl, singing 
 m through 
 slumbering 
 
 11 go through 
 
 , and ache, 
 uodue nim 
 
 go,' George 
 be too hard 
 
 aetween his 
 If he makes 
 (1 be thauk* 
 IS what you 
 »t him iouk 
 there are 
 I bf ar hand* 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 121 
 
 I?-A.R.T FOURTH. 
 
 CHAFTER I. 
 
 MY LADV VALENTINE. 
 
 • Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs la 
 Aesop were extrem ly wise ; tiiey had a ^n at 
 mi .u to 8ora« water, but ih 'y would not le '■ p in- 
 to a well because they cuuid not get ouu ug<tiu.* 
 
 A spring evening— April stirs beginninc 
 to pierce through the blue one by one ; a 
 silvery haze over yonder above the tirs, show- 
 ing where the mouu means to rise presently. 
 Aq air like velvet, a soft southerly breez3 
 stirring in the elms and chestnuts, and bend- 
 ing to kiss the sweet hidden violets and ane- 
 mones as it flutteis by. Down in a thorn- 
 bush, near the keeper's gate, a nightingale is 
 singing, and everything else that flies and 
 twitters, holds its breath to bear. So, too, 
 does the stooping,UQromantic-looking woman, 
 who leans across the gate, watching and wait- 
 ing and rather anxious, but charmed as well 
 by the wonderful flow of bird-music. 
 
 Anxiety, however, soon gets the better of 
 her again, and she peers down the long white 
 strip of wood, bending her ear to catch the 
 sound she listens for. But only the nightin- 
 gale's song breaks the sylvan stillness of the 
 bweet spring evening. 
 
 • Late again,' she says to herself ; *! guess- 
 ed she would be. And Miss Valentine she's 
 such a one to nag if the poor dear is Ave min- 
 utes past the timw. I wish the cross old cat 
 wasfurder — I do.' 
 
 She glances apprehensively over her shoul- 
 der as she says it, not quite sure that Miss 
 Dorothy Valentine may not p< unce upo"-. her, 
 as rapidly and soundlessly, as the feline to 
 which she has compared her. Pat she and 
 Pailomel sf em to have it all to themselves. 
 The lofty trees and broad acres of the park 
 spread around her ; down here it is a lonely 
 spot where eyen Miss Valentine, who is om- 
 nipresent, never comes. Over yonder peep 
 the gables of tbe house, Manor Valentine, 
 sparkling aU along its sombre brick fiont, 
 with many lights. 
 
 It is an ugly, old-fashioned mansion of 
 Queen Anne's time- once red, of a dull, 
 warmish brown tint now, that contrasts very 
 well with the green of the ivy that overruns 
 most of it, and softens and tones down the 
 garnt grimness of its stiff and angular out- 
 lines. It has pointed gables, and ^reac stacks 
 of chimneys, and quaintly timbered porches 
 — in summer time, very bowers of wild-roae 
 and honeysuckle. It has old-fachioned, prim 
 Dutch gardens, kept at present with care, 
 but left to run riot in the days of the late 
 baronet, and all the old-fasbioned, sweet- 
 
 smelling fliiwers that ever bloome>1, grow in 
 .beauty side by side. And here in the park 
 are maguiticent copper beeches, great ureen 
 elms, branching oak", and a world cf fern 
 and bracken waving below. 
 
 This primeval forest of untouched timber 
 is the delight of Sir Vane Valentine's life. 
 Poor as Sir Rupert ever was, all thoae won- 
 derful woods of Valentine were unde.-ecrated 
 by the axe. He held these familv Dryads 
 sacred, and left them in thtir lofty beauty 
 unfelle I. FiUen from its ouce high estate no 
 doubt it ic, but even in these latter days of 
 decadence, Manor Valentine is a heiitage to 
 be proud of. 
 
 Its present lord is proud of it — of every 
 tradition v.f the old house, of every black 
 and grim family portrait, of evtry tree iu 
 the stately demesne, of every queer, un- 
 fashionable flower in the Qieen Anne gar- 
 dens. These quaint gardens shall grow and 
 flourish undisturbed ; he has decreed it. 
 There may be orcherd houses, and an acre 
 under glass, and ferneries to the heart's 
 content of his sister and cousin, but all else 
 shall remain, a standing memorial of by- 
 gone days, aud dead and buried dames. 
 
 And here in the park, leaning over the 
 gate, looking at the moonrise and listening 
 to the nik,htinsale, stands faithful Jemima 
 Ann, wai ing for her soveieign's lady to 
 come hoPie. Something of the Hdelity of a 
 dog, of the wistfulness of a dog's eyes looks 
 out at hers, as she stands, with her face 
 ever expectantly turned one way ; and all 
 the loyalty, all the love withiuc question 
 and without stint, of a dog ih there. 
 
 ' I wish she would coir.e ' she keeps 
 whifpering to he^^elf. ' Mi?s Valentine 
 will jaw, and Sir Vane he'll sctiwl blacker'n 
 midnight, and that there dratted Miss 
 iiouti', she'll sneer and say, 'Bogged again ? 
 Ah, I thought so ! ' and laugh that nasty, 
 aggravatin' little laugh o' hern. An' 
 gcoldiu', an' scowlin', an' sneeriu' is what 
 my precious pet never was u:?ed to before 
 she went and throwed heiself away — worse 
 luck I — on sich as him.' 
 
 Again she glances back apprehensively 
 over her shoulder. Miss V;jlentine has an 
 uncomfortable way of pouncing upon her 
 victims at short range, at inopportune mo- 
 ments, and in the most unlikely places. 
 Jemima Ann would not t>e surprised to see 
 her glide, ghcst-like, out from among the 
 copper beeches down there, all g'im and 
 wraihful, and primed with rating to the 
 muzzle. An austere viruin is Mistress 
 Dorothy Valentine, even %«ith her lamp 
 ' well trimmed and burning,' and the house 
 hold here at the Ma^or is luled with a ves- 
 tal rod of iron. 
 
122 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 A stable clock, hiah up in a breezy turret 
 among the trepf, strikes nine. But it is not 
 dark, a misty twilight, through which the 
 moon, like a silver ship, sails, vails the 
 green world. Jemima Ann, however, hears, 
 and anxiety turns to agony. 
 
 * I wish — I wish she wouH come,' she 
 cries out, in such vt^hemence of desire, that 
 the wish senms to bring about its own ful- 
 fillment. A^ar off, coniea the rapid tread 
 of horses' hoofs down the high road, and in 
 a moment, dashing up the bridle path, the 
 horse and rider she looks for comes. She 
 ha4 juHt time to dart back, when both horse 
 and rider fly over the low gate, then with a 
 laugh the big black horse is pulled down 
 on his hind legs, there is a flourish in spat^e 
 of two iron front hoofs, then the rider, still 
 laughing, leans over to where, under the 
 trees, Jemima Ann has sought sanctuary. 
 
 ' It is you, Jemima Ann,' she says. 
 
 'Me, Miss Suowball,' answers a panting 
 voice, 'it's me. I thought you'd never 
 come. I wish you would not jump over 
 gates, Mihfc S lowbill. You'll kill yourself 
 yet. I declare, it gives me such a turn 
 every time you do it ' 
 
 The young lady laughs again, springs 
 lightly down, and with the bridle over her 
 arm, gathers up her long riding-habit with 
 the other hand. 
 
 ' Bogged as usual you see, Jemima,' she 
 says, ruefully, ' and in her black looks as 
 uiual, if I am caught. I won't be caught. 
 I'll steal up the back way, and into your 
 sanctum, vou dear old solemn Jemima, and 
 you shall fetch me down an evening dress 
 and T will prepare damages, and no one will 
 be the wise*". Hive you been waiting Ions; ?' 
 
 ' Nearly an hour, Miss Snowball. It's 
 just gfUrt nine.' 
 
 ' Is it ? You see I carry no watch, and — ' 
 glancing up with a quick look of aversion at 
 the house. ' I am never in a harry to come 
 back. Have I been mi«iaed ?' carelessly, 
 
 ' Yhs, nuHs. Mias Valentine asked me 
 where you wa<», and looked cross. ' 
 
 • It is MissV ilentiae's metier to look cross, 
 my Jemima. Aay one else ?' 
 
 ' Well,' reluctantly, * Sir Vane-^ ' 
 
 ' Yes. Sir Vane go on.* 
 
 ' He kind o' cussed like, bets^eea his 
 teeth sorter, when heerd you'd gone with- 
 out the groom. He said folks hereabouts 
 would think he'd up and married a wild 
 Injun — always a-galiopin' break-neck over 
 the country, without so much as a servant. 
 He said,' hesititingly, ' he'a put a stop to 
 sich goiti's 00, or know the reason why.' 
 
 ' Ah !' slowly, ' did he say all this to 
 you ?' 
 
 ' Kind o' to me— kind o' to himself. But 
 
 I nllowed he wanted me to hear it, and tell 
 •jou.' 
 
 • Which you are f«i»hfully doing,' says 
 Sir Vane's wife, witn a laueh that has rather 
 a bitter ring. ' And Miss Dorothy — was she 
 drinking in all this eloquence ?' 
 
 • She was ther«. Yes, Miss Snowball.' 
 
 ' And Miss Routh ? — the family circle 
 would not be complete without the lovely 
 Camilla.' 
 
 'Miss Camilla was in the drawing-room. 
 She has company — the kiinal. Don't you 
 see all the front windows lit — snd hark to 
 the sinfjing — that's her at the pianner. I 
 guess that was why Sir Vane was put out at 
 your being «»,way — thekirnal came promiscua 
 with some other officers, and it made him 
 mad 'cause you wan't iu to dinner. Tne 
 gentlemen is iu the dining-room yet, drink* 
 ing wine.' 
 
 • Officers— Miss Routh's friends — odd that 
 Sir Vane should invite them to dinner. How 
 many are there, Jemima ?' 
 
 • Three. I heard Miss Routh oall one of 
 them • my lord.' If you dress in my room, 
 Miss Snowball, what shall I bring you 
 down ?' 
 
 • I don't care a pin, .Temima — it does not 
 matter. With the beauteous Camilla 
 to look at, my most ravishing toilet 
 would be but love's labour lost. 
 Bring down anything you chance to light 
 on — the dress I wore yesterday, for instance. 
 But tirst, as I have missed my dinner, it 
 seemM, and am hungry, you shall .bring me 
 some coffje and chicken, or pate, or anything 
 g'>od you can get — there is no use iu facing 
 misfortune starving. Lock your door, and 
 admit no one for the next three quarterb of 
 an hour, though the whole Valentine family 
 should besiege it in force.' 
 
 Stie take? a side entrance, runs lightly up 
 a stair, along a dimlylit passage^, and into 
 the small sitting room reserved fir the use 
 of my lady's maid. For the use ot my lady 
 herself, often enough it is her harbour of re- 
 fuge in troubled times, the only room among 
 the many the big house contains, in whicb 
 she feels even remotely ' at home.' In the 
 long and frequent hours of heart-sickness, 
 home-sickness, disappointment, sharply 
 wounded pride, bitter regret, she comes here, 
 and with aU the world shut jut, bears the 
 bitterness of her terrible mistake, her 'love- 
 less marriage, in silence and alone. 
 
 It is but a small room, cozy and carpeted, 
 and there are books, and flowers and 
 pictures, and needle- work, and the few 
 rebos of the old life, Dolores, Lady Valentine 
 has brought with her from Rome, It is all 
 the cosier now, for the wood lire that bnrns 
 and sparkles cheer ly, and the little rocking* 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 128 
 
 :, and tell 
 
 oing,' says 
 has rathf r 
 y— was she 
 
 >wball.' 
 ly circle 
 bhe lovely 
 
 ring-room. 
 Don't you 
 id hark to 
 ianner. I 
 put oat at 
 promiscus 
 made him 
 ner. Toe 
 et, drink- 
 
 —odd that 
 luer. How 
 
 >all one of 
 my room, 
 bring you 
 
 ; doea not 
 Camilla 
 ng toilet 
 lur lost, 
 e to light 
 r instance, 
 dinner, ic 
 .bring me 
 ' anything 
 iu facing 
 door, and 
 [larterb of 
 ine family 
 
 lightly up 
 
 and into 
 
 >r the use 
 
 my lady 
 
 oar of re- 
 
 m among 
 
 in whicu 
 
 la the 
 
 •sickne^a, 
 
 sharply 
 
 mes here, 
 
 ears the 
 
 ber 'love- 
 
 sarpeted, 
 'ers and 
 the few 
 tTalentiue 
 
 It is all 
 ht burns 
 
 rocking* 
 
 chair that sways invitingly before it. Mias 
 Dorothy has uplifted voice, and hands, and 
 eyes in protest against "so luxurious a chamber 
 being tjiven to a waiting- maid, but though 
 Mias D.jrothy is the sapreme power behind 
 the throne, and mistress of the Manor, Sir 
 Vane's young wife has shown that she can 
 assert herself when she chooses. 
 
 ' Jemima Ann is my friend. You under- 
 stand. Miss Valentine ? Something more 
 than my maid. Her sitting-room -mine 
 when Ifeel like it as well — is to be pretty.' 
 
 And pretty it is. A% a rule. Lady Valen- 
 tine lets thin^ra go ; it is not worth while, 
 she says, wearily, life will not be worth the 
 living, if it is to be lived in a perpetual 
 wrangle. Let Miss Dorothy do as she 
 pleases. When one has made direct ship- 
 wreck of oue's life, it is hardly worth the. 
 trouble of quareliog over the flotsam and 
 jetsam. Aud Misa Dorothy does aa sbe 
 pleases v.'ith a very hiuh hand. And so it 
 comes that Sir Vane's bride flies Here as to 
 the ' shadow of a great rock in a weary land' 
 oftener and more often, or mounts her black 
 horse and flies over the hills and far away, 
 out of reach of Miss Dorothy's rasping 
 tou63. 
 
 Safe in this harboiir of refut,e, Jemima 
 Ann leaves her mistress, locking the door 
 after her according to orders, and goes for 
 the coffee and accompaniments. Dolores 
 stands by the flre, holding her riding-whip 
 m her hand, her long, muddled habit trail- 
 ing behind her, her eyes on the flre. She 
 has thrown off her hat, and the flre bhine 
 falls upon her, standing quite still, and very 
 thoughtful here. Look at her. 
 
 It is seven months since her wedding-day 
 — as many years inis{ht have passed and not 
 wrought so striking a change in her. She 
 looks taller than uf old, and it seems even 
 more slender, but that may be due to the 
 long, tightly fitting habit. Her face is cer- 
 tainly thinner, with an expression of dignity 
 and gravity thatit never used to wear. All the 
 old sparkling, child like brightness is gone, 
 or flashes out so rarely as to render its absence 
 most conspicuous. A look, not quite of 
 either hardness or defiance, and yet akin to 
 both, sets her mouth — the look of one whom 
 those about ber force tc hold her own, the 
 look of one habitually misunderstood. All 
 the bounteous chevelure doree that of old 
 fell free, is twisted in shining coila tightly 
 around the small deer-like head* The gold- 
 en locks, like the fair one who wears them, 
 have lost their sunny freedom forever. She 
 has tasted of theffuitof the tree of know 
 ledge, and found it bitter. The old sparkle, 
 the old joyous life of love, and trust in all 
 things aud creatures, is at an end forever. 
 
 Snowball Trillon— Dolores Macdonald — have 
 gone never to return, and left in place this 
 rather proud-looking, this reserved and 8<>lf« 
 poised Lady Valentine. The fair head holds 
 itself well up — defiantly a stranger might 
 think ; the blue eyes are watchful as of one 
 ever on guard. But pride and defiance 
 alike drop from her as she stands here alone, 
 a great fixed sadness only remains. The 
 blue eyes that gaze at the leaping light are 
 strangely mournful, the sensitive lips lose 
 their haughty curve and droop. She has 
 made a great, a bitter, an irreparable mis- 
 take. She has bound herself for life to a 
 tyrant, a harsh, loveless household despot, 
 a man whose heart— such as it is — is now, 
 and ever has been, in the keeping of Camilla 
 Kouth. She has made her taorifiee. and 
 made it in vain, jthat a man, mercenary 
 and money- loving, might have the Valen- 
 tine fortune. She has thought to learn to 
 love him, she haa thought that he loved her 
 — she knows that love never haa, and never 
 will, enter into the unnatural connpact. She 
 has made, as many women before ter have 
 made, a fatal mi8V\ke ; she has done i\ wrong 
 in marrying Sir Yane Valentine that her 
 whole life-long cau never undo. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 ' FULL COLD MY GRBETTNO WA9, AND DRY.' 
 
 Standing here, waiting for Jemima Ann, 
 her thoughts go back— back over these last 
 seven months that have wrought so gr^at a 
 change in her, that she sits and wonders 
 sometimes if ' I. be L' Those months rise up 
 before her, a series of dissolving views in the 
 flre, the slow, first arwakening to the fact 
 that f>he has made a life-long mistake, that 
 Sir Vane has married her fortune, that ia 
 hi^ secret heart his feeling for her is more 
 akin to hate than love. Two months of 
 marriage sufficed to (how her this much; 
 slowly but surely it has come home to her, 
 through no one particular word or act, but 
 simply from the fact that truth, like mur- 
 der, will out. The innate brutality of the 
 man has shown itself in spite of him, 
 through the thin outer veener of good 
 manners, from the very beginning. The 
 fijst overt act was upon the news of the 
 death of Madam Valentine in R<>me. Stun- 
 ned by the suddenness of that tragic death, 
 wild with all regret, Dolores' first impulse 
 was to fly back at once— at once. But Sir 
 Vane, quite composedly, quite authori- 
 tatively, put the impulse,ana the hysterics 
 aside. 
 
 'Nonsense, Lady Valentine,' he says, 
 oooUy, 'she is buried by this time, or is oer- 
 
124 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 taia to bn before you can i^et there. If your 
 friead, Maudonald, the Marble carver, ouuld 
 not have aeot you word ia time to see her 
 living, he need not have aent you word at 
 all. Aud ahe was a very old woman 
 — it was quite to be expected, even without 
 the intervention of the railw^ay. You did 
 not suppose ahe would live forever, did you? 
 Taou^h gad,' Sir Vane addii. sotto voce, 'it 
 is the oouoluaion I had about oome to mv- 
 self.' 
 
 There are tears, a very storm of wil I veep- 
 int;, prayers, supplications — an ajifODy of 
 grief. ' Oi, (^raadmamma, grandmamma!' 
 the poor ohiM sobs— a sense of utter desola- 
 tion remlint; her heart. It in a vehement 
 scene, aad Sir Vaue is extremely bored. He 
 bears it for awhile in silence, then the temper 
 that is iri the m%n asserts itself suddenly. 
 * Enousjh of this,' he says ; ' Don't be a b»by 
 or a foul D>)Iores. Madam Valentine is deid, 
 and you are her heiress. Wuat is yours is 
 mine, and I have waited for ic for twenty 
 years. Cue m%y buy even gold too dear — 
 I sometimes think I have had to do it. It is 
 mine at last, and it is a noble inheritance, 
 aud I am not disposed to grieve, or let you 
 grieve too deeply over this accident that has 
 taken her otf. It was quite time she went 
 Waen people get into a habit of drags;ing out 
 life over sixty, they seldom know where to 
 stop. ^ Dry your eyes, Lady Valentine; 
 there ia th;e dinnei-bell. We are to dine at 
 the tatde d'hote, it is less expensive, I find, 
 than dining in one's own apartments, and a 
 great deal less dull.' 
 
 That is how the death is received. Indig- 
 nant fire dti»n the tears in Lady Valentine's 
 blue eyes. Sieshrluks in a sort of hjrror 
 from the man she has married, the man who 
 hai! spoken those brutal words. From 
 thenceforth her tears flow in secret, they 
 trouble Str Vane no more. But from thence- 
 forth, too, a strong repulsion she has never 
 felt for him before, tills her, makes her 
 shrink from his sight, his touch, with a sen- 
 sation that is little short of loathing. 
 
 Her Bucond repul«e is on the subject of her 
 mouroinjr. Lady Valentine naturally wishes 
 to order it at once ; it seems to her she can 
 find no black black enough to express the 
 loneliness, the sorrow, that fills her at the 
 loss of her best friend, who loved her so well. 
 Here, too, martial authority steps in. 
 
 ' I hate blitck ! ' Sir Vane says, petulantly; 
 " I abhor it. Crape and bombazine, and 
 all the other ugly trappings of woe and 
 death. I'll have none of them ! I object 
 to mourning garments — on — conviction. I 
 oonidar it wrong, and — er — dying in the 
 faoa of Providence, who — er— >mu8t know 
 best about this sort of thing, of course 
 
 — when to remove people, and all that. It 
 would give U4 the horrors to go about with a 
 ladv looking like an ebony image, a perpetu- 
 al mementi mori. You shall not do it, Lady 
 Valentine : it is of no use tiring uo, or look- 
 ing at me like that. I am not easily annihil- 
 ate<l by flashing glances, and I mean to be 
 obeyed in thfs and all things. And if people 
 make remarks I'll explain. And a raouruiag 
 outfit,' thin added inwardly, 'costs a pot of 
 money, so Camilla writes me.' 
 
 The decree is npoken fri)m which there may 
 be no appeal. D dores does appeal, pasaion- 
 ataly, vehemently, anij;rily it is to be feared 
 — it cannot be that Sir Vane means the^e 
 merciless words. H<a doei mean them. Aa 
 veinly ap waves dash themselves against a 
 rock, she heats her -undisciplined heart 
 against the dogged obstinacy of this man. 
 
 ' I never change my mind. Lady Vileu- 
 tine,' he says, grimly, ' when once 1 am con- 
 vinced I am right, I am convinced here. 
 Aad tears «od reproaches are utterly wasted 
 upon me — you had better learn that in time. 
 Lei ns have no more of these ridiculous, 
 under-bred scenes — these hysteric^, and ex- 
 clamations, and reddened eyes. It is all ex- 
 ceedinsjly bad form, and coarse and repulsive 
 to a di-tgusting degree. You shall not return 
 to Rime, you shall not put on black. If you 
 force me to use my authority in this way, you 
 must take the consequences. Be aa good as 
 *o dry your eyes, aud let all this end.' 
 
 And Dolores obeys — fiery wrath dries up 
 the tears in the blue tyes, and in her passion- 
 ate heart at that moment, she feels that she 
 abhors the man she has married. The feeling 
 does not last, it is true ; Dolores is nos a 
 good hater— rit is a loving little soul, a ten- 
 der, child like, confiding heart, that must 
 of its nature cling to something, that would 
 cling if it could to the man who is her 
 husband. Duty points that way, aad Do- 
 lores has very strong instincts conuoruing 
 duty, but try as she will, she cannot. Oa 
 every point she is repulsed. He wanta none 
 of her confidence, more of her wifely duty. 
 He has married her because otherwise a for- 
 tune would have shipped his.grasp ; ne has 
 been compelled to marry her, and he hates 
 everything by which he is compelled. ' She 
 cared for that other fellow — the marble 
 carver in Rome,' so run his thoughts, cju- 
 temptuously, aud he is base enough to set 
 that down as the mainspring of her desire 
 to go back. Without oariug for her him- 
 self, one jot, he is yet wrathful thtt it 
 should be so. She married him to please 
 her g''audmother, against every girlish in- 
 clination of her own ; he will make her 
 feel that to his dying day. He bears her a 
 bitter grudge ; she came between him aud 
 
 the 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 125 
 
 [I that. It 
 jout with a 
 a per pet a- 
 io ic, Luly 
 ID, or look* 
 ily annihtl. 
 Tiean to be 
 id if people 
 i moiiruiag 
 ats a pot of 
 
 1 there may 
 kl, passioQ- 
 
 be feared 
 leaus the^e 
 them. As 
 ) against a 
 aed heart 
 is man. 
 
 ly Vdlea- 
 
 1 I am coa- 
 Qced here, 
 rly wasted 
 at ia time, 
 ridiculous, 
 M, and ex- 
 it ia all cx- 
 l repuUive 
 nut return 
 k. If you 
 * way, you 
 M good as 
 ad.' 
 
 1 dries up 
 )r passion. 
 8 that she 
 'he feeling 
 !S is DOS a 
 lul, a ten- 
 that must 
 hat would 
 'ho ia her 
 , a ad Do- 
 oncoming 
 nnot. Oa 
 ants none 
 fely duty, 
 ^ise a for- 
 ) ; ne has 
 I he hates 
 •d. • She 
 marble 
 [hts, cou- 
 gh to set 
 Ler desire 
 ler him- 
 il th«t it 
 to please 
 irlish in- 
 take her 
 rs her a 
 him and 
 
 the fortune for which he had served for a 
 weary score of year? — kt her look to it in the 
 days to come ; let her not hope that he will 
 ever forget, or » pare, or ^ield, or foigive ! 
 
 And so alone, forced ruthleasly to wake 
 
 to the bitt#»r truth, Dolores has had the fact 
 
 that her lit*, is spoiled, Irought heme to her 
 
 •well, before t? e first two months cf her 
 
 'honey moon ' are over. Alone 1 A dieary, 
 
 a depaiiing sense that she will be, must be 
 alone for the rest of her life, tille her at 
 times with a blank sense of horror and fear. 
 Alone I with Sir Vane Valentine, till death 
 shall tktm part. Alone I A strarger in a 
 strange land, at intruder in her bubbaud's 
 house, a home without love, without ooe 
 friend. A panic of terror seizes her when 
 she thinks of it, a fear 'hat is like the 
 tear of a child Uft alone in the daik. She 
 clings to Jemima Ann, at such times, with 
 a passionate clinging that gets neur to break 
 ing that faithful creature's heart. 
 
 *Do not leave me, Jemima,' she cries 
 out, ' promise me you will not, promise 
 me you will not stay with me as Jong as 
 I live. I have no one, no one, no one left 
 but you.' And Jtmimn fondles, and s( othes, 
 and promitrs as she might a veritable 
 frightt^ned child. She sees, and understandp, 
 and resents it all, but she is eppecially care- 
 ful not to let this resentment appear. Sir 
 Vane eyes her, has e>t<i her from the fiist, 
 with sour disfavour, mingled with contempt ; 
 he has striven to dissuade his wife from 
 taking with her so outre a maid. Her 
 honest heart aches for her pretty young mis- 
 tress, who grows paler, and thinner, ard 
 sadder, and more silent day by clay, who 
 never comfilains, and v«ho clings to her as 
 the drowuing cliiig to the last straw. It is 
 her last stiaw, her last bold upon love ; 
 everyone elf e setms to have slipped foiever 
 out of her life. She stnnds alone .in the 
 world, at the mercy of Vane Valentine. 
 
 All tlie»'e montlis of poht-nuptial wander- 
 ing, Sir Vane keeps up a voluniinous cones- 
 pondenre with the ladies of Manor Valen- 
 tine. Lengthy epistles from his sister and 
 cousin come to him with each post. His 
 wife, of course, reada none of theie, she has 
 DO desire to read them. His ncmankiiid 
 mutt of necessity be like hinuelf. She looks 
 forward with unspeakable dreaf^ to the re- 
 turn to the house that is to be her home. 
 The present is bad enough ; \ ith a *ure pre- 
 science she feels that any change — that most 
 of all — will be lor the wone. Now, at Itait, 
 there is the excitement of new scenes, new 
 faces, kindly stranger voices, there a mono- 
 • toiy worse than death Mill set in. There, 
 there will be three to find fauU with her in- 
 stead of only one. For Sir Vane seems to 
 
 take a rancorous, Vfrnonish pleasure in girn- 
 ine at his yoni'g bride. If she is silent, she 
 is iulleu ; if she lai^ghs aloud, as ficni pure 
 ]^outh she sometimes dees, she is a hoiden ; 
 if ibhe talks to Jemima, she is addicted to low 
 and vulgar tastes. In all things l.er man- 
 ners lack reposiB, end are childii^h and t,auche 
 to a degree ; altogether unfitting the oignity 
 of that stat'on in life to which it has pleastd 
 Providence to elevate her. 
 
 What wonder that she looks onward in 
 blat>k ('i8iii<iy and afi'iight to the dumal 
 home-going to Valentine Manor. With ejes 
 of pasbionate longing and envy she looks at 
 the peasant girls in the strteta ; at the 
 grissettes, wLo go to their daily work , at 
 the wandering gu^y Viomen, vith their 
 brown babies at their backs. Oh, to be one 
 of them — to be anything free, and happy, 
 and beloved egain. She looks back in a very 
 patsion of lunging to the liie of long 
 ago — the life of Jsle Perdrix, with her 
 bojs, and her boat, and her hosts of 
 friends, and the gentle old doctor — to 
 that other later hie, with grand mamma 
 — grandnicnima indulgent and best beloved 
 — and even ^ir Vane — a very different Sir 
 Vane from this — the suave, guaioed, defer- 
 ential suitor. A strange, mourtful, ii credu- 
 I 1« us wonder fills her, \\aB thai mau and 
 this the same? And Keue— but she 8t> ps 
 here; that way madness lies. She covers 
 her face, and sobs rend their way up from 
 her heart ; tears, that might be of blood, 
 they so sear, and blister, and burn, and fall. 
 Rene I Rene I Rene I 
 
 *I have lived and loved, but that was to-day ; 
 Go bring me my gruve-clolheb tuuicriow.' 
 
 Her heart breaks over FJeckla's sad song. 
 Life seems to have come to an end. It came 
 to an end for her on the day it begins for 
 other g'rlf— her wedding-day. 
 . And DOW the revolving lights in the fire 
 change ; another series of pictures rise. It 
 is a rainy March afternoon, and the exprecs 
 is thundering along the iron road to the sta- 
 tion where the carriage from Valeutia is to 
 meet them with the sibter and cousin so much 
 dreaded. Sir Vate hus teJegrsph»'d to Lon- 
 don. He 18 in a fever of ueivous, lestiess 
 impatience ; his sallow cheeks wear a fiuth ; 
 his l)lack ej es glitter ; his clean hngeis twist 
 his mousttiche. He can only coubtrain him- 
 self to sit still by an effort , he cannot read 
 his 'Times;' he keeps putting up and let- 
 ing down the window, until pother people 
 in the compartment look at him in exaspeiat- 
 ed amaze. Lady Valentine sits back in a 
 corner, and a moie utter contrast to his re«t- 
 less figitivenees it would be difficult to 
 find. 
 ^ She ia very pale, she is cold, the March 
 
lie 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ID 
 
 rain, 
 •not 
 
 breeze blowing in through the window Sir 
 Vane opens at intervaU ohill her throush, in 
 ■pite of her fura — a silent great dread loaks 
 out of her eyea. 8he sits quite silent, quite 
 motionless, quite white. The wind gotta by 
 with a shriek, like a banshee's, she thinks, 
 with a ahiver, the rain falls in long, slanting 
 lines. It ia all in keeping with her heart — 
 this dark and weeping day — her heart that 
 lies like lead in her breast. This is to be all 
 of life for her, coldness, darkness, storm, and 
 — Sir Vane Valentine 1 ' 
 
 They rush into the station. Her hour is 
 come 1 
 
 ' Is the carriage from Valentine waiting ? ' 
 Sir Vane deniauds, authoritatively, and tue 
 reply is crushing. 
 
 'ko, there ain't no carriage from V^a?en- 
 
 tine. ' 
 
 Nothing is waiting but one forlorn, deject- 
 ed, bedraggled railway fly. 
 
 The barunet is furious, but the fact re- 
 mains. His telegram has been unheeded, no 
 carriage is in waiting, the lord of the 
 land and his bride must perforce go 
 the stuflfy fly, or walk through the 
 Sir Vaue swears — anathemas 
 loud but deep ' — it is another of the 
 objectionable things he never used to do, or 
 if lie did, ' it must have been in his inside,' 
 as Jemima Ann puts it. Dolores shrinks 
 within herself, more and more repelled. 
 There is no help for it, the fly it must be ; 
 he helps her in, follows, and so through 
 mire and rain, in silence and gloom Sir Vaue 
 and Lady Valentine ignominiously return to 
 the halls of their ancestors. 
 
 Within those halls it is worse. No one 
 awaits them — no one expects them. No 
 train of retainers is drawn up in the en- 
 trance-ball to bid their lord welcome, no 
 fires blaze, no smiling sister or cousia re- 
 ceives them with open arms. Black fire- 
 places, cold rooms, surprised faces of servant -i 
 
 alone meet them. What the does it 
 
 mean ? Where is Miss Valentine ? Where 
 ia Miss Routh ? Where is his telegram ? 
 Sir Vane is savage beyond all precedent. 
 
 Then it appears that the telegram is lying 
 on Mi83 Valentine's taMe, still unopened, 
 and Mias Valentine and Miss Routh went up 
 to town yesterday, and are not expected 
 back until to-morrow. Direst wrath fills 
 Sir Van^, but it is wrath expended on empty 
 air. The servants fly to do his bidding, 
 fires are lit, dinner is laid, my lady is shown 
 to her room — a very pallid, and spiritless, 
 and fagged my lady. 
 
 Tne servants look at her furtively and are 
 d's^ppoiuted. Tuey have been toli that 
 master married a great beauty and heiress — 
 she looks neither in the wet dreariness of 
 
 this dismal home-coming. Left alone, she 
 sinks down in the nearest chair, lays her 
 arms on the table, droops her aching head 
 upon them and so lies — too utterly wretched 
 even for a relief of tears. 
 
 Next day the ladies of the Manor return, 
 full of dismay and regret at the contretemps. 
 Sir Vane is bitter and unreasonable at first, 
 but these being the only true creatures on 
 earth he cares for, he allows himself to be 
 softened gradually, and forgives them hand* 
 Bomely. 
 
 A prolonged family colloquy ensued, 
 Dolores takes no part in it, but from a dis* 
 tance she has seen the meetins — seen Miss 
 Valentine kiaa her brother primly on the 
 forehead, seen Miss Routh ofTer first one 
 cheek, ti^en the other, seen her husband 
 stand with both her hands clasped in his, a 
 look in hid dark face that is altogether new 
 in his wife's experience of him. She dreads 
 the ordeal of meeting these two women, and 
 wishes it over — it is something that must be, 
 ■but it is an ordeal that sets her teeth on 
 edge. 
 
 She dresses for dinner in one of the pretty 
 trousseau dresses, that she has grown to 
 hatei since she never puts them on without 
 feeling it should be black instead, and goes 
 dowq stairs. It is a cool but fine March 
 afternoon, and meeting no one, she gathers 
 up her train, and descends to a terrace that 
 commands a wide* view of the country road 
 and the village beyond, and paces to and 
 fro, mustering courage for the coming ordeal. 
 The ordeal comes to her in tha person of 
 Miss Dorothy Valentine, in sad coloured silk 
 not a confection of Madam Elise — Miss 
 Dorothy Valentine, as grim as a grenadier 
 and as tall. She is as upright as a ramrod, 
 and nearly as slim — she is a duplicate of Sir 
 Vane, in slate coloured silk, and false front. 
 She is lean like Sir Vane, she ia yellow like 
 Sir Vane, with a moustache that the very 
 highest breeding cannot quite overlook, she 
 has small black eyes like Sir Vane, she has 
 a rasping bass voice, and a rigid austerity of 
 manner, and she has — at first glance— some 
 seven and fifty years. On her false front of 
 bobbing black ringlets, she wears an arrange- 
 ment of lace and red roses. And she holds 
 out ti^o bony fingers in sisterly greeting to 
 her brother's brit'e. 
 
 ' How do you do. Lady Valentine I' is 
 what she says. 
 
 The black eyes go through the shrinking 
 figure before her — they read every quivering, 
 nervous, tremulous throb of her childish 
 heart. ' You are nothing but a baby,' that 
 stem, black gUnce seems to say. ' You 
 will need a great deal of bringing up, and 
 keeping down, and training in the way you 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 127 
 
 alone, she 
 r, lays her 
 aching head 
 ly wretched 
 
 mor return, 
 ontretemps. 
 ible at first, 
 ireaturea on 
 maelf to be 
 them hand* 
 
 uy ensued, 
 from a dis* 
 — seen Miss 
 iraly on the 
 9r first one 
 it husband 
 ted in his, a 
 jtether new 
 Sbe dreads 
 womev, and 
 at must be, 
 icr teeth on 
 
 f the pretty 
 as grown to 
 on without 
 i, and goes 
 tine March 
 she gathers 
 lerrace that 
 intry road 
 kces to and 
 ling ordeal. 
 
 person of 
 iloured silk 
 Clise — Miss 
 
 > grenadier 
 
 a ramrod, 
 icate of Sir 
 
 alse front, 
 yrellow like 
 the very 
 eilook, she 
 te, she has 
 .usterity of 
 nee— some 
 se front of 
 n arrange- 
 
 she holds 
 ;reeting to 
 
 ntine I' is 
 
 shrinking 
 q[uivering, 
 ir childish 
 aby,' that 
 y. ' You 
 g up, aad 
 way you 
 
 should go, before you ara fit for your position 
 as my brother's wife. You are a upoilei 
 baby — a foolish, frivo.'ous, flighty youug 
 thing ; it shall be my bjsiuess lu uhatige all 
 that.' 
 
 The black, grim eyes say all this, and a 
 chill of despair creeps over the victim. Sbe 
 fuels crushed, as tbe captive of the iron 
 shruud may have felt, watching with hope- 
 less eyes ihe deadly walls of hia prison clos- 
 ing, ever closing down on his devoted head. 
 
 ' Shall we go into diuuer ?' ia Miss Valen- 
 tine's second austere remark; ' that ia the 
 last b6ll. We are always puuctual, moat 
 punctual at meals in this house. Ic is one 
 of my rules, and my brother approves.' 
 
 * And do you presume to be late at your 
 peril, young woman,' add the black, suap- 
 pint{ »yes. In silence Dolores turns to follow. 
 What IS there to say to this terrific chanta- 
 laine? She feels she will never be able to 
 talk up CO her awful level as long as she 
 lives. 
 
 • We are very sorry — Camilla Routh and 
 myself — at our misfortune iu being absent 
 yesterday when the telegram arrived, it 
 was our duty to be here, and welcome home 
 my brother and his wife. My brother, with 
 his customary goodness, ha^ consented to 
 overlook it. I trust, Lady Valentine, you do 
 likewise. ' 
 
 Lady Valentine bows. She would like to 
 grasp out something — something conciliatory 
 — but the command of language seems to 
 have been frozen at its source. If she lives 
 for a hundred years, she thinks desperately, 
 she will never be able to talk to this terrible 
 Miss Dorothy Valentine. 
 
 A gay voice is siuging blithely a merry 
 
 lilting Scotch song, as they go in. They are 
 
 in time only to catch the refrain : 
 
 • Then hey for a lass •wi' a tocher, 
 Tne bright yellow guineas for me 1' 
 
 Sir Vane is standing beside the piano, a 
 smile on his face, as he looks down at the 
 gay simmer. She is looking up at him — mis- 
 chief, malice, coquetry in lier uplifted eyes. 
 Sne rises as the two ladies enter, and comes 
 forward — a small person in pale pink silk, 
 with a most elaborate train, and a all 1 more 
 elaborate structure of chestnut putt's and 
 ringlets on her head — a small, rather plump 
 young lady — that is to say, as young as some- 
 thing over thirty years will permit — with a 
 pink and white complexion, and the very 
 palest blue eyes that ever looked out of a 
 blonde woman's face. 
 
 * My cousin Vane's wife,' she exclaims 
 artlessly, and holds out the small, very 
 ringed hands, ' so very happy I am sure !' 
 
 Tae pink lips touch, the slightest touch, 
 the pale cheek of cousin Vane's wife ; the 
 
 light, small eyes take in one comprehensive 
 fliah cousin Vane's wife fioin head to foot. 
 Then Sir Vane comes forward and ufTurs her 
 his arm, and they all go iu to diuuer. 
 
 It i) dinner in little but name and form to 
 the bride. She sits iu almost total silence 
 seldom addressed ; the talk of the other 
 three is of place and people unknown to 
 her. There is a good deal of laughter and 
 badinage on the part of Miss Routh, who is 
 fairy-like and kittenish, as it ia in the nature 
 of some young things of thirty odd to be, 
 and Mi»s Dorothy ballasts her with a solid 
 and unsmiling observation, now and then. 
 All through the long evening it is the same'. 
 Miss Valentine retires to a corner and a 
 table and adds up accounts nitli a pair of 
 spectacles over the black eyes, that glitter 
 accross the room in an quite awful way. 
 Miss Routh, who, it appears, is extremelv 
 musical, adorns the piauo-stool, and soothe'a 
 them with silvery sounds. Sir Vane en- 
 thrones himself in an easy- chair near by, and 
 ^iatens, and reads that day's Times at' inter- 
 vals. Dolores shrinks away into a seai, m 
 remote from them all as possible, in the 
 deep embrasure of a window, and looks out 
 with eyes that are blind with teais. Sue 
 is lonely, homesick, heartsick — she is far 
 away kneeling beside a new-made grave in 
 Rome. Oh, dearest grandmamma, friend 
 of friends — generous heart that poured out 
 love upon her lavishly, and without 
 stint ! 
 
 It is a dark, moonless nisiht ; outside the 
 window there is little to be seen, but a 
 patch of cloudy sky, and tall trees rocking 
 to and fro, iu a rising gale, like black 
 phantoms. Miss Routh's singing, more 
 shrill than sweet, if truth must be told, 
 pierces drearily through her sad dream, 
 
 • Old loves, new loves, what are they worth 1 
 
 Only a soug I Tra-la la-la 1 
 Old lov e dies at new love'et birth, 
 
 Give him a song. T a-la-la-lu I 
 New love lasts for a night aud a day. 
 
 Cares not for tears, 
 Mocks ai all fears, 
 
 Flies laughiuK away ! 
 Then what is love worth 
 
 At death or at birth ? 
 Only a soug. Ira-la-la-lall' 
 
 Tb<^ song is a 
 that — perhaps it 
 
 cannot be 
 sighing of 
 
 foolish one — it 
 
 is the desolate 
 the night wind, but a hyBterical" feeling 
 rises and throbs in the girl's throat. Her 
 heart is full- full to ovei flowing of loneli- 
 ness, and heart-break, and p. in. She bears 
 it— as long as ahe can — then with a hysteiic- 
 al feeling in her throat, she gets up, passes 
 fwiftly from the room, and runs down to 
 J.mima Auu'u sanctum. Ther alone, Jemi- 
 
128 
 
 L03T FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 ma Ann sits, pUoirlly sewing by the Ii|;ht of 
 her limp, and there her youthful niistreos 
 flings hertielf down on her knees beside her, 
 in all the biavery of her silk dinner drens, 
 and bnriea her hoad in her lap, and oiies — 
 one* aH if her very heart were breaking. 
 
 'JHniinial Jemima I Jemima!' she ories 
 wiltlly out. And Jemima holds her fast, 
 and kisses the golden hair and murmnrs 
 broken words of fondness and caressing 
 between her own tears of sympathy. 
 
 ' There, there, there, my lamb, my pretty, 
 my sweet young lady, don"", don't cry like 
 that I know yru' e hon e!*i(k — and they're 
 all old, and hard, and not what you're used 
 to. And you're thinking of your grandma, 
 you ain't nothin' hut a uhild when all's said 
 and done, and he'b — oh ! my dear 1 my 
 dear 1 my dear I' 
 
 That IS Lady Valentine's coming home. 
 
 CHAPTER ir 
 
 'for all is DAKK where THOa ART* 
 NOT. ' 
 
 The last picture fades out of the red glow. 
 as Jemima's key again turns in the lock, and 
 ehe rf' enters from her foraging expediti(m. 
 Lady Valentine wakes from her dream vith 
 a sigh, that ends in a smile, as rhe Iooks at 
 the laden tray. Chicken, raised pie, toast, 
 tart, jelly, fruit, cream, ctffee — it ia a me- 
 lange, L>uc Jemima .'^nn knows her young 
 miatre'i.s had a headache at lancheon, and 
 ate nothing, and has indulged in a ride of 
 many hou>'S oince then. 
 
 'J he p' ulemun have gone np to the 
 drawing room,' she says, panting under h^r 
 load, 'and Mr. and Mrs. Eccleman, ard the 
 two Miss Eccleman's has come, and that 
 there youne Squire Brooghton.' 'Indeed' 
 responds my lady, lifting her eye brow, 
 •well— tliey say there is safety in num hers 
 — among so many. I will not be missed. 
 Besides, is not the charming Cimilla present 
 t"» do the honours. N<icher she nor| Sir 
 Vane really wants me — .ill the same, I am 
 certain of a reproof for my absence. I am 
 glad Mrs. Eccleman is there, good motherly 
 old Eoul. 1 can shelter myself and my fius 
 for an hour or two, under her broad mater- 
 nal wings.' 
 
 Srie »a>8 this to herself, as she partakes of 
 Jemima's spoil. Mr Eccleman Is the rector. 
 Mrs. Eecleman is everything that's true, ia 
 most plump, and genial, and matronly, and } 
 with hoth the rector ard his wife Sir Vane's ' 
 pretty, graceful, youthful, half foreign wife 
 IS a pet and a favourite. 
 
 ' And now to dress,' she says, cttingnp, 
 'and to face my fate. What a bore it ail 
 
 rathei 
 
 IS, in the house, 
 
 BO much of your 
 
 to free and friend* 
 
 Sir Vane don't 
 
 19, Jemima Ann. I would much 
 rpend the evening here alone with you 
 
 ' But it would not be right, Mihs Snow 
 ball. They talk as it ' 
 about you're spending 
 t me with me, and beiu' 
 ly like «ith vour maid, 
 like it, and Miss Valentine gives me black 
 looks whenever I meet her, and Misa 
 Kouth • 
 
 • That will do, Jemima ; we will leave 
 Miss Uouth'g name out. Button my dre-«i. 
 Mease, and keep out of Miss ll->uth's way. 
 She is not my keeper at least. Now fast* n 
 this Hpray of hone>f<uck1n in my hair» Huw 
 old and ugly it makes me l')ok, wearing my 
 hair twisted up in these tight coils. Miss 
 Dorothy irt.uld have a tit,I suppose, if I ever 
 let it loose as I used.' 
 
 •Ah ! very old and ngly !' absents Jemima 
 Ann, ^.autliug with folded hands, and lovMig 
 eye."*, and gazing at the fair, eirlish beauty 
 befoie her ; even Mibs Dorothy looks ynung 
 and lovely beside you. How can Sir Vane 
 have ejes for that simperiu' white cat up- 
 stairs,' she thinks, inwardly, * with that to 
 look at. And yet ' 
 
 But even to herself she is loth to put her 
 thought into words. Sir Vane's paitiality 
 for his cousin, his cold nfss lor his wife, are 
 patent to all the household. And Jemima 
 Ann is not the only one who wonders. For 
 they know Miss Bouth in that establishment 
 — and she is not a favorite. ' A green-eyed, 
 prying, tattling cat !' that is the universal 
 verdict below stairs. 'And what Sir Vane 
 wants either her, or 'totherold 'un, now that 
 he's pot a pretty wife, nobody knows.' 
 In their eyes she is neither useful nor orna* 
 mental ; my lady is the latter, at least, and 
 gentle and * haffable ' as she is pretty. But 
 Sir Vane is in love with Miss Routh, has 
 always been in love wilh her, and can 
 see neither beauty nor any other charm ia 
 his wife, now that she is his wife. 
 
 How is it under cur control 
 To love or not to love ?' 
 
 he might have demanded with the poet. 
 
 For Miss Routh -well, she is in love with 
 the excellent menage and menee of anor 
 Valentine, with the allowance Sir Vane makes 
 her, with her pretty rooms and ' pf rquisitts,' 
 with being franked over the road whenever 
 she travels, with the old, ivy-grown, ponder- 
 ous Manor House in every way as a home. 
 
 ' ^^ ill I do, do you think, Jemima?' de- 
 mands Jemima's mistrtss, looking at herself 
 in rather a dissatieKed way in Jemima's mir- 
 ror. • I am dreadfully tanned riding in this 
 March wind and sun, and Sir Vane will be 
 sure to notice and disaprove. And I don't 
 think this eau de Nile dress becoming. 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAh. 
 
 129 
 
 much rathet 
 vith you ' 
 MtH* Snow- 
 I the hnuie, 
 uch of your 
 rt Hiid frieu(N 
 Vaae doa't 
 es me black 
 , and Miaa 
 
 i^e will leave 
 n my dre-s, 
 L-<uih'B wny. 
 Now fasN n 
 hair^ H<>w 
 wearing; my 
 coils. MisH 
 oee, if 1 ever 
 
 pnta Jemima 
 4, and lovnig 
 irliah beauty 
 
 looks yruug 
 can Sir Vane 
 tiite cat up- 
 
 with that to 
 
 th to put ber 
 s's paitiality 
 hia wife, are 
 And Jemima 
 nnders. For 
 Btabliahment 
 
 green-eyed, 
 he universal 
 lat Sir Vane 
 an, now that 
 ridy knows.' 
 ul nor orna- 
 Lt least, and 
 Hetty. But 
 
 Eouth, has 
 tr, and can 
 er charm in 
 
 rol 
 
 ie poet. 
 
 in love with 
 
 pe of anor 
 
 Vane makes 
 
 pf rquisit»s,' 
 
 id whenever 
 
 wn, prnder- 
 
 8 a home. 
 
 emima ?' de- 
 
 g at herself 
 
 mima's mir- 
 
 ding in this 
 
 ane will be 
 
 .nd I don't 
 
 becoming. 
 
 Pdrhaps we h»d better go up to my own 
 room, and do it all properlv f 
 
 * You look as pretty as pretty.Mias Snow 
 ball,' orie^ Jemima, warmly. ' Qo up jest as 
 you be, Miss Camillar will nave tu to be born 
 ag'ia, I reckon, before sife takes the shine 
 off you !' 
 
 Aad Jemima is right. D dores is in gn a^ 
 beaiit this evoning, despite sunburn and eau 
 de N1I4 green The pale, luatrons train aweepa 
 behind her ; its trying tint is toned Ly a pro- 
 fusion of tulle and lace. A little knot of 
 fairy roses is twiHted with the woodbine 
 spray in h^r hair ; she wears a blu^hiuk; 
 breast knot of thu same sweet flowera. Ic ia 
 a comtMuation that only tirst youth, a per- 
 .eut uoinplexioD, and gulduu hair, can carry 
 off. So, iu her fre^h pearly Uovelineaa, 
 bringing her ailk(ui trail of lace and il )U;ict8 
 behind her, like Litr.le Bo Peep's aheep, the 
 culprit aHueuds to face thH foe. 
 
 She means to enter by a portiere that 
 opens from a cool, green fernery, tilled ju^t 
 now with silvery light, and twinkling with 
 the f Jill of a fountain in i^s marble oasin. 
 The tall, ureen fronds nod to her as ahe 
 passes. Wichin the piano ia going ; Mit^s 
 Kouth, a<i usual, is charming the company 
 with a song. Sae has not much voice — what 
 she has is thin and shrill -it is ' linked 
 sweetness long drawn out.' 
 
 Dolores' hand holds back the heavy cur- 
 tain, while she takes a preparatory peep, 
 but a pair of lynx eyes note even that, in a 
 moment her husbknd stands before her, his 
 hand hard on her wrist, and she is drawn 
 backward into the fernery, and Sir Vane's 
 dark, hard faje lo^ks down upon her, dark- 
 er, harder, than ever. 
 
 ' Well ! ' he says, and hia voice rasps 
 every nerve in the girl's body, ' what have 
 you to say for yourself, now ? ' 
 
 She uplifts two blue, pleading eyes to his, 
 eyes so innocent, so youthful, that they 
 might have moved even him. Bat Sir Vane 
 Valentine is not easily moved. 
 
 'Do you know you have been missed — 
 your singular absence commented at?^ Do 
 you know I am looked upon with suspicion 
 because of them ? Do you know people say 
 you are unhappy— have something on your 
 miad — that it is because you are wretched as 
 my wife, that you go careering over the 
 country like a mad woman ? Do you know 
 you negleot every social and household duty 
 for these insane rides?' 
 
 She is in for it with a vengeance, and her 
 spirit rises to meet the assault. 
 
 * Social and household duty I ' she re- 
 peats. • I did not know I had any. I am 
 relieved from all cares of that sort, in this 
 house.' 
 
 9 
 
 ' Do you know, ip a word, that your oca* 
 duct is disgraceful— disgraceful t ' goes on 
 Sir Vane, twiating his mustache with those 
 long, lean, nervous, brown tiogera of bis. 
 
 The colour flushes up in 1 olores' face. 
 The blue eyes uplifts again, very steadily 
 thi» time, and meet the irate black ones 
 full. 
 
 ' DUgracef nl ! ' she repeats once more, 
 the slender figure very straight, the white 
 throat held very high, ' that is a strong 
 word, Sir Vane Valentine. Since when hat 
 my conduct been disgraceful ? ' 
 
 ' Since I have kno«vn you t In Rome yon 
 spent half your time in the workshop of that 
 mifble cutter, Macdnnald — a fellow in love 
 with you, as you very well knew — as he took 
 care to let you know, no doubt. And you — 
 how was it with you in those days ? Here, 
 you ocntemn my sister, ignore my cousin, 
 tiet at naught my wishes, slight my guests, 
 spend your time in the saddle, or by the side 
 of that atrocious Yankee woman, the very 
 sight of whom with her nasal twang and 
 gorilla face — I have always detested. You 
 defy |aie and public opinion by galloping 
 breakneck across the country, heaven knows 
 where, without so maoh aa a groom. By 
 what name are we to call such conduct as 
 this?' 
 
 The flu?h has faded from her face, faded 
 and leit her strangely pallid and still. She 
 stands, her hands clasped loosely before her, 
 her steadfast, scornful gaze still fixed upon 
 him. 
 
 'You make out a strong case,' there is a 
 quick catch iu her breath, but her voice is 
 quiet. ' li the indictment all read. Sir 
 Vane, or is there more to com** ?' 
 
 ' Your bravado will not avail you. Lady 
 Valentine. It is time all this ceased. It 
 shall cease from to-night, or I shall know 
 the reason why.' 
 
 She b -iws. 
 
 ' As the king wills. What are your wish- 
 es ? It is not in form to lose our temper, is 
 it ? Ba good enough to signify what you de- 
 sire — no, command — me to do, distinctly, 
 and I will endeavour to obey.' 
 
 ' Yes, I am aware of the kind of obedience 
 I may expect. Why have you dismissed 
 Lennard, the groom ? ' 
 
 ' Simply because if I must creep along at 
 a snail's pace to accommodate Lennard's rate 
 of riding, I prefer not to ride at all. Ap- 
 point a man to keep me in sight, and I shall 
 submit to his surveillance. I can give up 
 going out altogether though, if you prefer 
 it.' 
 
 ' And have the country set me down as a 
 tyrant, keeping my wife under lock and key. 
 The ralrt of martyr would suit you no doubt. 
 
130 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN, 
 
 c 
 
 '. No, you may ride, with a groom, but not at 
 tb« pAoe you indulge iu, nor till auoh out- 
 
 ' rageoui hour*. For the rea», I desire you to 
 
 ' diimiH tb*t woman.' 
 
 ' What woman 7 ' startled. ' You do not 
 
 I mean — no, impoMible T— Jemima AanT ' 
 ' I mean Jemima Ann. Her pretence ia 
 odious to Die. It always was. You have bad 
 her from the tirst in open dttianoe of my ex- 
 pressed wiihea. And only to-day she insult- 
 
 ^.«d Miss Uoutb.' 
 
 -^ Insulted Miss Boutb I Jemima Ann in- 
 
 ' anlt any one 1 Ob, pardon me, Sir Vane, I 
 .cannot believe that I ' 
 
 ' Do you insiouftte that Miss Routh says 
 what )B not true T ' 
 
 ' I tbiuk Mus Routh quite capable of it,' 
 
 .retorts Dolores, calmly, though her heai-t is 
 beating passionately fast. ' Miss Routh is 
 capable of doing a good deal to injure a person 
 
 ' she dislikes. And I know she dislikes poor 
 
 Jimima. If she says my maid insulted ber, 
 
 I believe dhe says a thing deliberately notrue. 
 
 ' Upon my soul,' the angry baronet exclaims 
 
 ' this is too much I To my very face you tell 
 
 'me my cousin lies 1 But this is no time or 
 place for such a diumssion. We shall settle 
 this malter later. At present if you mean 
 to appear among my guests at all this even- 
 ing, it is high time.' 
 
 He holds back the portiere, smooth as 
 be can, the black temper within him, and 
 follows her in. She is still perfectly pale, 
 but the blue eyes are starily bright, the de- 
 licate deer-like head held high. She is in a 
 dangerous humour at this moment, she holds 
 herself as a princess born might. All timid- 
 ity has vanished ; she stands at ease ; and 
 surveys the long room. And she is a picture 
 as she stands. One of the Eccleman c;irls has 
 t^e piano now, an attendant cavalier, the ex 
 tremely youag Squire of Broughton, beside 
 har. Mi8«Dorotny and the rector's wife sit 
 on a Eofa and wag their cap ribbons in con- 
 cert over ponderous household matters. Miss 
 Kouth in a shadowy recess, if shadow ex- 
 ists in sujh brilliant light, lies back in a 
 dormeuse, and looks with that artless, in- 
 fantile smile of hers into the face of a rather 
 dashing-louking military man beside her. 
 He IB ahauilsome man, and a distinguished 
 one, of Sir Vane's age, and as swarthy as a 
 Spaniard. Miss Routh is improving the 
 shining moment with blue-green glances, and 
 alluring sm<les, and sweetest chit-chat — in 
 the very depths indeed, of a most pronounced 
 
 . flirtat.o I. 
 
 Sir Vaue looks, and his gloomy eyes grow 
 baleful. Misa Kouth is lost to him, true ; 
 all the same he glowers at her and this 
 other man. He knows she is only here, 
 
 , fending what time she may brings down a 
 
 golden goose of her own and fly ^way to 
 another nest. She is quite ready to say 
 ' Yes, and thank you,' at this or any other 
 moment Colonel Duering may see tit to throw 
 do«n his heavy dragron glove. And Sir 
 Vane knows it, and is gloomy, and wrathful, 
 and jealous aocordingly. 
 
 Standing here, DJores sees it all ; her 
 husband's frowning brow ; Miss Routh's 
 absorption ; the carelsss smite with which 
 the dashing oiBoer attends. What if she 
 tries her hand at reprisal— plays at Miss 
 Routh's owa gime, and beats her on her 
 own ground ? She is in a dangerous mood. 
 She is younger than Miss ivuuth ; she is 
 duite as pretty ; what if she show her hus- 
 band she can be as attractive in the eyes of 
 otner men as even the captivating Camilla ? 
 She is no coquette ; the uaiue is beneath her, 
 and she feeli it, but she is sore, stung, 
 smarting, hurt to the very heart. And 
 Camilla Routh is the mischief-maker, and 
 direct oause of it all. Very well, let Camilla 
 Routh look to it, for thu one evening, at 
 least, 
 
 ' They shall take who have the power, 
 And they shall keep who can.' 
 
 Her fixed gaze perhapi magnetizes the 
 handsome colonel. He looks up, across, and 
 sees — a goddess. As it chances, although he 
 has been here before, it is the tirst time he 
 has seen this face. A face, it looks to him, 
 in the sparkle of the lamp, a radiant vision, 
 all gold and green, and starry eyes, an ex- 
 quisite face. He looks and fairly catches his 
 b;eath. 
 
 he says, under his thick 
 ' what a perfectly lovely 
 
 ' Oood heavens I' 
 trooper moustache, 
 girl?' 
 
 Then he turns to 
 
 Miss Routh, too much 
 absorbed in her own vivacious tittle-tattle to 
 have noticed, and says, in his customary 
 tjces : 
 
 '^nere is a new arrival, I fancy. Who is 
 that young lady in the green dress ?' 
 
 Camilla looks, and her face changes for a 
 B90ond ; a sort of film, it seems to Colonel 
 Dte i ig, 0( m ■ over the green eyes. 
 
 *'lhat,' she answered, colder, 'is Lady 
 Valentine.' 
 
 ' Lady Valentine ? AU I' in accents ot 
 m irked surprise, ' Sir Vane's wife 7' 
 
 ' Sir Vane's wife. A wild American who 
 ousted him out of a fortune, and whom he 
 married aftir to — secure it,' says Miss Routh, 
 and some of the bitter hatred within her 
 hardens her dulcet voice. 'Her youthful 
 adorer, Harry Broughton, is leading her to 
 the piano ; we are to hear as well as see her, 
 is seems. She spends her time galloping 
 over the country, like the Indianu ou her 
 native plains ; that is why you have not seen 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 181 
 
 r jway to 
 ,dy to i»y 
 
 p »ny other 
 
 dt to throw 
 
 Aud Sir 
 
 d wrathful, 
 
 k »U ; her 
 IS Uouth's 
 with which 
 Vhat if the 
 %yn at MiM 
 her on her 
 srooi mood, 
 iith ; ahe is 
 low her hui- 
 the eye* of 
 Dg Camilla? 
 beneath her, 
 sore, atung, 
 heart. Aud 
 •maker, and 
 , let Camilla 
 I evening, at 
 
 B power, 
 
 kgnetizQi the 
 [), aoroaa, and 
 I, although he 
 tirsttimehe 
 louki to him, 
 ftdiant visiou, 
 \y eyes, an ex- 
 rly catuhei his 
 
 ader his thick 
 irfeotly lovely 
 
 th, too much 
 
 tittle-tattle to 
 
 is customary 
 
 Lncy. Who is 
 Iress ?' 
 
 I changes for a 
 Ims to Colonel 
 
 leyes. 
 
 'ler, 'is Lady 
 
 accents ot 
 »ife V 
 
 >..iLmerican who 
 I and whom he 
 j^s Miss Routb, 
 Id within her 
 J Her youthful 
 lleadiug her to 
 Irell as see her, 
 lime galloping 
 f ndianu on her 
 have not seen 
 
 her on any previous call, ' She is called 
 pr«ttv,' carelessly, ' do you think h«r so ?' 
 
 Colunel Dveriog's reply is of course to 
 order ; he is maah too mstare a bird to he 
 caught with Camilla's smiling chaff. His 
 answer smooths away the rising frown ; he 
 does not even take the trouble to glance a 
 second time at the group surmundiog the 
 
 Eiano. Maud Fooleman has given place to 
 er hostess. She, | as well as the youthful 
 Squire at Rroughtoo, is the ardent admirer 
 of Lvly Valentine. 
 
 'Sing that lovely thing of Adelaide Proo- 
 tor's, you sang at the rectory the other eve- 
 ning,, says Miss Eooleman ; * the plaintive 
 air and exquisite words have btea riugint; 
 thronuh my bead ever since.' 
 
 ' Where I fain would be ?' asks Dolores. 
 
 The smile leaves her face, lust in a sigh. 
 la a moment the long, lamp-lit drawing-room 
 fades away, and the sunny shore of Isle Per- 
 drix rises before her. Rene is standing clasp- 
 ing her hands, trying to say good-bye, the 
 boat waits below that is to bear her away 
 to her new life. All her passionate, sorrow- 
 f nl heart is in the words she sings : 
 
 ' Where I am the halls are Kidded.' 
 
 Stored with pictures bright and rare ; 
 Strains uf deep meloiiourt muaio 
 
 Float upon tne perfumed air. .; ' 
 
 Nettling tttirs the drei^ry silenoe. 
 
 Save Lhemeiunorioiy sea, 
 Near the poor and hum bio cottage 
 
 Where I fain would be. 
 
 Where I am the sua is shining, 
 
 And ihe puri^le windows giow, 
 Till their rich armorial shadows 
 
 istaln ttie ma' ble floor below. 
 Fadea autumu leaves are trembling 
 
 Oo the withered Jasmine tree. 
 Creeking round the little casement, 
 
 W here I fain would be. 
 
 Where I am all think me happy. 
 
 For HO we 1 1 play my part. 
 None can guess, who umile around me, 
 
 Uow far distant ia my heart- 
 Far away m a poor ootta<e, , ., ' 
 
 Lisieiiin i to the dreary sea. 
 Wu» re ihe treasures ot ray life are- 
 There 1 faiu would be.' 
 
 There is silence. Something in the song, 
 in the voice uf the singer, in the suggestions 
 cf the words, holds all who hear quite still 
 for a moment. In that moment she riaes— i a 
 ttiat moment Colonel Deering, stroking his 
 heavy moustache with his baud, th'illed by 
 the song and the singer, sees the brow of Sir 
 Vane biaok as night, sees the malic lousamile 
 and glance Camilla Routh flash'is across at 
 him, aud in that moment knows that Sir 
 Vane's wife is as miserable as she is beauti- 
 ful. 'Gad ! I don't see how it could be 
 otherwise,' he thinks, 'married to that 
 death'ahead. Miss Routh,' he says, aloud. 
 
 but still carelessly, ' Lady Valentine has a 
 voice, and knows how to throw soul into 
 words. Do me the favour — present me.' 
 
 Miss Routh rises an once — it is no part o( 
 her plans to show reluctance. She oasts a 
 second mocking, malicious glance at Sir Vane 
 as she sweeps by —he is seated beside the el* 
 der Miss Eooleman, but Camilla knows, loses 
 not one sight or sound that goes on. 
 
 Colonel Deering is presented in form, and 
 bows almost as profoundly as he does to het 
 msjeaty when he attends a drawing-room. 
 
 ' You aang that song with more expreesion 
 than I ever heard thrown in a song before,' 
 ho says' ' We are all fortunate m having 
 caged a singing bird at Valentine. I wish I 
 uould prevail upon you to let us hear it once 
 more. ' 
 
 ' Sing a Scotch song, Dolores, dear,' chimes 
 in Mias Ruuth, swetttly, 'Sing Auld Robin 
 Gray.' 
 
 Tne malice of the suggestion is lost on Do- 
 lores. Harry Broughtco adds his entreaties 
 and she goes again U} the piano, guarded by 
 Colonel Deering. She strikes the cords, and 
 sings forth the sweet old song. 
 
 * And Auld Robin Gray was a gude man to me.' 
 
 'She means nothing personal, I hope, 
 Vane,' laughs the artless Camilla, fluttering 
 down by his side. ' Nineteen and forty* 
 three — it is a disparity. I wonder you a • 
 not afraid. It is a pity — it is so suggest!:* , 
 ooming after the ocher.' 
 
 ' Far away in a poor cottsgf>, 
 L atening to the dreary aea. 
 
 W here the treasures of my life are- 
 There I fain wou d be 1' 
 
 That means the island, of course. " Whe;' <t 
 the treasures of my life are," chief araob^ 
 them the handsome boy lover of those bliss, 
 ful days. He is handsome. Vane. I saw 
 his picture, by chance, one day in her album; 
 his name underneath — Rene. He was her 
 first lover ; Colonel Deeririg bids fair from 
 his looks to be her latest. Now there ie 
 really no need for you to scowl in that 
 way, my dear cousin, I am but in jest, o 
 course. Of course she cannot help being 
 pretty, and exciting admiration wherever 
 she goes.' 
 
 * I dinna think o' Jamie now, '^'' 
 For that would be a sin. 
 
 She laughs ; it is a laugh that makes her 
 victim writhe and grind his teeth, and rises 
 to flutter away. Sir Vane twists his mous- 
 tache in the old angry, nervous fashien, and 
 looks up at his tormentor, and makes a 
 feeble effort to strike back. 
 
 ' Are you jealous, Camilla ? I do sea that 
 
132 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 , Deering is evidently swerving in his »llei;i- 
 auoe. Land him G«milla, if yon can, he is a 
 fiah worth even } oar buic ; he has ten thous- 
 and a year, and will write his hii^h name in 
 the peerage when hin uncle ^oen.' 
 
 ' It would suit me very well, ten thousand 
 a year,' responds Miss Bouth, coolly, 
 ' whether it suits him or not, oela depend. 
 At preseni Lady Valentine seems rather to 
 have the game in her own hands ; you per- 
 ceive she is going with him to visit the or- 
 chid house/ 
 
 The blue-green eyes flash balefnUy, then 
 she laughs. 
 
 'iupp jse we too go and look at the orchids, 
 Vaner 
 
 They go, Sir Vane still moodily gnawing his 
 moustachp, irritated with his wife. Colonel 
 Deering, Camilla Routh,all the world. 
 
 ' Have you spoken to your wife about the 
 impertinence of her maid ? ' she asks, as they 
 cross the room. 
 
 'Yes. She declines to credit it ; her maid 
 is incapable of impertinence to any one. So 
 she says. ' 
 
 ' Which is equivalent to saying I have told 
 a falsehood. Am I to endure this, cousin 
 Vane ? ' 
 
 ' What do yon wish me to do ? ' sulkily. 
 
 ' If that insolent servant remains in this 
 house, I shall quit it. Insults from persons 
 of that class are not to be endured. I shall 
 not remain under the same roof with her. 
 My mind is made np ' 
 
 What the d. o > did she say ? ' 
 
 ' I made some remark, a harmless one, of 
 course about her mistress. She resented it 
 at once, in a manner insolent to outrage. 
 8he said/ the words coming sharply between 
 Miss Brouth's closed teeth, * that when Miss 
 Buowbal', ridiculous nime, was my age, she 
 might perhaps be as " set like and settled." 
 It wasn't to be expected," Miss Routh grows 
 dramatic, and snuffles in imagination of un- 
 fortunate Jemima Ann, " thbt a gal of nine- 
 teen could be as solid and prim as an old 
 maid ! " Those were h^ odious words ; she 
 did not mean mo to hear them, but I did. 
 Do as you please. Vane, but — if she itays, 
 
 I go.' 
 
 ' What the— what's the use of losing your 
 temper, Camilla I You know she will go, 
 I diolike her *> much as you do. Say no 
 more about it. She shall leave.' 
 
 * Thanks' dear Vane.' Tears fill Camilla's 
 pale eyes, she presses so gratefully the arm 
 on which she leans. ' I am foolishly proud 
 and sensitive, I know. And you are, as you 
 ever were, the best and dearest of cousins. ' 
 
 The tall colonel, and the eau de Nile robe 
 a^e away in the midst of the orchidsy like 
 * Lavo among the Kuses' when the other pair 
 
 eiter. Dolores' clear young laugh greets 
 them — she is in greater beauty than ever, her 
 cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, a sort of 
 reckless K^^i^^y i° every look and word. 
 Why not ! Life's roses and champagne are 
 here— why not take her share and defy the 
 fates she cannot propitiate T She has made a 
 shipwreck of her life ; the ruin looks so dire 
 to-night, that no reckless act of her own can 
 ever work greater woe. A fatal doctrine, 
 and one quite foreign to all the instincts, all 
 t'le training of her life, to every innocent and 
 pure impuUe of her heart. The past is dead 
 and done with, the future is hopeless, the 
 present is a dire anguish and pain. Why not 
 try at least to laugh and be merry, and for- 
 get. 
 
 ' I have put my days and dreams out of 
 mind — days that are over, dreams that are 
 done,' she thinks, with a pang of crudest 
 pain. Colonel Deering looks at her at least 
 with human, friendly eyes — eyes that admire 
 and praise, and that soothes. One grows 
 weary of the stony stare of gorgons after 
 awhile. Colonel Deering is agreeable, and 
 Miss Ronth is piqued— alas, poor Dolores I 
 That suffices for to-night. Biit when it is all 
 over presently, and the colonel, more deeply 
 epris than he has been for many a day, has 
 said his reluctant good night, she goes wearily 
 up to her room, trailing her sheeny silk and 
 lace as though it weighed her down, and 
 sinks into the depths of a downy chair, with 
 a long, tired, heartsick sigh. 
 
 ' It was all dismally stupid, Jemima Ann,' 
 she says ; ' 1 would have been a great deal 
 happier down in the snuggery with you. ' 
 
 ' I heerd you sini^in'. Miss Snowball,' Je- 
 mima says, lettirg down the longhair. '1 
 hoped you was en joy in' yourself. But I see 
 easy enough you do look jjst as white and 
 
 worn out as ' 
 
 Send this woman away. Lady Valentine,' 
 says an abrupt voice, *I have a word or two 
 to say to you.' 
 
 It is Sir Vane, forbidding and sullen. 
 (Jemima Ann gives him a glance of unmis- 
 takable fear and aversion, and goes. 
 
 'Wait in the dressing-room,' says the 
 sweet, oleftr voice of her mistress, ' I shall 
 want you again, Jemima. Now then. Sir 
 Vane ? ' 
 
 She looks up at him with the same stead- 
 f ist glance of a few hours earlier. If it must 
 be war to the knife, she thinks, is she to be 
 bUmed for trying to hold her own ? 
 
 * I desire you to dismiss that woman I ' 
 
 'I have dismissed her. We are alone.' 
 
 ' I mean out of the house, out of your ser< 
 vice. Why do you pretend to misun ler- 
 stand ? She has insulted Miss Rauth. Her 
 presence is not to be tolerated.' 
 
 wi e. 
 came k 
 for the 
 be bouj 
 to-nitjhi 
 — Miss 
 
 •Lad, 
 what y( 
 Take ca 
 
 •She 
 proudly 
 erect, 
 that I a 
 she has 
 as posai 
 yours. 
 Sae is 
 I caano 
 
 •By 
 And w 
 whom 
 months 
 niijht? 
 s ^ear it 
 Heti 
 sioo, an 
 room d< 
 
 •Igi 
 hear? 
 Pack u 
 don't le 
 
 •Oh, 
 gasps t 
 ever ha 
 
 'Not 
 Miss R 
 keep ot 
 until th 
 it— I h( 
 I shall 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 133 
 
 g Uugh greets 
 ,y than ever, her 
 rkling, a «ort of 
 lok and word, 
 champagne are 
 re and defy the 
 3be has made a 
 in looks so dire 
 of her own can 
 fatal doctrine, 
 he instincts, all 
 iry innocent and 
 the past is dead 
 B hopeless, the 
 pain. Why not 
 merry, and for> 
 
 dreams out of 
 ireams that are 
 ang of crudest 
 I at lier at least 
 jyes that admire 
 18. One grows 
 )f gorgons after 
 I agreeable, and 
 
 poor Dolores 1 
 3at when it is all 
 ael, more deeply 
 many a day, ha? 
 she goes wearily 
 
 shetcy silk and 
 
 her down, and 
 >wny chair, with 
 
 d, Jemima Ann,' 
 een a great deal 
 ry with you. ' 
 IS Snowball,' J^- 
 le longhair. '1 
 irself. But I see 
 st as white and 
 
 Lady Valentine,' 
 ye a word or two 
 
 [ and sullen, 
 glance of unmis- 
 ,nd goes. 
 
 room,' says the 
 
 Distress, *I shall 
 
 Now then, Sit 
 
 1 the same stead' 
 irlier. If it must 
 inks, is she to be 
 ler own ? 
 that woman ! ' 
 We are alone.' 
 B, out of your ser- 
 nd to misunler 
 VlissRouth. Her 
 .ted.' 
 
 ' I am sorry if she has insulted any one. 
 She must have been very greatly provoked. 
 I shall speak to her about it, and if Miss 
 Routh had not made a very great mistake, 
 Jemima Ann will apologize.' 
 
 ' I want no apologies. My cousin has given 
 me her ultimatum. Either your maid leaves 
 or shedoen.' 
 
 * That would be a pity — Valentine without 
 Miss Routh— one fails to imagine it I But 
 I do nut thiuk you need be seriously 
 alarmed by that threat. Believe me, Miss 
 Routh will think twice before she quits your 
 housft.' 
 
 ' We do not require your beliefs. I have 
 not come to discuss this question or to ask a 
 favour. I demand that you send away that 
 woman, and at onee.' 
 
 ' And I distinctly refuse.' 
 
 * Madam ' 
 
 ' Sir Vane,' she says, rising, 'listen to me. 
 I have borne a great deal since I became your 
 wi e. I have yielded in all things since I 
 came here, to your sister and your cousin, 
 for the sake of peace. But even peace may 
 be bought too dearly. You ask too much 
 tr»<ni({ht, or rather the mistress of your house 
 — Miss Routh — does 1 ' 
 
 * Lady Valentine,' furiously, 'do you know 
 what you say ? Tne mistress of my house ! 
 Take care, take care I You may go too far!' 
 
 ' She is that, is she not?' his wife responds, 
 proudly, not quailing, standing pale and 
 erect. ' You do not imply for a moment 
 that I am ? Jemima will apologize to her if 
 she has otfended her. she will keep as much 
 as possible for the future out of her way and 
 yours. More than that I cannot promise. 
 Sae is my one friend, I cannot part with her. 
 I cannot— I will not I ' 
 
 ' By Heaven, you shall ! Your one friend! 
 And what of the marble cutter in Rome, to 
 whom you were so anxious to return a few 
 months ago ? What of your new loirer of to- 
 nisjht? Your one friend t She shall go — I 
 B^ear it — though you go with her 1 '" 
 
 He turns from the room hoarse with pas- 
 sioQ, and confronts Jemima iu the dressing* 
 room door. 
 
 ' I give you warning,' he says ; ' do you 
 hear ? You leave this house, and at once 1 
 Pack up and go, and until you are gone, 
 don't let me have to look at you again 1' 
 
 'Oh, Miss Snowball ! dear Miss Suowball!' 
 gasps the affrighted Jemima, ' what — what- 
 ever have I doue ?' 
 
 ' Xothing—that is, you have displeaaed 
 Miss Routh. Sir Vane is excited to night ; 
 keep out of his sight and hers for a few days 
 until this storm blows over. He will forget 
 it— I hope. Gj to your room, Jemima, dear, 
 I shall not want you again.' 
 
 ' And you will not send me away ? Oh, - 
 my own Snowball 1 how oould I live away ^ 
 from you, my own dearest dear I ' j 
 
 ' And I— oh 1 ' the girl cries, catching her , 
 breath with a sob, 'what— what have I left ia 
 all this world but you ? No, you shah not , 
 go. Leave me now — yes do, please— -I would s 
 rather. Mever mind my hair ; I will twist 
 it up. Good night, good night.' < 
 
 Jemima goes, crying behind her apron. / 
 Her mistress 1> oks the door, and drops on her '^ 
 knees, and buries her face in the cushions of 
 her chair. 
 
 •Ranel'she sobs aloud, *Renel Rene I' 
 
 His name breaks from her lips in despite ^ 
 of herself. His image fills her heart as bhe 
 kneels ; his voice is in her ears, his eyes look , , 
 upon her. She loves him I she loves him ! , 
 In shame and misery, in reo^orse, she realizes 
 in this wretched hour how utterly, how ab> , 
 solutely, bow sinfully. .> 
 
 ' Rene 1 Rene 1' 
 
 For this she gave him u]», her heart's dar- 
 ling ! for this man she resigned the heaven 
 on earth, that would have been hers as his 
 wife. Lower and lower she seems to sink in 
 the passion of impotent longing, and love, ., 
 and regret within her. Her loose hair falls 
 about her ; great sobs tear their way up from 
 htr heart and shake her from head to foot ; 
 the velvet is wet with her raining tears. 
 And so, while the dark hours of the sighing 
 April night drag away, while the household 
 sleeps. Sir Vaue Valentine's wife keep^ iic^ 
 vigil of tears and despair. ' , ', - 
 
 OHAPTER IV. . .' ' 
 
 ' OH ! SERPBXT HEART BID WITH A FLOWER*,, 
 INGFACEl' i^'-.i.f 
 
 'L^kdy Valentine,' siys « sombre voice, ^ 
 ' be guod enough to let me say a word to 
 
 you- 
 
 Dolores, leaning over the wire rail that 
 
 separates one of tbe stiff Queen Anne 
 gardens from the park, turns carulessly, but 
 does not ct'ierMise miVi. She holds in h>r 
 bands a great bunch of garden roses and heli- 
 otrope. Her B;rAW hat lies on the grass be* 
 side her, her glorious hair falls in its old u n- 
 constrained fauhion, rippling down her back. 
 She wears a crisp white dress, for the May 
 inorniDg in warm and eunny, and in the blue 
 rl jbon that clasps her thin waist is thru&t a 
 second bunch of piuk and purple sweetueas. _ 
 In this muslin dress with ail that feathery 
 hair, she looks so girlish, so fair, so rjuch of 
 a child that even grim Mistress Dorothy Va- 
 lentine pauses for a momeut, struck by it 
 with a sort of pity and compunction for what 
 she is about to say. Still she will say it. 
 
134 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 r 
 
 a-»l 
 
 
 that way duty lies, and Miss Dorothy would 
 march up to the stake and be boiled alive, 
 sooner than forgo one jot or tittle of duty. 
 
 It is mid forenoon— eleven o'clock — and 
 these two ladies seem to have the place to 
 themselves. Sir Vane and Miss Ronth are 
 exceptionally lazy people, and rarely appear 
 before luncheon, to the silent exasperation of 
 Miss Valentine. To her silent exasperation, 
 for what she may be nominally, she is no 
 more mistress of the house than is Sir Vane's 
 wife. She stands in very considerable awe 
 of the baronet, and if the truth must be told, 
 of cousin Camilla also. 
 
 ' Good morning, Miss Valentine,' my lady 
 responds, going back to her roses ; ' yes — 
 say on.' 
 
 But the ease of manner is but surface deep, 
 an impatient sense of pain and irritation fills 
 her. Can she never be free, morning, noon, 
 nor night ? Is she to be nagged at, girded 
 at, taken to task, on all sides ? What is her 
 crime now ? Miss Valeotiae weara the ex- 
 pression of the Judge on the bench, at the 
 moment of rising and putting on the black 
 cap. 
 
 ' And the sentence of the court is that you 
 be taken hence, and hanged by the neck un- 
 til you are dead,' thinks Dolores, filled with 
 dismal apprehensions. *.I wish they would 
 — it would shorten the misery, and not hurt 
 half so much as this perpetual fault-finding, 
 from dawn till dark.' 
 
 ' L^dy Valentine,' resumes the sombre 
 voice, 'do you know how many days it is since 
 you m*»t Colonel Deering first ? ' 
 
 * Oh-h ! ' thinks the culprit, ' that is the 
 indictment ! ' Aloud. ' No, Miss Dorothy, 
 I do not. I take no note of time. In this 
 house the days fly on such rosy wings, that 
 they come and go before I am aware of thmn . 
 And I never could count worth a cent, as 
 they say over in my country. You fare more 
 correctly informed, no doubt. How many 
 isi<:?' 
 
 It is a flit p mt speech, it is meant to be lo. 
 She is 8tun_j, rerl-1 jsa, at bay. Miss Valen- 
 tine looks and feels unaffectedly shocked. 
 i^he adjusts her spectacles more firmly on her 
 } dished aquiline nose, with its shining knob 
 in the middle, and regards her young sister- 
 in-law through them with strong and stouy 
 di approval, 
 
 * You take this tone with me, and on such 
 a subject ? Dolores, I felt inclined to be 
 sorry for ynu a moment ago, you looked so 
 young, so — ' Miss Valentine clears her throat, 
 * so childlike, I may 8ay,ao almost irrespon- 
 sible. If you answer me like this, I shall 
 regret what I am obliged to say, no longer. 
 It is precisely nine days t^en, since C'lonel 
 D«ering first saw you in this house, and in 
 
 those nine days how often, may I ask, have 
 you and he met ? ' 
 
 ' You may ask but I doubt if I oin answer;' 
 her tone is still lights but a deep flush has 
 risen to her cheek. A flush of conscious 
 guilt, it looks to Dorothy Valentine, of im^ 
 potent anger in reality. ' Let me see. That 
 night, next day out ri«^ing, the following 
 evening at Broughton Hall, yesterday at the 
 rectiory — oh ! I reallv cannot remember, but 
 quite frequently. Why ? ' 
 
 She looks up with an innocence, an nncon. 
 sciousness, so deliciously naive and true to 
 lif A, that the exasperated spinster tingles to 
 box her ears. 
 
 •Why? You ask that I Lady Valentine, 
 you are playing with me, with the truth. 
 There is not a day of those nine days you 
 have not m:t Colonel Deering in your rides. 
 Do not attempt to deny it.' 
 
 * Why should I deny it ? ' The blue eyes 
 have met the stern brunettes with a quick, 
 fiery flash. 'I have met Colonel Deering 
 daily in my rides. And what then ? ' 
 
 Something in her look, in . her challenging 
 tone disconcerts her inquisitor. Miss Dor- 
 othy clears her husky throat before speaking 
 again. 
 
 ' If my brother knew,' she is beginning 
 
 ' What ! has not Riddle, the groom, his 
 spy, told him ? That is strange. I took it 
 for granted that was his mission, and tiioughb 
 it such a pity he should have nothing to t( 11 
 for all his trouble. I believe I allowed the co- 
 lonel to escort me for the very purpose. And 
 he really only has told you. Now I wonder 
 Sir Vane has not taken me to task. How- 
 ever it is not too late. You can inform him 
 at any time.' ,.. ' ' ,\, '„ 
 
 ' Child, what do yen mean ? What an ex- 
 traordinary tone you take — what extraordin- 
 ary things you say. Are you altogether 
 reckless, altogether mad ? ' 
 
 ' Another difficult question to answer. I 
 sometimes wonder I do not go mad 
 under all I have to endure. Oh I Miss 
 Valentine, leave me alone. It is a pity 
 to waste your time scolding me, when 
 you may be so much more usefully emplojed 
 over your account books, and tracts for the 
 poor. I have not been brought up properly, 
 you see — no one ever found fault with me in 
 my life until I was married. Since then 
 there has been nothing but fault-finding, and 
 that sort of thing does not seem to agree 
 with me. I never could assimilate bitter 
 medicine. Reckless ? Yes, I am that. Lettve 
 me alone. Miss Dorothy ; you, at least, have 
 no right to insult me. Do you think that,' — 
 turning ou her with sudden, hot passion — 'do 
 
 li 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 135 
 
 I uk, have 
 
 inn anawer;' 
 J flush haa 
 ' oonaoiona 
 tine, of im« 
 I see. That 
 ) following 
 rday at the 
 lember, bat 
 
 ), an nncon* 
 nd true to 
 >r tinglea to 
 
 ' Valentine, 
 
 the truth. 
 
 I days yon 
 
 your rides. 
 
 ke blue eyes 
 ith a quick, 
 lel Deering 
 m?' 
 
 challeneing 
 Mlsii Dor- 
 ire speaking 
 
 I beginning 
 
 groom, his 
 I took it 
 ind thou>{hb 
 ;hiDg to u-U 
 wed the co- 
 rpose. And 
 w I wonder 
 Ask. How- 
 inform him 
 
 Vhat an ex- 
 
 extraordin- 
 
 altogether 
 
 answer. I 
 t go mad 
 
 Oh I Miss 
 It is a pity 
 
 me, when 
 y emplo}ed 
 'acts for the 
 ip properly, 
 ) with me in 
 
 Since then 
 Knding, and 
 m to agree 
 itate bitter 
 that. Lettve 
 b least, have 
 ink that,' — 
 )a88iou — 'do 
 
 yon dare to think I am in love with Colonel 
 Deering.' 
 
 ' Dolores — no 1 I never thought so. You 
 are foolish, hot-tempered, impuTsive to rash- 
 nesa, but a flirt, a married coquette— no ! 
 Do not look at me with su/^h fiery eyes, 
 child. I am soriy for you— I mean thiu for 
 your good. You are unhappy, I see that, 
 and I regret it. I may seem stern t'> you. 
 I cannot pet you as your grandmother used, 
 but I like you— yes, I honestly like you, and 
 believe, with judicious training, you have it 
 in tyou to be a noble woman— an excellent 
 wife.' 
 
 Dolores laughs — a sad, incredulous little 
 laugh enough. 
 
 * Thank you. Miss Dorothy. And this is 
 your idea of judicious training. Well, such 
 a wretch as I am should be thankful for even 
 small mercies. And you like me. Now I 
 confess,'* with a second short bitter laugh, 
 * I should never have found that out. If I 
 am not in love with this dashing and danger- 
 ous heavy dragoon, where is the guilt of an 
 accidental meeting V 
 
 ' They are not accidental, Lady Valentine,' 
 solemnly, ' no, do not tire up aeain — hear me 
 out, on his part, I mean. You are not in 
 love with him, but he fell in love with you 
 the first time he ever saw you.' 
 
 ' Indeed !* 
 
 There is something so suddenly funny in 
 the srim Dorothy's perspicacity on this ten- 
 der point, that she laughs outright through 
 the passionate tears that fill her eyts. 
 
 ' You have an eagle glance, Mies Valen. 
 tine.' 
 
 *I have,' with increased solemnity ; 'I 
 watched him that evening. He looked at 
 you, and at no one but you, from the mom- 
 ent yott,came into the room. Hu left Camil' 
 la Bouth, and lingered by your side, like the 
 most devoted Jover, all the rest of the time.' 
 
 'Ah !' exclaims Dolores ; ' now we come 
 to the heart and front of my offending ! He 
 deserted Camilla Bouth forme ! Yes, and I 
 neant that he should ! Her motto is "Slay, 
 and. spare not," — I made it mine for that 
 once. And I won. Miss Valentine. There 
 would have been no fault found, if I had 
 failed — if Miss Routh could have kept her 
 captive 1* 
 
 ' That is beside the question. Camilla 
 Routh is single- yen are a married woman.' 
 
 ' Helaa 1' sighs Dolores, under her breath, 
 hat the other hears. 
 
 ' Do not make me think you wicked as 
 well as weak,' she says, harshly. 'You are 
 married ; you have nothing to clo with Col- 
 onel Deering, or any other man. You will 
 be talked about — you are being talked about 
 already. My brother has not yet overheard 
 
 — you can imagine how he will feel when he 
 does.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I can imagine. I have seen Sir 
 Vane in most of his moods and tenses. Does 
 it ever occur to him - to you — that I may 
 feel too ? I am not in love with your brother,', 
 cries Dulores, now utterly and altogether 
 reckless ; ' but I am his wife. Do you think 
 his very pronounced devotion to Miss Routh 
 is an edif\ ing or agreeable sight ?' 
 
 Miss Valentine winces, the ground is snd> 
 denly cut away from under her feet. She 
 takes off her spectacles and wipes them, and 
 clears her throat, and is silent. 
 
 ' You say nothing. Miss Dorothy. You 
 do well. It is a poor rule that will not work 
 both ways. But I have nothing to do with 
 that. You may mean well — kindly — I do 
 not know. This I will say. I met Colonel 
 Deering first in my husband'd house. I infer 
 then he is a gentleman, and I m»y know 
 him. I have mot him in my daily rides, 
 purely by accident, on my part at least, and 
 he has been agreeable and courteous as any 
 gentleman may be to his friend's wife — no 
 more. I am no coquette, I never will be, 
 please Heaven — not tor your brother's sake, 
 understand, Miss Valentine - for my own. 
 And now what is it you will have me do ? 
 Give up my daily ride altogether ? I will do 
 it if you say so. 
 
 ' I think it will be well, for the present,' 
 responds Miss Valentine, more softly. — 
 'CaB ar's wife should be ' 
 
 ' Oh r cries impatient Dolores, ' do not 
 quote that, I beg 1 Caesar wife I If she 
 was not above reproach for her own woman* l 
 ly pride's sake, for her own souI'h sake, why ; 
 should she be for Caesar, or any other man. 
 No doubt Caesar amused himself well in bia , 
 own way. Had he a cousin, I wonder, with ■. 
 green eyes, like a cat ! Is my lecture over. 
 Miss Valentino,' wearily ; ' there ia the 
 sweet Camilla, beaming on ns through the 
 window, in India muslin and pink ribbons. ; 
 Colonel Deering comes to breakfast, by the 
 by, does he not ? If you have q^uite said ; 
 your say, I will go in.' 
 
 ' Yiiu are a strange woman, Dolores,' 
 says Miss Valentine, looking at the flashed, 
 fair face, more in sorrow than in anger. ' I 
 think it is a pity you married Vane.' 
 
 ' Su do I. Ob ! Mon Dieu !' the girl ories 
 out, clasping her hair with sudden passionate 
 despair. ' So do I. A pity, a pity, a pity.' 
 
 ' What I mean is,' says Miss Dorothy, 
 half alarmed, half angered, ' that there is an 
 — hem — incompatibility of temper, of age, of , 
 thouKht, of ' 
 
 ' Heart, soul, mind — yes, everything. It 
 has beea a deadly, desperate mistake — who 
 should know better than I ? Here is your 
 
 '1^ 
 
136 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 o 
 
 bete noir cotnint;, Miaa Valentine, singing, 
 too, a& though no cuilty pas^'ion for a married 
 woman consumed him. Until we meet at 
 table, then, au re voir. I fly before the 
 wolf.' 
 
 She laughs as she goes. Colonel Deering, 
 ■annteriog up the path, switching the flowerB, 
 and singinft to himself as he saunters, sees 
 the white flying ti)?ure with the amber hair, 
 add grim Dosothy Valentine blocking up the 
 path like any other dragoon, guarding an en- 
 chanted and enchanting princess. He smilea 
 to himself, and uplifts bis hue tenor voice a 
 little for Miss Dorothy's benefit. These are 
 to Miss Dorothy's suspicious ears, the sinister 
 words he sings : 
 
 •I will gather thee.' he crierl, 
 . ' * Koeebud brightly blowir^' 
 
 'Then I'il sting thee,' it repjied, 
 
 ' And you'il quickly start aside. 
 With the prick 'n glowing.' 
 
 Koaebud, rosebud, rosebud red. 
 Rosebud brightly blowing. 
 
 * How do you do, Miss Valentine ? ' sayi 
 this audacious dragoon, cheerily. ' I am not 
 behind time, I hope ? You look as if you 
 might be waiting.' 
 
 Hetakesoffhis hat,and bows to Miss Eouth 
 at the window, and ^oes with Miss Valen- 
 tine into the house. Everything that there 
 is of the most chilly and austere, is Miaa 
 Valentine's greeting, but Miss Routh amply 
 makes up for all that by the warmth and 
 cordiality of hers. Sir Vane, too, seems a 
 shade leas sour than usual, which fact is ac- 
 counted for oy some letters lying near his 
 plate, informing him of a marked increase in 
 the yield of certain Cornish coal mines that 
 have been unproductive lately. 
 
 'I must run down to Flintbarrow,' be 
 says, ' and see about it presently. A little 
 fortune lies in theae mines, properly worked. 
 I shall attend to it at once. 
 
 'Not quite at once, I hope. Vane,' says 
 Camilla ; • there is Lady Ratherripe's ball 
 to-morrow night. You must not miss that.' 
 
 ' I don't greatly care for balls, still, as we 
 have accepted— yes, I will stay, and run 
 down the following day. I may be de- 
 tained some time in Cornwall ; ' taking up 
 his letters again. * Challoner speaks glow- 
 ingly of what can be done, with very little 
 expenditure either.' 
 
 ' I petition *or to-morrow night's first 
 waltzes, now,' says the colonel. 'Miss 
 Routh, you have already promised. Lady 
 Valentine ' 
 
 * I am not sure that I shall go,' indiffer- 
 ently. 
 
 * Not CO ? ' Sir Vane looks ah«rply up, 
 •and offend Lady Ratberripe ! Nousenae, 
 Dolores. Certainly you will go.' 
 
 ' Then may I entreat ' 
 
 'I shall not dance,' brusquely ; * at least 
 I do not think I shall. And I never pledge 
 myself ahead of time. Unto the day, the 
 evil' 
 
 Colonel Deering's'dark bright eyes look 
 across and regard her for a moment. Some- 
 thins; wronar, he sees. Have these confound- 
 ed oM maids been nagging at her ? They 
 <>ott>(look as they could nag with a vengeance, 
 by Jove ! She must lead the duce and all of 
 a life in this dull old houae, with these three 
 old women 1 Poor girl ! what a casting of 
 pearls before swine, when she was given 
 to this latter-day Ocbello. And the 
 
 dry elderly prig is in love with this 
 middle-atred, siu.periag, inaioid Miss Uoutb. 
 In this diareapectful way doea the gallant 
 }o onel stigmatise the blonde Camilla and 
 the dignified baronet He has decideiily loat 
 his head over Sir Vane'a fair girl- bride, but 
 he has sense enough to leave her alone just 
 now, and devote himaelf to Miss Routh. He 
 will meet her at the ball, and have these 
 waltzes or fain where he wishes to win for 
 the tirsu time. 
 
 The night comes. Sir Vane and Lady Val- 
 entine are there. And Dolores is lovely. 
 She wears white tatfetaa, embroidered in 
 B Iver, diamonls and liliea of the valley in 
 her hair, a collar of diamonds, with a great 
 s'ar-like pendant, clasping the slenoer throat, 
 lilies of the valley everywhere about her. 
 She is a glittering, bride-like fi;!ure, looking 
 almost unreal in her extreme fairness and 
 translucent robes. People stand, and look, 
 and admire — audibly even — intrr ductions 
 are demanded. She is a bti le and a beauty, 
 ami beyond compare, the fairest of all the 
 fair women in the rooms. There ia some- 
 thing almost dramatic about this dazzling 
 last appt-arance — it ip commented on after- 
 ward. For it is the last time— the iirst for 
 many, the very last time for all, that they 
 ' ver i e t her thus. She has flashed upon them 
 1 ke a meteor, to vanish after into outer dark- 
 ueas and be seen no more. 
 
 Some feeling— not of course that it will be 
 so, but some instinct that it will be well to 
 take the goods that the gods provide, and 
 enjoy herself if she can, comes to her as she 
 B'itnda here, the centre of m<ny e^es. She 
 has not desired to come, her husbaad has 
 angrily insisted, she has not wiahed to danr-'^ 
 he has irritably told her not to be an idiot, 
 not to attract attention, to do as others do. 
 Very well- she will take iiim at h s word. 
 It is a wife's duty to obey. Colonel Di-ering 
 scribbles his name on her tablets many times 
 — there are dozens of aap'ranta — fche might 
 dance every dance three times over, if she 
 chose. 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 137 
 
 ' at least 
 lever pledge 
 he day, the 
 
 ; eyes look 
 3nt. Some* 
 e confonnd* 
 er ? They 
 vengeance, 
 ;e and all of 
 these three 
 k casting of 
 was given 
 And the 
 with this 
 liss Kontb. 
 the gallant 
 /ainilla and 
 Qideiily lost 
 1- bride, bat 
 r alone just 
 Routh. He 
 have these 
 B to win for 
 
 i Lady Val* 
 I is lovely, 
 oidered m 
 le valley in 
 ^ith a great 
 icier throat, 
 about her. 
 lire, looking 
 fairness and 
 I, and look, 
 trr dactiona 
 id a beauty, 
 it of ail the 
 ere is some- 
 lis dazzling 
 ed on after- 
 iie iirst for 
 I, that they 
 I upon them 
 outer dark* 
 
 it it will be 
 1 be well to 
 rovide, and 
 9 her as she 
 
 e^ es. She 
 lusbaad has 
 id to danr-" 
 be an idior, 
 I others do. 
 it h s word, 
 nel Di'ering 
 many times 
 — bhe might 
 
 over, if ahe 
 
 She is only a girl — and the lausic sets every 
 young neive tingling. Colonel Deering is 
 past-master of the art of waltzing, and she 
 floats like a fairy or a French sirl. She 
 floats — a dazzUng cteature — all silvery talfe- 
 tas, 'lashing diamonds, fragrant lilies, (golden 
 hair, and blue blue eyes. Colonel Deering 
 is not the only man conquered to-night— she 
 might count almost as many captives as 
 nam^s on her tablets. But she thinks noth- 
 ing about it, or them ; they are her partners 
 in the dance, one the same as another. Life 
 holds some bright moments still, when one 
 may Idiuuh and forget, even though it be 
 spoiled as a whole. 
 
 The Valentine ladies are all three there, 
 the stony Dorothy as Medusa-like as ever 
 looking erimly at all this foolish gyrating 
 disapprovingly through her spectacles. She 
 disapproves of her sister-iniaw most of all, 
 of this glamour, this dazzle of uncanny beauty 
 — this flashing sort of rr 'iance flt to turn the 
 heads of all these frivolous men. 
 
 What does she mean by it ? She is only a 
 pretty, fair-haired girl on ordinary occasions 
 — she is a beauty to night ! And C ilonel 
 Deeriog's infatuation is distinctly indecent 
 — is atrocious I He takes no pains to hide 
 it ; it looks out of his bold black rye for all 
 the world to ead. It is altogether wrong, 
 and to be reprobated, and she hopes that Vane 
 
 . She looks around for Vane ; he is just 
 
 quitting the ball-room with Camilla Routh 
 on his arm. And Camilla Routh's face wears 
 a look Dorothy Valentine knows very well, 
 and has quailed before very often, strong- 
 minded vestal that she is. The green eyes 
 burn with a hateful glow — jealousy, hatred, 
 rage— many evil passions look out of them 
 as they glitter on the cousin's wife. His two 
 duty dances over. Colonel Deering has not 
 once come near her, and even during these 
 duty dances his eyes were with his heart, 
 following his neighbour's wife. And Miss 
 Routh's impottnt, jealous fury is not to be 
 put in words. 
 
 ' Take me out of this room. Vane,' she 
 says, almost in a gasp, 'I stifle in it. Take 
 me out of the sight of your wife.' 
 
 ' My wife is not here,' says Sir Vane, look* 
 ing round. 
 
 ' Nor Algprnon Deering ! ' she cries, with 
 repressed passion. ' Mo doubt they are hap- 
 
 Ey somewhere together. Take me out on the 
 alcony — the heat here is unendurable.' 
 He does as be is told — together they go out 
 on the balcony. The ball-room windows 
 open on it, and they stand under the stairp, 
 the cool wind of the May night blowing upon 
 them, tali pota of flowering shrubs on every 
 hand. , . ' ' 
 
 ' I will go 
 teeth. 
 
 ' You will catch cold,' he says ; 
 end get ytu a wrap.' 
 
 ' I wish,' she answers between her 
 • I could catch my death 1 Better be dead 
 than alive — a miserable, neglected, disap* 
 pointed woman I ' 
 
 Sir Vane stands silent. He has been 
 through this sort of thing before, and doei 
 not like it. 
 
 • Wo at is the mattpr with you, Camilla T *; 
 he asks, sulkily. • What is wrong now ? ' 
 
 • Do you ask I ' she cries, panting—' you 
 for whom I have wasted my life, for whose 
 sake I have grown iuto what your wife'a 
 odious servant calls me— an old maid 1 ' 
 
 He stands with folded arms and gazes 
 moodily before him at the dark, star-lit 
 stretch of gard> n and lawn . 
 
 • You are but a p"or cieature after all, Sir 
 Vane Valeutine ! Yuu or iered this woman 
 to go, aiiv. she defies you to your face — she 
 and your wife, bhe is at Valentine still,snd 
 r^eans to stay ' 
 
 • She shall not stay,' sullenly, * she will 
 go. I have said it, ana I keep my word. 
 
 • And tojight,' goes on Miss Routh, still 
 in that tense tone of fitsice auger, ' did yon 
 watch vour wife to-mght ? She has been 
 with Colonel Deering the whole evening ; 
 her conduct has been scandilitus — you hear I 
 —scandalous I For me— but what does it 
 matter for me ? I t-ave up my girlhood — my 
 youth to waiting for you. You were my 
 lover ; you were to return to marry me ; you 
 made me swear — almost— to be true to you. 
 And I kept my word — fool, fool that I was I 
 How did you keep yourn. Vane Valentine ? 
 You returned with a bride of nineteen, and 
 I and my years of weary waiting were for- 
 gotten.' 
 
 •Kot forgotten, Camilla— never forgotten— 
 By my sacred honour, lo t I loved you thm, 
 only you ! I love you still — you aione I She 
 is younger— fairer, it may be, than you, but 
 not in my eyes — I swear it I You are the 
 one woman in all the worhl I have ever wish- 
 ed for my own ! You know how I married 
 her— why I was forced to mai ry her. with 
 no love on either side. By all my my hopes, 
 if I were free to-night, I would marry you 
 to- morrow 1' 
 
 There is no one to hear this impassioned 
 speech ; they stand quite alone on the 
 ba>ony — this modern, middle aged Romeo 
 and Juliet, with the peactful stars looking 
 down, and the tall acacias and syringaa 
 creening thera. Cautious even in her excess, 
 Mi»<s Routh looks round to make sure. But 
 though Miss Routh's eyes are as sharp as 
 that of any other cat iu the dark, they can- 
 not pierce the satin drapeiies of the open 
 French window, where, enjoying the cool re- 
 
188 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 »-rT! 
 
 
 freshness of the ni^ht, a lady ai<d gentleman 
 stand. And the gentl'-man is Colonel Deer- 
 ing, and the lady is Dolores — Lady Valen- 
 tine. 
 
 They hear every word ; they see Camilla 
 Bouth drawn, half rrluctant, half yielding, 
 into a quick embraoe. They have had no 
 time ^'0 tly, it hae all been so rapid. Colonel 
 Deerin|z starts up, honestly shocked, for her 
 sake. For her — is she in a trance of white 
 horror, that bhe stands frozen here looking, 
 and, for the moment, feeling absolutely un- 
 able to stir. 
 
 ' There are times when I hate her,' ** ''ane 
 Valentine is saying, and no one can hear his 
 strident voice und disbelieve, ' since she 
 stands between me and yon. I love you, 
 Camilla ! I could not bear my life if I lost 
 yon.' 
 
 < Shall we go, Lady Valentine ?' says Col. 
 Deering, in a smothered voice. It is grow- 
 ing too m'lch even for him, and the stone- 
 white face of his companion frightens him. 
 He touches the gloved hand on his arm, and 
 it is like ice. 
 
 She Joes not seem to hear him ; she looks 
 as though she were ntunred into a trance by 
 the atrocious words that f 1 on her ear. 
 
 'Lady Valentine,' he gently repeats, and 
 draws her with him back from the window. 
 
 The motion awakes her ; she looks at him 
 with two dull, blind eyes — eyes that see, but 
 for the moment, do not seem to know his 
 face. 
 
 ' Shall we go back, Lady Valentine ?' he 
 asks, still very gently, motioning toward the 
 brilliant ball-room. 
 
 Atid then she seems to come back with a 
 shock from that stunned torpor into which 
 her husband's brutal words have struck her. 
 
 * Do come,' he says, uneasily ; you are 
 cold ; you are whiter than your dress.' 
 
 ' Come ?' she repeats ; ' where ? Oh, back 
 there,' with a gesture of indescribable repul- 
 sion. 'Ho ; nuG yet. Leave me alone, Colonel 
 Deering ; I like it best here.' 
 
 There is that in her face that compels him 
 to obey, .'ie goes, but reluctantly, slowly, 
 and looking back. Oi a!' the unutterable 
 asses it has ever been hia ratsfortune to meet, 
 commend him to this pig headed baronet^ he 
 thinks. 
 
 The music of the Strauss waltz floats to her 
 — a sif^h in its yay sweetness. She stands 
 alone, and looks out at the stars, at the tall 
 plants, at the balcony, deserted now. A 
 marble goddess is beside her ; the chill, pale 
 gleam of the stone face is scarcely stiller or 
 paler than the living one. She has heard the 
 whole truth — at last ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 * TIRED OUT WB ARE, MY HEART AND I.* 
 
 It is the afternoon of another day— two 
 days Uter. My lady's carriage waits before 
 the stately portico of Manor Valentine, and 
 my lady herself, in silk attire, comes down 
 the brnad stone steps. Miss Ronth follows. 
 Miss Valentine last of all, in a stiff, rustline 
 moire of melancholy, dead-leaf tint, and all 
 three enter the earring*. Sundry boxes an 
 parcels are stowed away, Miss Routh's maid 
 ascends the rumble, and Miss Ronth is in a 
 state to be best described by the undignitied 
 woru 'fuss,' lest any of her belongings be 
 left behind. 
 
 ' Are you sure everything is here, Part- 
 lett ? ' to her maid ; ' are you certain the 
 gray wig, the apron, the shoes, are all pack* 
 ed ? I suppose your maid has attended to 
 your things. Lady Valentine ? ' rather sharp* 
 ly. 'She looks stupid enough to have forgot- 
 ten ; and it will be rather awkward at the 
 last moment if any necessary article is for* 
 gotten. You are not asleep, I hope ? ' more 
 sharply still. 
 
 * I am not asleep. Miss Ronth ; I hear. I 
 presume Jemima has attended ; I have not 
 looked. I dare say the dress and adjuncts 
 are all right.' 
 
 She answers coldly ; she does not look at 
 M)ss Routh as she speaks ; she does not look 
 at oir Vane, standing hat in hand, on the 
 steps. She looks out of the opposite win- 
 dow so listlessly as to give Miss Routh some 
 grounds for for her query whether she is 
 asleep. 
 
 ' And you really will not come. Vane ? ' 
 Camilla says. 'Well, of course, if you must 
 harry down to Cornwall, you must. Busi- 
 ness before pleasure, I suppose, though it is 
 an odious motto, and one you need never 
 subsof ibe to. It seems a pity to miss the 
 private theatricals, and not to see Lady Va- 
 lentine as the peerless Pauline. Colonel 
 Deering will play the love-struck Melnotte 
 con amore, no doubt. Love making under 
 false colours is rather in his line.on the stage, 
 and off. Well, good-bye ; I shall write you 
 a full and detailed account of the Lady o 
 Lyoiio, and her goings on.' 
 
 •Good-by, brother Vane,' says, austerely. 
 Miss Dorothy, ' Do not overwork yourself 
 about those mines. When may we expect 
 you home ? ' 
 
 ' Do not know— not for weeks, it may be. 
 I shall expect an exhau!*tive detail of all 
 that go.^s OD, Camilla.' He glances at his 
 wife as he says it. * Good by.' 
 
 'Good-by,' Miss Routh and Miss Valen* 
 tine aimultaneonsly answer. His wife alone 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 139 
 
 ilT AND I.' 
 
 ir day— two 
 teaits before 
 lentine, and 
 DomeB down 
 nth follows, 
 bifif, rustlinff 
 int, and all 
 y boxes an 
 outh'a maid 
 outh is in a 
 undignitied 
 longings be 
 
 I here. Part- 
 certain the 
 sire ail pack- 
 attended to 
 ather sharp- 
 have forgot- 
 irard at the 
 rticle is for- 
 lope ? ' more 
 
 ; I hear. I 
 ; I have not 
 kud adjanots 
 
 not look at 
 oes not look 
 land, on the 
 pposite win- 
 Konth some 
 ther she is 
 
 ime, Vane?' 
 if you must 
 ust. Busi- 
 though it is 
 need never 
 to miss the 
 Be Jiady Va« 
 Colonel 
 k Melnotte 
 king under 
 on the stage, 
 
 II write you 
 the Lady o 
 
 , austerely, 
 >rk yourself 
 <f we expect 
 
 it may be. 
 letail of all 
 ances at his 
 
 Miss Valen- 
 8 wife alone 
 
 sits silent. She bows slightly in adieu, but 
 even this without lifting her eyes to his 
 face. 
 
 * Humph I ' says Miss Valentine, sharply. 
 'You do not bid your husband farewell, 
 Lady Valentine.' 
 
 She makes no motion, no answer. She 
 might be deaf as she sits there for all sign 
 she gives. She is pale ; dark shadows en- 
 circle her eyes ; those blue eyes louk singu- 
 larly large and sombre in her small, colour- 
 less face. 
 
 ' Humph 1 ' says Miss Valentine, again, 
 and glances at Camilla Routh. Something 
 is wrong, very wrong, growing more and 
 more wrong every day, and very likely 
 cousin Camilla is at the bo' m of it. Her 
 thin lips wear a faint »mii; this moment 
 that Dorothy Valentine kno^o and distrusts. 
 She gives it up, and the trio sit in perfect 
 silence, while the carriage bowls over the 
 high-road in the direction of Broughton 
 Hal). 
 
 Broughton Hall, the family seat, where 
 boyish Harry Broughton reigns lord of the 
 land, is eleven miles from the manor house, 
 and is at present in a state of internal com- 
 motion over Bundry private theatricals, to 
 come off presently, under the auspices of 
 Mrs. Broughton and Colonel Deering. The 
 ' Lady of Lyons ' is as usual^ the play to be 
 done, and Lady Valentine has been chosen 
 bv acclaim as the Pauline of the piece. 
 Whether she possessses the slightest his- 
 trionic ability is altogether a secondary mat- 
 ter — she is the prettiest woman in the county, 
 she is a bride and a stranger, and young 
 Harry Broughton was beside himself with 
 love for her ever since he saw her first — 
 three incontrovertible reasons. He burns to 
 play the Claude to her Pauline, but extreme 
 youth, a bad memory, and some boyish diffi* 
 deuce stand in his way. Colonel Deering, 
 an old hand at the business, and troubled 
 with none of these drawbacks, does Claude 
 instead. 
 
 Of course the usual trouble and heart- 
 burnings have obtained, over the cast, but 
 all is settled, more or less satisfactorily, the 
 rehearsals are well over, and to- night is the 
 night big with fate. The ladies of Manor 
 Valentine are not to leturn until to-morrow. 
 The drama is to be followed by a dance. 
 Miss Bouth has been oast for the Widow 
 Melnotte, which part she intends to dress in 
 pearl-gray silk, and a point lace cap and 
 apron — not exactly perhaps in keeping with 
 that elderly person's station in life, but de- 
 cidedly becoming to Miss Routh. And it 
 -yill enable her to keep a watchful eye upon 
 the fascinating Claude and the too trusting 
 Pauline. 
 
 The eleven miles are done in profound si- 
 lence — three Carmalite nuns vowed to life- 
 long speechlessness could not keep it more 
 rigid] v. The two actresses study their part, 
 Miss Valentine studies them through her 
 spectacles with a severe cast of countenance. 
 She disapproves of them both. The May sun 
 is setting as they drive up the noble Avenue 
 that sweeps to the Hall, the dressins-bell is 
 clanging out, and young Squire Broughton, 
 flashed and eager, rnns down the steps to 
 meet them. He blushes with delight as he 
 gives his hand to bis enchantress. 
 
 ' I have been on the look out for the past 
 hour,' he says, 'a little mc;e Lady Valentine, 
 and I would have mounted my dapple gray, 
 and ridden forth in search of you. But what 
 is the matter ? You are not ill, I hope ? 
 You are so rale ' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I am quite well. ' 
 
 Her tone is as listless as her look, her 
 smile so flitting, her manner so utterly with- 
 out its customary yonthtul brightness, that 
 the lad looks at her in real concern. 
 
 ' I am afraid you are not, You do not 
 look at all well — I mean like yourself. Per- 
 haps though, you are only tired after the 
 driv«,' 
 
 ' MVl a'', is tl a*.? ' asks Mrs. Brr u :hton,oom« 
 ing forward, ' somebody ill ? Not Lady Va- 
 lentine, surely. Why, this will npver do — 
 ( ur Pauline as pale as a ghost ! What is it? 
 The drive ? Nonsense, fifty miles would not 
 blanch Lady Valentine's roses. Surely yon 
 are not such a foolish child as to let Sir 
 Vane's absence prey upon your spirits ? ' 
 fl^Mis) Routh, sweeping down the wide oak* 
 en hall, laughs softly her silvery tinkle. 
 
 * That is it, dear Mrs. Broughton ! I did 
 not like to betray trust, but your sharp eyes 
 have found it out. Consitier '. a bride cf 
 little more than half a year ! and this is the 
 first separation.' 
 
 The blue green eyes glance backward over 
 her shoulder, as she turns to asoend the 
 stairs. 
 
 ' Cheer up, Dolores, cberie. You look as 
 dismal as your name. What will your ador- 
 ing Ciaudesay pre8ently,if be finds his radiant 
 Pauline all in the downs ? Fur his sake, if 
 not for ours, forget the absent lover for the 
 preaent.' 
 
 Dolores looks up at her — blue eyes and 
 green meet in one long, level, defiant gaze — 
 the gf za of two swordsmen on guarl. 
 
 ' You are right,' she says. 'You are always 
 right, Camilla. I will take you at your 
 word.' 
 
 She does. By a great effort she throws off 
 her langour, her gloom, and gives henelf up 
 to the spirit of the hour. Th s is no time for 
 memory, no place for ciuelly-stung and 
 
140 
 
 T,OST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 O 
 
 spurred hearts. Eat, drink, and be merry. 
 ' Gather ye rosea while ye may.' Vane V» 
 lentine ia out of ner ai^ht, she will shut him 
 out of her thoughts as well. Faoilis est de- 
 scensus Atrerni, this poor Dolores can go the 
 pace as rapidly as the rest. Presently life 
 and colour return to her — the flash of exoite- 
 ment to her cheeks, its fire to her eyes, the 
 last traoe of bitterness is gone. 
 
 ' That is right,' says Harry Brouj);hton, in 
 an approving whisper. ' I knew that you 
 would be ill first rate form when the time 
 oatae. Qad, how I wish I was to be Claude 
 iustflad of that lucky beggar, Daerint;-' 
 
 ' That lucky begijar does not look particu* 
 larly jubilant at this moment,' retorts Lady 
 Valentine, laughing. 
 
 ' That is because he is half a hundred miles 
 from you. at the other end of the table, with 
 only Miss Routh— the Widow Meluottc— his 
 mother, by Jova 1 ' with a grin. 'Filial 
 affection ought to suffice. He can't expect 
 to monopolize you all the evening, even if he 
 is to marry you presently. Miss Routh is 
 smiling at him like an angel, and still he 
 doesn't look grateful. He looks bored. He 
 really hadn't ought to, as our transatlantic 
 cousins have it.' 
 
 'I am a transatlantic cousin. Mr. Brough- 
 ton, if you please. Be careful.' 
 
 ' By Jove, so you are. But then you are 
 a Canadian, aren't you ?' looking puzzled. 
 * Do you know I never got it straight, some 
 how. And it is a matter about which I don't 
 like to be muddled.' 
 
 'Naturally ! ' laughing. * It it a matter of 
 moment.' 
 
 ' But which are you ? Yankee. Canadian, 
 French — which ? ' 
 
 'I don't know,' still laughing. 'I get 
 muddled myself when I try to make it out. 
 A little of all three, I think, with a sprink- 
 ling of English extraction thrown in. See 
 Miss Valentine watching us — we really 
 hadn't ought to, Harry. Miss Valentine 
 disapproves of laughter, and we are laughing 
 shamefully — 1 am sure I do not know at 
 what — aud we are shocking her to the deep* 
 est depths of her being.' 
 
 Squire Broughton makes a feeble effort to 
 adjust a glass to one ey«., and stares across 
 at the stern virgin down the table. 
 
 ' Rum old girl,' he thinks, for in his inner 
 conscience this youthful heir is slangy. ' I 
 wonder what it feels like to be a venerable 
 fossil like that, and ugly enough to be set up 
 in a corn field. What business has she with 
 a moustache when otht -^ fellows cau't raise a 
 hair ? Should think you would find it^aw 
 —rather flattering,' he says aloud, looking 
 with compassion at his fair friend, ' to see 
 much of that lady. Elderly parties of that 
 
 stripe prey on my spirits, I know. But then, 
 of course, you have always Mis Routh' 
 
 ' I have always Miss Kuubti,' aisents Lady 
 Valentine, and the smile that goes with the 
 words puz^lea the simple brain of young 
 Bruughton. ' Au revoir, Uarry ; your ma- 
 ma gives the signal. Dau't stay iong,' she 
 whitipers, ooqaettishly, as she rises to go. 
 
 There is no time tor staying — the gentle- 
 men speedily folbw the ladies, and the stage 
 is cleared for action. A last hurried rehear* 
 sal is gabbltHl through, while the guests 
 gather ; there is no time for anything but 
 ihe play. Sverybody runs about, chattering 
 speeches frantically, with little books in 
 their hands. Tbe roll of carriages is almost 
 jufcinaous now ; there will barely be time 
 to dress before the hour. A very large 
 gathering are coming , every scat in the 
 amateur theatre prumiiitiB to be full. 
 
 Tue rehearsal endii ; there is a l.ng inter- 
 val during which the audience talk and 
 laugh, and flutter into their seats, and read 
 their bills. Fans languidly wave, jewels 
 brilliantly flash, music tills the air. The 
 orchestra, at least, is all it should be. It re- 
 n^aiuB to be seen whether the amateurs are. 
 Tbe hour strikes, the bell tinkles, the drop' 
 scene goes up, the play begius. 
 
 All the World knows what the ' Lady of 
 Lyonn/ performed by amateur actors and 
 actresses is like. Young ladies and ecntle- 
 men, atriokeu dumb with stage fright at 
 sight of all those watchful eyes, losing every 
 atom of memory at the tirst sound of their 
 own voices, arms aud legs horribly in their 
 owners' way, quiverin^j voices that refuse to 
 be heard beyond the first row of seats. The 
 prompter and Colonel Dcering are the two 
 most audible men of the troupe. For the 
 ladies — Pauline does fairly well, speaks her 
 Words audibly, lets Claude make love to her, 
 as though she were quite used to it, and 
 does not seem to find her hands and arms an 
 incumbrance. It is not her first appearaL , 
 it will be remembered ; the recolleotien of 
 that last time, when she wore the dress of 
 ' La Eeine Blanche,' and Rene and grand- 
 mamma sat and watche*), rises before her 
 with a cruel pang more than once. But it 
 wi'.l not do to tbiuk of old times, or old 
 friends, to-night ; the present is all she can 
 attend to. She i received and rewarded 
 with great applause, and many bouquets, and 
 much soft dapping of gloved hands. Ou the 
 whole, the Fauliue and claude of the even- 
 ing are a su jcess, and the leaven that light- 
 ens the whole pUy. 
 
 ' But for Lady Valentine and Colonel it 
 would be a signal failure,' is the universal 
 verdict, ' And a handsome pair, are they 
 not ? Colonel Deering speaks and looks his 
 
But then, 
 louth' 
 lODts Lady 
 !8 with the 
 
 of young 
 
 your ma> 
 
 iuDg,' she 
 s to go. 
 the gentle* 
 d the stage 
 led reheat' 
 bhe gueata 
 ythiog but 
 chattering 
 
 books in 
 )B is almost 
 ely be time 
 very large 
 at in the 
 1. 
 1 . aa inter* 
 
 talk and 
 8, and read 
 ,ve, jewels 
 
 air. The 
 
 be. It re- 
 
 laieura are. 
 
 the drop* 
 
 e ' Lady of 
 actors and 
 and gentle- 
 fright at 
 osing eveiy 
 rid of their 
 bly in their 
 at refuse to 
 seats. The 
 ire the two 
 B. For the 
 epeaks hdf 
 love to her, 
 I to it, and 
 ,nd arms an 
 ippearaL , 
 loUeotien of 
 the dress of 
 and grand- 
 before her 
 ice. But it 
 mes, or old 
 I all she can 
 I rewarded 
 uqueta, and 
 Is. Ou the 
 )f the even* 
 I that light- 
 Colonel it 
 le universal 
 r, are they 
 td looks his 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 141 
 
 y%Tt to the life. Ooe would think he meant 
 lb, every woid ' • Perhaps he does,' is the 
 significant aoswer. ' Deersog has been hard 
 hit for some time, and makett no secret of it. 
 V/atoh him when the danuing begins, aod 
 yon wi'lsee.' 
 
 But there is not much to see. Lady Valen- 
 tine does a few duty dances, one, with Claude 
 Me)notte,' of couri'e, but no more. She 
 pleads a heai^ache, sits out, to the unutter' 
 able chagrin of at leaAt half aeoore of soupir- 
 ants. Colonel L eeriag follows her lead, and 
 dances as little aa possible also. He keeps 
 near her, but ' not at home to admirere,' is 
 written legibly in my lady's eyeo co-night. 
 She keeps close to Miss Valentine— and the 
 man who could make love within ear^shot of 
 the austere Dorothy would be something 
 more tlian man. 
 
 It is all over at last — she is glad when it 
 is, and ehe can go np to her room, trailing 
 the white silk bridvl bravery of Madame 
 Col. Melnotte, after her. Perhaps she is 
 losing her zest for these things — or is it a 
 presentiment of evil to come ^that weighs 
 upon her to-night ? 
 
 Next day comes, and brings with it Colon- 
 el Deering, and sundry of hif> brother 
 officers. The ladies Vaieutitio Were to have 
 departed after breakfast, but their host and 
 hostess urge them to remain until after 
 luncheon. Miss Routh yields gracefully, so 
 perforce the others follow, she is ever leader 
 in these small social amenities. Dolores does 
 not care. Here, or at Valentine, what does 
 it signify— it is eqnally triste everywhere. 
 So they remain until afternoon, aod then at- 
 ' tended by a strong military escort set out 
 on the return march, home. That dull feel- 
 ing of impending evil weighs upon Lady 
 Valentine still. She cannot talk, she sits 
 silont, listless, languid, the gay shatter of 
 Miss Routh falling without meaning on her 
 ears. She hardly cares what may happen, 
 it seems to her life can be no more bitter, no 
 mora hopeless, than it is. Her heart lies 
 lik I lead within her — the brief fiotitioup 
 sparkle of last night has vanished like the 
 bubbles on champagne. Life stretches out a 
 dreary, stagnant blank once more. 
 
 She goes up to her rooms the moment she 
 arrives. Jemima Ann, for a wonder, is not 
 there to meet her. 
 
 'Send my maid, please,' she says to one of 
 the house-maids, and the girl loo!is at her 
 with almost startled eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, if you please, my lady, Jemima ain't 
 here ?' 
 
 • Not here V pausing and looking. • What 
 do you mean ? Not here T Where is she 
 then ?' 
 
 ' Please, my lady, she's gone away.' 
 
 ' Gone away I* 
 
 ' Yes, my lady, nith Sir Vane. And if 
 you please, my maid, I think she's gone like 
 for good.' 
 
 She lias been standing — she sits suddenly 
 down at these words, feeling sick and faint, 
 m* There's a letter for vou, my lady,' the 
 woman goes on — ' there s two, please, on 
 your dressing-table. She cried when she was 
 going away. She went last evening about 
 an hour after you.' 
 
 Without a word my lady hurries Into the 
 dressing room. There, on the table, two 
 letters Be— one all blurred and nearly illegible 
 with tears, and blots, and blisters. 
 
 'My ever dearest, c'e^r Miss Snowball — 
 He says i must go away. He says 1 must 
 go on this very hour, and without bidding 
 good-bye to yon. I hope you will be able to 
 read this, but I am so blind with crying, I 
 can hardly see to set down t^e words. If I 
 make trouble, it iz better for me to go. My 
 own dear, sweet Miss Snowball, good-bye. I 
 I am going to London first, and I will write 
 to you from there. And I ho <e you will 
 answer — I cannot go back home without a 
 word from you. I hope you will be happy, 
 and not forget your poor Jemima Ann. I 
 have plenty of money, so don't worry about. 
 Qood-bye, my own best and dearest darling. 
 I will never serve any one again as long as I 
 live that I will love like I do you. — Your 
 ever faithful jemima Ann.' 
 
 She takes up th' second letter; it is 
 shorter. 
 
 ' Dolores - You re .. ised to obey me and dii- 
 miss the woman .'e.-nima. As I am deter- 
 mined to be obeyed in all things, great and 
 small, I remove he:: this evening. Do not .at- 
 tempt lo go after ber or have her back. You 
 defy me in this, or in anything else, at ^our 
 peril. — Your husband, vane valentine.' 
 
 A shadow oomes between her and the 
 snnshine. She looks up from these laitt mer- 
 ciless '7'ords, and sees standing on the thresh- 
 old, a sneering 6:uile of triumph on her face, 
 Camilla Routh. 
 
 17 'YiiU -I 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 ' NOT THUS IN OTHER WORLDS WE MEET.' 
 
 It is four hours later. The down express 
 from London leaves one traveller at the vil- 
 lage station, and thunders away again into 
 the yellow sunset. A foreign gent, the 
 loungers at the station set him down ; very 
 dark, with a long black mustache, and a cer- 
 tain undefin:;.br air of uities and travel 
 about him. His only luggage is a black 
 portmanteau, also of foreign look, and well 
 pasted with labels, He inquiies, in perfect 
 
142 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 o 
 
 Eagliah, with only th« slightest pouibla 
 auceat, the w^y to Valentine Manor. A 
 barefoot ru^tiu lad undertakei, for aixpence, 
 to show him thither, and afterward carry hit 
 bag to the Kathpipe Arms, and together they 
 set out. 
 
 It ii the hour ' between the gloaming and 
 the mirk,' the hour of Ave Maria iu the 
 fair, far off land whence this itraoger and 
 pilgrim hM oome. Tae fielde aoroas which 
 hie guide takes him, by a short cut, lie 
 steeped in stieets of gold-gray light ; over- 
 head there is a gold-gray sky, flecked here 
 and there with crimson bars. The sleepy 
 cows lift slow, large eyes and regard them 
 as they pass. A faint, iweet, warm wind 
 stirs in the tree-tops, and the dark watchful 
 e>8S of the stranger diink it All in— the 
 quiet beauty of the^twiligt landscape. 
 
 ' At the eventide there shall be light,' he 
 dreamily thinks. 'One might be happy 
 here, if rural peace and loveliness were alL' 
 
 * They pass a last stile, and the youthful 
 guide pauses and poiikts to the zig zag path 
 between the trees. 
 
 ' Keep straight up you,' he says, 't' house 
 is at t' other eud. ' 
 
 The traveller hands the promised sixpence, 
 and the lad scampers away. The foot path 
 is a coDtiuuation of the short cut across the 
 park, and ends at one uf the Queen Anne 
 flower gardens. The Manor is iu sight now, 
 and he pauses to look at it, something more 
 than mere curiosity in his gaze. With the 
 full flush of the crimson aud gold west upon 
 it, gilding clirrtbiiig rose, and trailing ivy, 
 and tall honeysuokle, softeuing its decay, 
 mellowing its ugly angles, it is a quaint and 
 picturesque old .^ouse indeed, from an artis- 
 tic point of view, with its top-heavy chim- 
 neys and mullioned windows, and antique- 
 timbered porches. 
 
 Hitherto he has met no one, now the 
 flutter of a lady's dress ctitches his eye. A 
 robe of soft ' hodden gray ' colour, dear to 
 the artist eye, a touch of deep crimson, a 
 gleam of creamy lace, the sheen of braided 
 y<-' 'ow hair, a fase, in protile, under a straw 
 bat— that ia what he sees. And for a mo- 
 ment the man's heart within him stands 
 BtiU. 
 
 • Therewith he raised his «>yta. and turned, 
 Aiid a great fits withia blm burned. 
 
 And his heart atopped aw hile— for *here 
 AgaiiiHt a thorn buah fair 
 
 His ueart 8 desire his eyes did see.' 
 
 She ia seated on a knoll, her head resting 
 Against the rough brown boll of a tree, her 
 white bands lying loosely ic her lap, without 
 work or book, and so still that at tirst he 
 thinks she is asleep. But coming closer he 
 
 sees that she is not, the bine eyes are looking 
 with a strange sort of vacancy straight be- 
 fore, at the red nd amber light in the sky. 
 She does not hear liim, he treads lightly, and 
 the elastic turf gives like velvet ; tihe does 
 not see him, she serms to see nothing, not 
 even the lovely sunset light on which her 
 blank eyes gaze. He is by her side looking 
 down on her as she sits, his whole passionate 
 heart in his eyes. 
 
 ' Snowball 1' he says. 
 
 She almost bounds, soft as the sound of his 
 voice is. She springs to her feet, and stands 
 looking at him, her lips apart, her eyes dilat- 
 ed, mute with amaze. 
 
 , Snowball I' he says, and holds out both 
 hands, ' I have startled you. But I had no 
 thought of coming upon you like this. I 
 was going to the house when I chanced to 
 see you here. ' 
 
 He stops. She does not answer, does uot 
 take the eager hands he holds out ; she only 
 stands and looks, too dazed by the shock of 
 surprise for welcome or for joy. 
 
 fur Rene, a terrible pang pierces him. Is 
 this Snowball— bright, laughing, radiant 
 Snowball — so full of impulsive gladness, '*nd 
 happy greeting always — this pale, silent, 
 stricken shadow ? 
 
 ' Rene 1' she says, at last, almost in a 
 whisper, < Rene I' 
 
 And then, slowly, a great gladness fills the 
 blue eyes, a great welcome, a great joy. She 
 gives him her hands, and tears well up and 
 till the blue sad eyes. 
 
 ' Rene ! Rene 1' she says, and there is a 
 sob in the voice ; *I never thought to see yon 
 again !' 
 
 He clasps the hands, wasted and fragile, 
 and looks at her, and says nothing. He 
 thinks of the last time when he came upon 
 her thus suddenly, among the Roman hill- 
 tops. How brightly beautiful had been the 
 joyous young face then I — how impulsively 
 eager and joyful her greeting then 1 — how 
 difff^rent from tLis 1 ^'ow — he has it in his 
 hefirt to invoke a curse on the head of the 
 m:4n who has changed her like this. 
 
 * How white yon are 1' he says — ' like a 
 spirit here in the gloaming, my Snowball. 
 Yuu do not look weU. Have you been ill. 
 Czarina ?' 
 
 ' 111 ? Oh, no,* she answers, wearily ; ' I 
 am never ill. Do not mind my looks — what 
 do they signify ?— tell me what has brought 
 you to England ?' 
 
 ' Sit down again, then,' he says. ' You 
 no not look fit to stand.' 
 
 She obeys him, sinking back on the grassy 
 knoll, hardly yat believing the evidence of 
 her ears and eyes. 
 
 ' Rene, Rene — here — how strange.' 
 
s are looking 
 straight be* 
 b in the sky. 
 lightly, and 
 )t ; »he does 
 aothing, not 
 a which her 
 side looking 
 ie paaiioD»te 
 
 Round of hit 
 , and stands 
 ir eyes dilat* 
 
 .ds out both 
 tut I had no 
 ike this. I 
 [ ohaaced to 
 
 i^er, does uot 
 kt ; she only 
 (he shook of 
 
 368 him. Is 
 ug, radiant 
 ladness, '*nd 
 pale, sUeni, 
 
 iltnost in a 
 
 aeaa fills the 
 at joy. She 
 well up and 
 
 [ there is a 
 it to see yon 
 
 and fragile, 
 )thiug. Ue 
 ) came upon 
 luman hill- 
 ad been the 
 impulsively 
 hen ! — how 
 has it in his 
 head of the 
 lis. 
 
 kys — ' like a 
 f ISitowball. 
 u been ill, 
 
 '^earily ; * I 
 3ok8 — what 
 las brought 
 
 ys. * You 
 
 the grassy 
 evidence of 
 
 ge.' 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 143 
 
 « What is it ?' the asks 
 you had eomething to lay. 
 
 ' You look aK if 
 Why are you in 
 
 England— at Valeutine ? It seema so strange.' 
 ' That sounds slightly imhospitable, Li<ly 
 Valentine,' smiling. It is an effort to call 
 her by this name her husband ha» givea hur, 
 but it helps to keep in his miud, what there 
 is some dauger of his forgetting, looking in 
 that p-iUid, wistful, too clear face, but even 
 while he says it, he hates it and him. 
 _ ' You know what I mean,' she says, 
 ■imply. ' I am not afraid of being misunder- 
 stood by you, Hene. You would not have 
 come for that. It i<* something else — some- 
 thing important. What is it ?, 
 
 ' Shall I tell you ?' he looks at her anxious- 
 ly, in doubt. * You do not look well, and it 
 will— it must — shock you, Snowball. Yes, 
 I have someth)ng to tell you, something dis- 
 tressing, and very, very strange. I hardly 
 know how you will 1)elieve it — you may not 
 — and yet it is true. I have felt it rather 
 hard ^from the first, that I should be the one 
 cliosen to Lear the evil tidings, but fate has 
 thrust it upon me. It ia a loug story, and I 
 hbould like to|tell you immediately. Are we 
 likely to be disturbed here ?' 
 
 'Not in the least likely. No one ever 
 comes here. It is the most secluded spot in 
 the park. I choose it always for that roaaon. 
 Now what I wonder is this amazing revela- 
 tion you have to make.' 
 
 ' It is amazing. It is the story of the 
 dead alive, Dolores, listen — here - George 
 Valentine has risen from his grave I' 
 • What r 
 
 , Ue never was drovrned you know. It 
 was all a mistake — that old story of long 
 ago. Ue was not drowned. Ue is alive to- 
 day 1' 
 
 She sits and stares at him, trying to take 
 this in. A flush sweeps over her face. 
 
 ' Rene ! Oh, Rene, think what you say ! 
 
 My father ' 
 
 ' And he is not your father — that is where 
 the trouble comes. Ue left his wife — your 
 mother — within a year of their marriage. 
 For five years she heard nothing of him— 
 when she did it was what others heard — that 
 he was drowned. And she married again. 
 Your parents are both dead, as you always, 
 until of late years, thought, but George Val- 
 entine lives. You are no kin of hi& -no drop 
 of Valentine blood flows in your veins.' 
 
 She sits and listens, and looks pale with 
 uonsternation and amaze. Though slowly it 
 dawns upon her — this that she hears. 
 
 ' Then grand mama was deceived, 1 was not 
 her granddaughter after all — not her heiress. 
 Oh, Rene I Rene I if she— if I -if he— Sir 
 Vane — had but known that !' 
 
 She stoops and covers her face for a mom- 
 
 ent with her hands. Not Madam Valentine's 
 heiress — if she had but kuoMU that I She 
 might have been free to-dry, or — Reue'a 
 wife I 
 
 ' If we had but known,' Rene echoes sad- 
 ly. ' It has been a fatal uiistjike. It would 
 have been better, I sometimes think, if at 
 this late day it were unknown still. But 
 George Valentine lives, and what he has lust 
 may be his again. It was Madam Valeutioe 
 — not he— who commissioned me to come 
 here, and tell you this. Nothing short of a 
 pledge to the dying could have made me do 
 it. It is a singular story, this I ha re come 
 to tell.' 
 
 And he tells it — the story of Pau>. Farrar, 
 the chango of name and iduiiiity, the escape 
 from shipwrquk, the after life, the return to 
 Rome, the railioad tragedy, and the recog- 
 nition. Ue Bofttos every detail that he can 
 — of her mother — oi her father, of course 
 ttiere is nothing to tell. Uis biography is of 
 the briefest. Ua was — and he dm.) JJe re- 
 peats Madam Valentine's dying words— hei 
 enaction that Vane Valentine will resign 
 ihu fortune and the title to which he has uo 
 shadow of a right. And Dolores listtw to 
 it all with a half-dazed sort of cumpruhension, 
 feeling giddy with the effort to take it in, 
 but convinced that it ia true because Rene is 
 convinced, and bec&use M. Paul is the lose 
 heir, and because 'grandmamma' wished it 
 on her dying bed. 
 
 There is a silence for a little when he has 
 done. The nrtky evening shadows are creeping 
 up, and the ruby fires of the sunset are paling 
 fast. She sits and looks at that dying light, 
 some of the rising gray shadows seeming to 
 darken her face. Is she sorry — is she glad ? 
 She hardly knows ; she feels apathetic ; poor 
 or rich — what does it matter ? George Va- 
 lentine's daughter, or the child of this nn< 
 known man whose name was Randall — what 
 does it signify now ? She is still — come else 
 what may — Vane Valentinie's wife. No 
 change can change that. Other things are 
 nothing less than nothing. For her the world 
 has come to an end— such things as Rene 
 tells her are outside the one vital interest of 
 her life. If she could but be free again I 
 But she is in bonds and fetters for all time. 
 Let rank and wealth then come and go as 
 they list. 
 
 'Well,' Rene breaks in upon her dreary 
 reverie, after a long paise. ' You are silent. 
 You look strangely— like a ghost almost in 
 this half light. What is it, Carina mia ?' 
 
 ' I can hardly tell you,' she answers, dream- 
 ily, ' it is all so strange . I am trying to re- 
 alize it. M. Paul Farrar — George Valentine i 
 Well, it is easy to believe anything of M. 
 Pdul— he was always like an exil«>l ptiase. 
 
144 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 t 
 
 o 
 
 ^i 
 
 Aad hi* mother ka«w «ad forgav* him at the 
 iMt 1 aud h« iiiudt) her dyiou hours hajipy 
 Ah 1 thftt id * ^ym 1 ht).truig Bat the forluu« 
 
 the title — doe« he thiuR — hi* oouaia will 
 
 give them up ? ' 
 
 ' No, Dolores ; he does not.' 
 
 ' Nor do 1,' she itaya, simply, and her large 
 eyea look at him earueittly ; 4 am sure he will 
 nut. Will the Uw compel him, Keue ? ' 
 
 * 1 thiuk so. i fuel sure it would eventu- 
 ally, if George Viileutiae should ohoode to 
 resort to law. Ba( he will not.' 
 
 •Nol Then wUy ' 
 
 ' He hae no hope, S lowball, of getting his 
 own back again ; aud he dots not uiuoli oare, 
 1 thiuk. If you were happy as miHtrene 
 ^ere— as that man's wife — ;— ' 
 
 She makes a sudden motion, and he stops. 
 She feels she oauuot trust herself on this 
 ground ; it is best not to tread on it at 
 
 »ll' ... 
 
 ' Leave me out of the question, she says ; 
 
 ' it is a point of honour— oX simple right aud 
 honesty — not of feeuug. If Ueorgo Valen- 
 tine lives, we— I h*kve no right hero. Per- 
 haps I wrong my .'-.uaband — who knows ? 
 Ac least we will not prejudge him. Ue shall 
 know all, and thus ' 
 
 They sit silent , they know so well what 
 Vane Valentiue's decision will be. 
 
 ' la M. Paul iu Eugland ?' she asks. 
 
 ' Ue is not ; he remains in Rome. He is 
 strangely sensitive and abhorent of all noto- 
 riety. Half a soore of fortunes would not 
 make up to him ior the pain of telling his 
 story to the world. That is why a question 
 of birthright, easily enough proven, I should 
 fancy, becomes a question of honor. If, iu 
 the facel.of the evidence he is prepared to 
 show. Vane Valentine persists in keeping 
 what he has got, through you, then keep it, 
 he must. GeorgeV alentine will never tell the 
 story of his reckless, erratic life to the world 
 through the medium of an endless Chancery 
 
 suit.' 
 
 ' It is like him,' she says. There is another 
 pause. ' Where are you stopping, Rene ? 
 she inquired, suddenly. 
 
 ' At the inn in the village. I am going up 
 to London ' 
 
 ' No,' she interrupts ; ' do not for a day 
 or two. My husband is in Cornwall ; I will 
 write to him to-night, and tell him what you 
 have told me. Wait here until I 
 receive his answer. Who knows T We may 
 wrong hivn. When the truth is fully known 
 to him ' 
 
 ' Who is that lady ?' asks Rene, abruptly, 
 * there between the trees— in the pink dress. 
 She has been watching us for the last five 
 minutes.' 
 
 ' In a pink dresa ! Miss Routh then, of 
 
 course,' her delicate lips curling 'it is her 
 metier to watch me always. Yen, it is Cam* 
 ilia Routh, and she sees that we see her.' 
 
 Tue pink dress emerges, its wearer ad* 
 vanoes. Who is this olive-skinned, dark- 
 mustaohed, extremely handsome young man, 
 with whom her cousin-wife talks vo Ions, so 
 earnestly, so secretly, under trees, in hidden 
 places iu the park ? It is her duty to see in- 
 to this, and curinsitv is nearly as powerful 
 as seuse of duty with Miss llouth. So she 
 comes forward gathering iiuld flowers and 
 ferns as she oouies, humming a little tune- 
 fair, SAeet, artless, niiconscious, a picture 
 of bloude, patrician Britiah beaut v. But s • 
 i > not destined to be gratiKed — it is the 
 rudest repulse, perhaps. Miss Routh has ever 
 r.ueived iu her life. Aa she draws near, 
 Lady Valentine deliberately rises, eying her 
 full, pasHes her hand through the arm of her 
 pioturet-que-looking cavalier aud turns her 
 back upon her enemy. Rene is rather aghast, 
 but there is nothing for him but to follow 
 Dolores' lead. It is the most cutting of 'mta 
 direct. Miss Routh stops — stunned. 
 
 'Do not come up to the house, Rene.' 
 Dolores says, her pale cheek flushing painful- 
 ly. 'I cannot ask you. And do not come 
 here again neither. I fear that woman. 
 When I hear from — him — I will let 
 you know. I believe what you tell me — say 
 HO to Paul— whatever the result may be. 
 Until then — adieu and au re voir.' 
 
 Miss Routh, watching afar off in speech- 
 less, furious anger, sees her hold out her two 
 hands, sees him take them, and hold them 
 in a clasp that is close and long. Oh 1 that 
 Vane, that Dorothy, that Colonel Deering 
 were but here now. She cannot hear a word 
 the^ say — more is the pity— making a second 
 assignation no doubt. Before she sleeps 
 Vane shall be written to of this, shall hear 
 it with all the additions and embellishments 
 that malice and hatred can add. A dull 
 glow of horrid triumph tills her in the midst 
 of her rage. Let her look to it after this. It 
 is the young French Canadian sculptor, no 
 doubt, of whom Vane is already jealous. 
 She has lost no time in sending for her old 
 lover, now that her husband is out of the 
 way. It is a coarse thought, but the fair 
 Camilla's thoughts are mostly coarse. Let 
 her look to it, the insult has been deadly — 
 the reprisal shall be the same. 
 
 They part. Rene returns to the village — 
 the two ladies, by different paths, to the 
 house. Miss Routh does not appear at 
 dinner, she is busy over a letter, every word 
 of which is freighted with a venomous sting. 
 She likes her dinner, and has it brought up 
 to her, but she likes her revenge better. 
 My lady writes a letter, too, before she 
 
 me. 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 145 
 
 A 
 
 ng ' it ii ber 
 tsn, it ia Cftm> 
 B lee her.' 
 ,B vrt>»r«r ad- 
 linned, d»rk- 
 ,6 young in»D, 
 ks ro long, ao 
 sea, in bidden 
 luty to tee in- 
 y as powerful 
 KUth. Ho nht 
 I tiowera and 
 fc little tune — 
 )U8, a picture 
 utv. But a • 
 ed — it ia the 
 Louth has ever 
 drawa near, 
 sea, eying her 
 ,he arm of her 
 kud turna her 
 nvther agbaat, 
 but to follow 
 iutting of ''.uta 
 inned. 
 
 houae, Rene.' 
 lahing painful- 
 d do not oome 
 that woman. 
 _I will let 
 u tell me — aay 
 suit may be. 
 >ir.' 
 
 ofif in speech- 
 Id out her two 
 id hold them 
 a. Oh I that 
 lonel Deermg 
 ,ot hear a word 
 aking a second 
 ire ahe sleeps 
 us, shall hear 
 mbellishmenta 
 add. A dull 
 r in the midst 
 t after this. It 
 in sculptor, no 
 ready jealous, 
 ag for her old 
 is out of the 
 but the fair 
 r coarse, l^et 
 beea deadly— 
 
 the village- 
 paths, to the 
 lot appear at 
 er, every word 
 enomous sting, 
 it brought up 
 evenge better . 
 
 00, 
 
 sleepa, alao a long one, it takes her until past 
 midnight, and is a carefully and minutely 
 worded repetition of the atory Kene has told 
 her under the trees. There is more than 
 
 the atory an earnest protestation of her 
 
 belief in its truth, and her perfect willing- 
 ness to resign the fortune, to which she haa 
 never had a shadow of right. 
 
 ' I do not fear poverty, she writes, ' trust 
 me Vane ! I was never born to be a lady of 
 rank and riohea — both have been a burden to 
 me, a burden I will lay down, oh ! so gladly. 
 This " burden of an honour unto which I 
 was not born "Ihas weighed upon me like an 
 evil incubus from the Brst. Oh, my hus- 
 band, let ua give back to George Valentine 
 hia birthright. He will act generously — 
 more than generously I know, for I know 
 him and for me I will go with you, and be in 
 the day of diaaater more faithful, more fond, 
 more truly your wife, than I can ever be 
 weifi;hed down with wealth to which neither 
 of UH has A claim.' 
 
 But while she writes — her whole heart in 
 her pleading words, ahe knows she writes in 
 vain. More of her woman's heart ia in this 
 letter than she has ever shown to the man 
 Hhe has married before. Apart from the 
 misery of dwelling under the aamti roof as 
 Camilla Routh — with the right done nobly 
 for the right'a sake, far away from this place 
 in which ahe has been so w. etched, poor and 
 obscure if it must be, she uels that a sort of 
 happiness is possible to het yet. If her hus- 
 band is capable of an action at once honest 
 and noble, then her heart will go out to him 
 — freely, fully. The very though! of his 
 doing it, seems to bring him nearer her 
 already. If he will but do the right— if he 
 will but let her, she may care for him yet. 
 
 Next morning, by the earliest mail, two 
 very lengthy, very disturbing epistles, in 
 feminine chirography, go down to Sir Vane 
 Valentine, Bart., among the mines of Flint- 
 barrow. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 * IT WAS THE HOUR WHEN WOODS ARE COLD . 
 
 before she 
 
 There comes times in most lives whena 
 after long depression and wearing worries, , 
 sort of revulsion, a sort of exaltation of feel- 
 ing sets in. Such a time comes now to 
 Dolores. There is a revulsion in favour of 
 her absent husband. Perhaps the fact that 
 he is absent has something to do with it. 
 Looking in bis gloomy face it would aeem a 
 difficult thing for any wonian, wife or other- 
 wiae to get up much sentiment for Vane 
 Valentine. Her ideas, after all, of the saori- 
 tice denrauded are vague. It Manor Valen- 
 10 
 
 tine and the fortune are resigned to their 
 lawful owner, she knows very little what 
 will remain to them. She doubts greatly if 
 the sacrifice will be made ; it will never be ; 
 at least, until proof ' clear as Holy Writ ' is 
 placed before him — that is to be expected. 
 He will be enraged and unbelieving beyond 
 doubt. Still, once convinced — and she is 
 sure such conviction mast be possible since 
 M. Paul is the claimant — he cannot be so 
 glaringly dishonest and dishonourable as to 
 retain what will no longer be his. Dolores, 
 reasoning on these points i^ primitive and of 
 another world than this ; the distinction 
 between mine and thine atanda out with al< 
 moat atartling vivid neaa in her unwordly 
 mind. To retain, knowingly, the goods of 
 another is to resign hope of salvation here 
 and hereafter — that is her creed, aharp and 
 clear . It is quite in her to regard #ith horror 
 and aversion such a one. B'or a huaband 
 capable of auch a crime ahe feels that even 
 the outward semblance of regard and duty 
 must come to an end — that for him, for all 
 time, nothing but contempt could live in her 
 heart. And to drag out life by the side of a 
 man one despises — well, life holds for any 
 woman few harder things. 
 
 But if he does the right — oh ! then how 
 gladly will she go with him, to poverty if 
 need be; how she will honour him, how 
 hardl/ she will try to win him back. She 
 does not fear poverty — was she not poor on 
 Isle Perdrix, and were not those the best,the 
 very best, days of her short life ? She would 
 like a cottage , she thiuks, where she mi^ht 
 reign alone, far from steru Miss Dorothy, 
 sneering Miss Routb, and witli her husband 
 alone, who knows ? she miglit learn to love 
 him ; he even might learn a little to care for 
 her. She would so strive, ao try, so pray I 
 Anything— anything would be better than 
 this death in life here, this most miserable 
 estrangement, this loveless house, these cold, 
 hard faces. Any change, be it what it may, 
 must be for the better. She will try — at 
 least — the opportunity being given — she will 
 do her utmoHt to soften and win the m<*.n 
 who is her hu:band. 
 
 With hopes like these in her girl's mind, 
 Dolores waits through the long day that 
 follows. She does not go out ; she has a 
 feeling that ahe would rather not meet Rene 
 again until she had seen her husband. She 
 must be loyal of heart, even to the shadow 
 of a shadow, and to sit by Rene's side, look 
 up in Rene's eyes, listen to Rene's voice, and 
 remain thoroughly true to Vane Valentine is 
 no such easy task. If she goes abroad she 
 may meet him, so she remains at home. 
 
 The evening post brings her a letter from 
 London from Jemima Ann. She has half 
 
146 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 ri 
 
 forf;otten this faithfal friend, in thinking of 
 other things ; she feels s^lf reproachful for it, 
 as she reads. Jemima is stoppin^jfor the 
 present, in a humble London lodging, and 
 'proposes remaining there until her 'dear 
 sweet Miss Snowball ' writes good-by . Then 
 she will go back to New York and resume 
 life in her native land. It is not quite so 
 easy to think wifely thoughts of Sir Vane, 
 and make generous resolutions after reading 
 this, and remembering how treacherously 
 and stealthily this humble friend was forced 
 » way . 
 
 Another night ; another day. This day 
 certainly will brinf' the abs( . t seigneur. A 
 'strange nervousnesH begotten of waiting and 
 expectation, hope and dread fills her. She 
 can rest nowhere ; she wanders aimlessly 
 aboutfthe house, starting at every heavy 
 footstep, at every opening door. 
 
 Miss Houth watches her with malicious, 
 smiling eyes. She has seen Kene, at least - 
 has walked down to the village on purpose; 
 and chatted for five minuses condescending, 
 ly with the hostess. No, tui^y have not many 
 strangers at the Arms thi^ spring, the land- 
 lady says, dropping a courtesy ; only one 
 just now, a Mr. Macdonald, a foreigner, by 
 his looks, and ways, and talk, in spite of his 
 Scotch name. No, she does not know when 
 he is going away ; he does not say ; he is a 
 real gentleman in all his ways, and gives very 
 little trouble. Mr. Macdonald appears at 
 the moment, walking briskly up the road, 
 with his sketch-book and cigar, and keen 
 dark eyes, and Miss Routh hastily pulls down 
 her veil and departs. 
 
 The day wears on. Sir Vane comes not. 
 It brings no answer to her letter either, and 
 Dolores' fitlul exaltation of feeling vanishes 
 as it came. A dull depression, a fear of the 
 future tills her. How blank and drear that 
 long life-pain stretches before her, here in 
 this silent, dark, mouldering old home, with 
 the faces of these two womnn who dislike 
 her, before her every day, and all day long I 
 Insulted, distrusted, unloved, how shall she 
 bear it to the bitter end. And she is but 
 nineteen, and life looks so long, so long I 
 
 Perhaps it is the unusual confinement in 
 the house that is telling upon her ; it is now 
 two days since she has been out. A half- 
 stifled feeling oppresses her , she must get 
 out of the deathly-silent.gruesome rooms, or 
 Buflfooate. It is after dinner ; the last ray 
 of twilight is fading out ; there is a broad 
 May moon rising and a star-studded sky . 
 
 She leaves the house and wanders aimless* 
 ly for awhile between the prim beds and 
 borders of one of the stiff Dutch gardens. 
 Now and then she stoops to gather the old- 
 fashioned, sweet-smelling floWers, but almost 
 
 without knowing what she does. A nightin* 
 gale is sinsing, in a thorn- bush near, a song 
 so piercingly sweet, so mournful in its sweet- 
 ness, tuat she stops, and the tears rise to her 
 eyes as she listens. And in that stop and 
 pause to listen something more than the 
 nightingale's song reaches her ear — the soft^ 
 cooing tones of Camilla Routh pronouncing 
 her name. 
 
 * Dolores' lover ? Was he really a lov^r of 
 your wife's, Vane, before you married her ?' 
 she is asking. Miy thing more lover-like 
 than they looked wnen I surprised them, it 
 would be difiicult to find. And he is very 
 handsome — there can be no mistake about 
 that — with the most beautiful Spanish eyes I 
 think I oversaw.' 
 
 There is a srumbling reply ; it sounds 
 like, 'Devil take his eyes 1' audit is the v-'ioe 
 of the lord of Valentine. 
 
 Dolores stands quite still, thrilled and 
 shocked, feeling all cold and rigid, and 
 powerless to move. A tall thick hedge sepa- 
 rates them ; she wears a dark, dun-coloured 
 dresf, and in this shadowy light, among the 
 other shadows of trees and moonlight, she 
 can hftrdly be seen. They are walking slow- 
 ly up and down a secluded avenup known as 
 the Willow Walk. In the deep eveaing hush 
 even Miss Routh's subdued tones are distinct>- 
 ly and painfully audible. 
 
 'He is still in cha v'illage,'— again it is 
 Misa Bouth who speaks , ' how often they 
 meet, where they meet, I do not know. That 
 they do meet is certain, of course. Yes, 
 Colonel Deering has called twice, but ehe 
 has declined to see him ; one lover, I sup- 
 pose, at a time, is as much as she can attend 
 to.' 
 
 • Old loves, new loves, what are they worth, 
 Old love dies at the new love's birth.' 
 
 hums the fair Camilla, and laughs softly. 
 {j^' Signore Rene is far and away the hand- 
 somer man of the two. ' 
 
 ' Are you too deserting Deering and going 
 over to this sallow,black'eyed boy, Camilla?' 
 retorts with a sneer, Sir Vane. 
 
 ' No,' lightly. * Like your pretty wife, I 
 am true to my first lover. She is pretty, 
 Vane — really pretty. I always doubted it— 
 being a blonde myself, I seldom admire 
 blondes, but the other evening when I came 
 upon her by his side down there in the park 
 — you should have seen her — transfigured by 
 gladness, love — who knows what ? Yes, she 
 is pretty— when she likes. I confess the 
 woe-besone expression she puts on for us 
 hardly Decomes her. People are beginning 
 to talk — many were whispering the other 
 night at the Broughton how wretchedly ill 
 and worn Lady Valentine was looking. It 
 would be well to speak to her on the subject, 
 
*LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 147 
 
 A nightin< 
 ear, a song 
 n its sweet- 
 I rise to her 
 kt stop and 
 i than the 
 r — the aof t^ 
 trooouncing 
 
 y a lovqr of 
 irried her V 
 i lover-Uke 
 3d them, it 
 I he is very 
 itake about 
 koiah eyes I 
 
 it sounds 
 is the v-'ioe 
 
 drilled and 
 rigid, and 
 hedge sepa- 
 an- coloured 
 , among the 
 onlight, she 
 liking slow- 
 p known aa 
 eeuing hush 
 are distinct.- 
 
 -again i!: is 
 \ often they 
 mow. That 
 urse. Yes, 
 ce, but phe 
 over, I sup- 
 i can attend 
 
 I they worth, 
 birth.' 
 
 s softly, 
 the hand- 
 
 g and going 
 y, Camilla?' 
 
 etty wife, I 
 is pretty, 
 oubted it— 
 om admire 
 hen I came 
 in the park 
 latigured by 
 Yes, she 
 Bonfess the 
 on for us 
 ■e beginning 
 the other 
 etohedly ill 
 oking. It 
 the subject, 
 
 I think, Vane. I* may be pleasant iur her 
 to pose in the par', of the heart-broken wife, 
 bun it cau hardly 'je agreeable for you.' 
 
 .Sometniuij; — arulkyand stifled impreca- 
 tioQ it <>ouQds 1 ke, ground out between 
 closed teech, is the answer. Miss Routh is 
 an expert niouaer, and knows how to torture 
 her viutim well. 
 
 * Buc ai>out this extravagant story — what 
 of that. Vane ? ' 
 
 Miss Rouch appears to haye the ball of 
 conversation in her own hands, and to un- 
 wind at her pleasure. 
 
 ' Something must be done, and at once. 
 We may disbelieve it, but we cannot afford to 
 ignore it. And others will not if we do. 
 Once let it get abroad that you are not 
 really the rightful baronet — the rightful ' 
 
 She is interrupted sullenly, angrily, by her 
 oompaniou . 
 
 ' I do not propose that is shall get abroad,' 
 he says. 
 
 'No ? But that is Macdonald's purpose in 
 coming here. How are you to prevent it ? 
 Your wife will see him — ' 
 
 ' My wife will not see him. She shall 
 never see him again.' 
 
 •What do you mean ?* breathlessly. 
 
 ' Nothing that you need take that startled 
 tone about,' sulkily, ' nothing but what I 
 have a perfect right to do. I mean to re- 
 move my wife out of his way.' 
 
 • Yes ?' eagerly . ' How — where ? ' 
 
 * To Fiintbarrow. My mines will keep me 
 there, off and on, for months — years if I like. 
 What more natural,' grimly, 'than that an 
 adoring young wife would wish to remain 
 with her husband ? It is a dismal place, I 
 admit— all the more reason why she should 
 enliven my enforced exile there. The old 
 stone house is out of repair, but we can fur- 
 nish up two or three rooms, and for two 
 loving and lately united hearts, what more is 
 required ? And I doubt if M. Rene Mac- 
 donald's beautiful Spanish, French, Italian 
 — what is it ? — eyes will illuminate the gloom 
 of Fiintbarrow for her, though they were 
 twice as sharp as they are.' 
 
 There is silence for a moment , they pass 
 out of range in their slow walk, and the 
 sweet song of the nightingale tills up the 
 pause. For Dolores— the world is going 
 round, the stars are reeling ; she catches 
 hold of the hedge, but fails to hold herself, 
 and half falls, half sinks in a dark heap in 
 the dew-wet grass. 
 
 ♦ She will not go ; I tell you she will not 
 go,' are the words of Camilla she heArs next. 
 ' She has a great deal of latent force apd re- 
 solution, once aroused, and she fears, and 
 dislikes, and distrusts us all. Here she has 
 friends— Colonel Deering, the rector's family. 
 
 the Broughtons, Lady Ratherripe — to whom 
 she may appeal if she choser. There she will 
 have no one. She will not go. ' 
 
 ' Will she not ? ' says the hard, metallic 
 tones of the baronet. ' Ah, we shall see ! 
 You taunted me before with my impotence 
 in my own house — I could not compel the 
 woman Jemima to leave. I have banished 
 the maid; I shall banish the mistress, exact* 
 ly how, and when, and where I pleaae. 
 Meantime, tell Dorothy nothing of tnis ; I 
 don't want to be maddened by her questioas 
 and comments. For this Macdonald ' 
 
 There is another break ; they pass down 
 under the willows. She who crouches under 
 the hedge, prone there on the wet grass, 
 makes no effort to overhear. She has heard 
 enough. 
 
 * I shall take high-handed measures with 
 him,' — it is the voice of Vane Valentine on 
 the return walk. ' There is a law to punish 
 scoundrels who conspire for purposes of ex< 
 tortion and fraud. This Fariar — a clever, 
 clear-headed rascal as I know him of old, a 
 vagabond by profession — has addled his 
 brains by reading up Roger Tichborue. 
 George Valentine was drowned, beyond all 
 doubt, a score of years ago. Men don't rise 
 from the dead after this fashion, except in 
 the last act of a Porte St. Martin melodrama. 
 I don't fear them, with my credulous fool of 
 a wife out of the way. If it got wind that 
 she believed the story and was on their side 
 — well, I can hardly trust myself to say 
 what I might do in such a case. At Fiint- 
 barrow she will be safe ; at Fiintbarrow 
 there are no long-eared neighbours to listen, 
 no prying eyes to see. There she will be, 
 perforce, as silent as in her coffin. And 
 there, by Heaven, she shall remain until she 
 swears to me to resign all complicity or be* 
 lief in this plot — ay, though it should be un- 
 til her hair is gray ! ' 
 
 'She will not go,' retorts the quietly reso- 
 lute voice of Camilla Routh ; ' she will sus- 
 pect your intentions, she will see your anger 
 against her in your face ' 
 
 ' That she shall not,' grimly ; ' she shall 
 suspect nothing. It shall be made a family 
 affair. You will all come down.' They pa^s 
 by again. A long moment, tticu returuinj^ 
 
 steps and voices. ' in this way. I shall 
 
 use finesse until I get her there,' with a 
 laugh that makes Camilla shiver. ' I shall 
 doubt the stoiy, of course, decline to see 
 Farrar's ambassador, refuse to listen to a 
 word, scout the whole impossible romance. 
 Meantime I must at once return tO Cornwall, 
 and it is my desire that you and my sister 
 and my wife come down after me to see the 
 place. What can be more natural ? aud ouoa 
 there——' 
 
148 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 o 
 
 The pause that follows is more lisnifioant 
 than any words. Camilla's low laugh comes 
 through it softly. 
 
 m* An excellent idea, Vane I did not give 
 you credit for so much strategy. Of course 
 Dorothy is to be kept in the dark ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. She has a sort of liking for 
 my wife, and might blurt out something. 
 She will like to see the old place 
 again, she spent her youth there, you 
 
 know.' . J T T 
 
 * How long are we to remain, sne ana l, l 
 
 mean?' 
 
 « A week or two, as you like. Of course I 
 would be very glad to keen you there, Ca- 
 milla, but you would not like it. It is dead- 
 ly dull ; the nearest hamlet is five miles off ; 
 nothing but moors behind, stretching up to 
 the sky, and the sea in front melting into the 
 horizon. A week I dare say will be as much 
 of it as you will be able io exist through. 
 No one will wonder at Lady Valentine's re. 
 maining— it is surely the most natural thing 
 in the world that she should remain with her 
 husband under the circuinstanies. Now per- 
 haps we had better go in. I have not dined. 
 After dinner I shall speak to Dolores, and— 
 therestwillbeeasy.' 
 
 They pass out of sight and hearing— this 
 time there is no return. The nightingale on 
 the thorn-bush near has the night to itself 
 and its sweet love-song. , , , 
 
 Dolores lies where she has sunk, hei face 
 hidden in her hands, the chill, fresh-scented 
 grass, cool and grateful to her heated head. 
 She is numb and aching, full of a cold, death- 
 ly torpor— • past hope, past care, past help.' 
 life has come to an end— just that. ' And 
 now I live, and now my life is done' — done— 
 done for ever and forever! 
 
 After a time — not long — though it seems 
 long to her, a physical strength of discomfort 
 and cold makes her get up. Once on her 
 feet she stands for a moment dizzily— then 
 turns mechanically and walks back to the 
 house. It is late, and she will be missed ; 
 she does not want to be missed, she is hardly 
 conscious of more ttan that. If she suffers 
 she hardly realizes it— in soul and body she 
 is benumbed. Much pain, Many blown, have 
 dulled for the time all sense of agony. 
 
 They are all three in the drawing-room 
 when she enters. Miss Valentine bending 
 over her never-endingaocount-books. Miss 
 Routh at the piano. Her fingers are flying 
 over the keys in a brilliant gallop, she laughs 
 up in Sir Vane's face, and chatters gayly as 
 she plays. She looks over her shoulder keen- 
 ly at the new comer, her mocking smile at 
 its most derisive. , „ , . . ^ 
 
 * jTow pale you are, Lady Valentine, she 
 says ; ' whither have you been wandering 
 
 until this unearthly hour ? See ! our truant 
 has returned in your absence . She has pined 
 heiself to a shadow, as you may see for your- 
 self, in your absence. Vane. You must take 
 her with you to Cornwall, I think !' 
 
 Sir Vane rises and cornea forward, quite 
 like the old Sir Vane of Italian days, courte* 
 ous if cold, and takes her hand. 
 
 ' You do look pale, Dolores. You should 
 not stay about in the night air. And see — 
 your dress is ^quite wet with dew. I have 
 returned to answer your letter in person. 
 Naturally it annoyed me. How «an you 
 credit such a cock-and-bull story ? Come 
 here and sit down, and let us talk tho thing 
 over.' 
 
 He leads her to a chair — wonderful cordial- 
 ity, this I and takes another near her. It is 
 quite a lover-like tableau — Mss Routh's gray- 
 green eyes gleam derisively as she glances. 
 Dolores takes up a screen and holds it before 
 her face. 
 
 ' The light dazsles my eyes,' she says, 
 without meeting his glance. 
 
 He looks at her suspiciously. She is 
 singularly, startlingy pale ; her eyes look 
 wild, and dark, and dazed — what is the 
 ixiatter with her ? Has this story and Mac- 
 donald's coming turned her brain ? But his 
 voice is smooth, conspicuously smooth and 
 gentle when he speakB. She site, the screen 
 held well before her face, her eyes fixed upon 
 its frisky Japanese figures, but seeing none 
 of them . His voice is in her ear, as he talks 
 steadily on and on — she hears its tone, but 
 is scarcely conscious of hia words. Miss 
 Routh's gay playing fills the room ; she plays 
 the ' Beautiful Blue Danube ' — his monoton- 
 ous words set themselves to the gay, bright 
 music, and blend and lose themselves in the 
 melody — ail mingle themselves together in 
 her mind ; nothing seems clear or distinct. 
 
 Is she assenting or answering at all to what 
 he says ? Afterward she does not know. He 
 seems to be satisfied, at least, when he rises 
 at last, and leaves her, crossing over to Ca- 
 milla Routh. 
 
 ' Well ?■ she asks. '^ 
 
 ' It is well. I knew it would be. She 
 says yes to everything. She will go. ' 
 
 ' I don't believe she knows what she is 
 saying,' thinks Miss Routh, glancing across 
 at her. ' She sits there with the fixed, va- 
 cant look of a sleep walker. She had it when 
 she came {in . What if she heard us talking 
 out there. It is very possible. Suppose she 
 has — what then ?' 
 
 She looks once more more, trying to read 
 
 her amwer in that pale, rigid face. As she 
 
 looks Dolores rises, and without glancing at 
 
 any ond, or speaking, quits the room. 
 
 ' H'm !' muses Miss Routh, thoughtfully, 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN 
 
 149 
 
 )ur truant 
 haa pined 
 I for your- 
 
 nust take 
 
 > 
 
 ftrd, quite 
 8, oourte- 
 
 >u should 
 .nd see — 
 I have 
 D person. 
 «an you 
 ' 7 Corae 
 tho thing 
 
 il cordial- 
 ler. It is 
 th's gray- 
 i glances. 
 1 it before 
 
 ahe says. 
 
 She is 
 yes look 
 t is the 
 and Mac- 
 Bat his 
 looth and 
 ;he screen 
 xed upon 
 eing none 
 
 I he talks 
 [tone, but 
 s. Miss 
 she plays 
 monoton- 
 ly, bright 
 -es in the 
 tgether in 
 istinot. 
 
 II to what 
 :now. He 
 
 he rises 
 TQT to Ca- 
 
 be. 
 > 
 
 She 
 
 0.' 
 
 lat she is 
 ng across 
 fixed, va- 
 d it when 
 IS talking 
 ppose she 
 
 ig to read 
 As she 
 ancing at 
 m. 
 aghtfully, 
 
 resuming her performance, ' something odd 
 here. The end is not yet. Your wife is not 
 in Comwpll yet awhile, Sir Vane Valen- 
 tine.' 
 
 ' How long do you stay with us V she asks 
 him, aloud. 
 
 ' Until to-morrow only. Apart from this 
 affair, my presence is necessary there. By 
 being on the spot I save no end of money, 
 and hurry on the work. You, and Dorothy, 
 and Dolores will follow — say in two days. 
 I suppose it would look a trifle abrupt to 
 hurry yo^ off with me to-morrow. Mean- 
 while, watch her ; no more secret meetings 
 with Macdonald, if you can by any means 
 prevent them. Come to Flintbarrow with- 
 out fail on the third day.' 
 
 'I will come,' responds Miss Routh . • But 
 whether your wife will accompany me or not, 
 cousin mine, she adds, inwardly, ' that third 
 day only will tell ! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ^r;{;, 
 
 'adrift as a leaf in the stokm.' 
 
 Sir 
 
 Next morning, by the earliest train, 
 Vane Valentine goes back to Cornwall. 
 
 His sister alone sits and pours out his cof- 
 fee at the hurried early breakfast that pre- 
 cedes departure. Miss Routh is not au early 
 bird, and Lady Valentine usually up as early 
 as Dorothy herself, does not appear. 
 
 Sir Vane does not seek her to say good-by. 
 He is nervous and ill at ease, and haa no ap- 
 petite. This 'fraudulent plot,' this 'trumped- 
 up conspiracy,' disturbs him more than he 
 cares to show. If they persist in it and drag 
 it before the world, a horrible exposure will 
 be the result. And even if their defeat is 
 ultimately secured, the legal expenses will 
 be something he shudders to contemplate. 
 With what it feeds on Sir Vane's love of 
 wealth grows. If their defeat should not be 
 secured — but even in thought he cannot 
 imagine so wild a possibility as that. Ooue 
 let him get his o»-*^dulous. romantic wife out 
 of the way, safely down in the lonely, sea- 
 girt seclusion of Flintbarrow, and the first 
 step toward safety will have been taken. 
 She is as wild and shy as a partridge — as 
 ready to take flight. He will not disturb her 
 this mornin;i ; she will come the more read- 
 ily and unsuspiciously with his sister and 
 cousin, if he does not seem too eager. After 
 that he will know how to deal with M. Rene 
 Macdonald. 
 
 itfiSileace reigns at this hasty meal. 
 Valentine is pleased at the invitation 
 turn to her uative Cornish wilds for a 
 but Miss Valentine is not diffusive by nat 
 ure, and sits grimly and silently behind the 
 
 Miss 
 to re- 
 little. 
 
 coffee-pot Desolate, lonely, shut out from 
 the world 1 far stretching moors and leagues 
 of dark ami stormy sea, she yet loves those 
 'thun(^3ring shores of Bnde and Boss,' and 
 would willingly resiflu her position as house* 
 keeper of Manor Vuentine to return thither 
 to her peaceful life. But Vane rules it 
 otherwise, and Vane's will has ever been 
 her law* 
 
 ' You think your wife will be willing to'go. 
 Vane?' she asks, rather abruptly, just^be- 
 fore he departs. 
 
 • Certainly ; why not ? ' he returns, sharp- 
 ly. ' A wife's place is beside her husband. 
 She needs a change, too, and bracing air — 
 the visit wUl do her good. Sea air is native 
 air to her ; she was brought up on an 
 island.' 
 
 'Yes, Miss Dorothy assents, thought- 
 fully, ' she looks as if she needed a change. 
 She eats nothing, and fails away to a shadow. 
 Still. I doubt if Flintbarrow will help her, 
 or if she will like the place. It is a gloomy 
 spot, you must admit, for a young girl like 
 her, brother Vane. ' 
 
 'She will have to accustom herself to its 
 gloom. I shall be there to bear her company 
 Do you wish to leave her behind to amuse 
 herself flirting with Deering, Dorothy ? Bo 
 kind enough not to be a fool. Here is the 
 trap — good-by.' I shall expect you all with- 
 out fail, remember, on Friday afternoon.' 
 
 He leaves the room, banging the doors 
 angrily after him, jumps into the waiting 
 trap ; the groom gathers up the leins, and. 
 they drive oft'. 
 
 Three pairs of feminine eyes watch the 
 departure, with very different looks — Miss 
 Dorothy Valentine, grimly, through her 
 glasses : Miss Routh, with an inexplicable 
 smile, and two sombre blue eyes, dark and 
 heavy-lidded from a sleepless night. 
 0Miss Routh, in the freshest and crispest 
 of morning toilets, indulges in a stroll 
 through the village before luocheon, and 
 makes a call, in her gracious way, on the 
 hostess of the Ratherripe Arms . As she sits 
 by the open parlour window, framed in wood- 
 bine and roses, Mr. Macdonald, sketch-book 
 in hand, the inevitable cigar between his 
 lips, passes, and glances in. So ! he lingers 
 still then ! She must watch well, and dis- 
 cover whether another secret interview takes 
 place before the departure for Cornwall. She 
 hastens home and makes inquiries. Her 
 maid, instructed for the puipose, has ke^t 
 an eye on my lady's doings. But there is 
 little to report. My lady has not appeared 
 at all , some ''ea and toast have been taken 
 up to her, and she h»o declined to receive a 
 call from Miss Valentine, under the plea of a 
 headache. The maid is positive my lady 
 
150 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAlN. 
 
 f. 
 
 
 has. not quitted the house thd whole inoruinK ; 
 ■he has sat, with tier sewing, the whole of 
 the forenoon in oue of the rooms near, the 
 door open, and has heard my lady talking 
 to ^.he honsekeeper in her own sitting-room, 
 
 "Lunuheon hour cornea ; still my lady ap- 
 pears not. Miss Routh never needless- 
 ly wastes her energies in conversation with 
 her own sex ; she eats her luncheon with ex- 
 cellent appetite, and thinks her own thoughts, 
 ft hall smile hovering around her lips. What 
 ia my lady about in the seclusion of her own 
 room ? She has no faith in the headache. 
 Thti oonviction is forcing itself upon her that 
 her talk with Vane in the Willow Walk has 
 been over heard. Dolores looked as if strick- 
 en by some desperate' blow when she came 
 in — what else could have given her that 
 white, wild face ? Well, and what then ? 
 If she goes, it means imprisonment for an in- 
 definite period in the dreariest old house in 
 the world ; if she refuf^es to go, it means, of 
 oou.se, secret meetings with her old lover, 
 opea_ meetings with her new one, Colonel 
 Deering— either way destructive for her rival. 
 
 On the whole, perhaps, she half hopes it 
 may mem refusal to go. A few of these 
 stolen assiguations in secluded nooks in the 
 1 ark, and — it may be possible for Vane to 
 procure a diyorce. Lucy, her maid, is a spy 
 h.i nature, ana the only servant in the house 
 vho diclikea Lady Valentine. Lucy will 
 watoh well, and who knows — who knows — 
 
 'He is very handsome,' Miss Routh thinks, 
 a greenish, evil glitter in her brooding eyes, 
 'and she loved him long before she knew 
 Vane, and would have married him but for 
 old Madam Valentine. Or course, she is in 
 love wibh him still, and of course also, she 
 hates her husband. If she overheard their 
 conversation what more natural than that 
 she should wish to seo him again, and tell him 
 and seek sympathy and consolation. And 
 Lucy will watch. How will it sound ? — her 
 old lover comes to Valentine — I surprise 
 them iu the most secluded nook of the park- 
 land, she refuses tvo join her husband in 
 Cornwall, though Dorothy and myself go, 
 ■he and this lover still have private meet- 
 ings in our absence. Will it be enough, col- 
 oured as Lucy will coJour it ? A divorce 
 would free him — he hatei^ the bond as much 
 as she does, and once free he will marry me. 
 As for the dead-alive story this Signor Mao- 
 dona^d teils — I do not believe it. Camilla, 
 Lady Valentine I Well — liinoe Colonel Deer- 
 ing ia not to be captured, it must suffice. 
 For her — she will go back to the outer dark- 
 ness, with her Spanish eyed handsome young 
 lover, and be heard of no more I * 
 
 Colonel Deering calls before dinner, and is 
 invited to stay and diue en famiUe. He ac- 
 
 cepts — he has come for that indeed, and for 
 » glimpse of his enchantress. Miss Routh is 
 maliciously willing to accommodate him, 
 but will she appear ? Yes— just as dinner is 
 announced, Lady Valentine comes in, and 
 takes her accustomed place. 
 
 Camilla Routh looks at her curiously. She 
 is dressed in pale pink, and if she is whiter 
 than usual, the delicate rosy tint of. her 
 robes lends a sort of illusive glow, his eyes 
 not too inquisitively alert. But she is v<^ry 
 pale, and except when directly addressed 
 scarcely speaks throughout the meal. The 
 conversation turns on the trip to Cprnwall, 
 the Colonel is profuse in his regrets that 
 even for a few days they aie to lose the 
 ladies of Valentino, but Camilla notices that 
 Lady Valentine holds aloof fi om the subject, 
 and expresses no feeling in the mailer, one 
 way or other. All Colonel Deering's efforts 
 to draw her into the general talk fails -her 
 replies are monosyllable, her eyes scarcely 
 leave her plate. What is she thinking of, 
 Camilla Routh wonders, with that pale, 
 fixed, unsmiling face. 
 
 After dinner, they stroll out into the 
 grounds, silvery and sweet, in the starry 
 dusk ; that is to say. Colonel Deering and 
 Miss Routh do. Dolores does not join them. 
 She sits by one of the open windows, her 
 hands lying listlessly in her lap, the sombre 
 look that never used to be there, that is 
 growing habitual to them, in her blue eyes, 
 ivliss Dorothy at another window, goes 
 practically over the week's housekeeping, 
 and checks the tradespeople's accounts. 
 Later, when they return, Camilla goes to the 
 piano, according to custom, but all through 
 the musical storm that follows, and until 
 the colonel perforce departs, she never quits 
 her place, her eyes never leave the dim 
 starry landscape, the whispering trees, the 
 falling night. She is pressed by him to sing 
 but refuses, still in the same listless way, 
 and the hand she gives him at parting is 
 jold and lifeless. 
 
 *It is good-night, you know,' h") says,' 
 holding it in his close clasp. ' I shall ride 
 over to-morrow, and the day after I shall at 
 least have the pleasure ot coming to say 
 good- speed.' 
 
 She makes no answer, and when his briefer 
 adieus have bee" made t>t the other two 
 ladies, and he turns for a last glance at her, 
 he finds she ba^ already gone. 
 
 Thus far the watchful Camilla has been 
 foiled, there have been no further meetings, 
 with lovers, in public or in private. All 
 next day she keeps up her system of private 
 espionage, but with the same result. She 
 can obtain no clew to Dolores' hidden 
 thoughts, and she certainly leaves the house 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 151 
 
 to meet no one. Colonel Deering calls »c- 
 cording to promise, but my lady is engaged, 
 and does not see him. Her conduct these 
 last two days is decorum itself. Well, time 
 will tell ; to-morrow at nine they start, and 
 Camilla, by thia, has worked herself into a 
 fever of cariosity to know how all this is to 
 end. 
 
 This last day is spent in pricking. Lady 
 Valentine has no maid ; she Jiaa declined all 
 successors to Jemima Ann, Miss Routh 
 kindly presses upon her the services of Lucy ; 
 the offer is declined with cold thanks. Still 
 not a sigh, a hint, a look to show whether it 
 is to be OornWHll or not. 
 
 The last night comes — goes, and the 
 morning is here. An early breakfast has 
 been prepared. At eight o'clock Miss Routh 
 and Miss Valentine, ' booted and spurred * 
 for this trip, appear in the brenkfast room. 
 
 One hasty giance from Cam; 'la's green 
 eyes, her heart quickening expectantly its 
 calm beatins;— Dolores if, not there. 
 
 'Where is Lady "Valentine?' demands 
 Miss Dorothy ; ' ig she not re- ly ? Go up, 
 Dobson, and see. Tell her we have but just 
 fifteen minutes for brettkfast as it is. Make 
 haste. ' 
 
 Dobson goes — returns, and alone. 
 
 ' Well ? ' Miss Dorothy demands, with 
 asperity. 
 
 ' Please, 'm,' says Dobson, breathless, ' my 
 lady's compliments, 'm,' and she ain't 
 a-goio' I ' 
 
 * What I ' 
 
 ' Which it's a bad headache, 'm, and she 
 aint hup. She says don't wait for her, if you 
 please, 'm. She says she ain't able to go no- 
 Where's to-day, please 'm.' 
 
 Miss Dorothypd justs her double eye-glass 
 more firmly on her Bioman nose, and glances 
 sternly at Camilla Routh. That young lady 
 shrugs her shoulders and sips her tea, a gleam 
 of exultation in her cat-like eyes. 
 
 ' What does this mean. Camilla ? ' 
 
 ' You had better go and ask, Dorothy. 
 You need not glare at me in that blood-freez- 
 ing fashion— 1 have nothing to do with it. 
 Impossible to account for the vagaries of our 
 charming Dolores. Go up and see for your- 
 self if you are curious. It may be as she 
 says, she may possibly have a headache. 
 Meantime I will finish my breakfast.' 
 
 She pours herself a second cup of tea. 
 But her hand shakes, and her pulse beats 
 quick and high. Not going after all ! 
 
 Miss Dorothy much perturbed, takes the 
 advice, and marches up to the chamber of 
 her sister-in-law. Entering, she finds Dolo- 
 res in semi-darkness, and Dolores herself, 
 lying pale among her pillows. Her eyes are 
 closed, her hands are clasped above bei head 
 
 ^ er fail hair is tossed about — so lying ahe 
 looks so wan, so worn, so really ill, that 
 orothy is startled and alarmed. 
 
 ' My dear Dolores,' she exclaims, ' what 
 is this ? Is it poscible you are really ill ? ' 
 
 The blue eyes open and look up at her. 
 The dark circles that tells of sleepless 
 nights surround them. 
 
 ' Not really ill, only out of sorts and al* 
 together unfitted for a railway journey. 
 My head aches. You will please start 
 without me. It is impossible for me to 
 go to Cornwall to-day .' 
 
 ' But Vane said ' 
 
 'I know,' quickly, 'he could not foraee 
 this. Indeed my head aches horribly ; I 
 was awake all night. Do not stay for me 
 — with a few hours' perfect quiet I shall 
 do very well. There is no reason why 
 you and Miss Routh should disappoint him 
 Do not lose your train by waiting hsre. A 
 few hours' repose, and I will be quite well 
 again. Your brother will be angry if you 
 disappoint him, you know.' 
 
 This is so true >hat Miss Valentine 
 winces. She stands more thoroufi;hly at a 
 loss than ever before in her life. To go, or 
 not to go, that is the question. Which 
 will anger Vane most — to go to him and 
 leave Dolores behind, or to remain with 
 her, and disappoint him ? His irritation is 
 certain either way. While Jie stands ir- 
 resolute Camilla comes fluttering gayly to 
 the rescue. 
 
 'Ill, Lady Valentine? So sorry. So 
 very inopportune. Cousin Vane will be so 
 disappointed. Still, Dorothy, it will not do 
 for us to disappoimi him as well. His 
 wishes were most positi ve,you may remember 
 to go to-day without fail. You had better 
 not linger. We will tell him of Dolores' in* 
 disposition, and of course he will come for 
 her to-morrow. So sorry to leave you quite 
 alone — such a bore for you— but it is only 
 for one day. Come, Dorothy, we shall cer< 
 tainly miss our train .' 
 
 ' Yeu really think, then, Camilla, that 
 Vane would prefer us to go and leave 
 Dolores ? ' asks the perplexed Dorothy. 
 
 She has much faith in Camilla Routh's 
 opinion where Vane is concerned, much 
 faith in her influeace over him. 
 
 'Certainly I do,' Miss Routh responds 
 promptly . ' I not only am sure he would 
 prefer it, but that he will be alarmed as well 
 as angry, if we do not. Adieu, Dolores, 
 cherie — be ready to come with Vane to-mor- 
 row. Now, Dorothy ! ' 
 
 Her tone is sharp, she moves away impul- 
 sively, she hurries off the still doubtful, 
 still disposed-to-lineer Dorothy before there 
 is time tor farther discussion. The carriage 
 
162 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 
 n 
 
 i 
 
 ■«*' 
 
 r^ 
 
 ii at the door, they are in, and whirling 
 rapidly to the station. There is time to get 
 tickets, to cake their places in the compart- 
 ment, and no more. The door shuts upon 
 them, the whistle shrieks, and they are 
 flying; along Cornwall-ward almost before 
 Dorothy Valentine has had time to catch 
 her bewildered breath. 
 
 *W/e h%ve done wrong to leave her, 
 Camilla, ' she gasps, flurried and breathless. 
 * We might have telegraphed to Vaue, and 
 waitdd until to-morrow. We have done 
 •ATong. Vane will be very angry, ' 
 
 Miss Routh laughs — a laugh neither 
 mirthful nor pleasant to hear. 
 
 •Yes, Dorothy,' she says, f.veetly, 'I 
 think he will. But not with us. We have 
 obeyed orders. Yes, he will be angry, and I 
 think — I think with reason. ' 
 
 'Then wh}%' demands Miss Valentine, 
 with acerbity, 'did you urgo me to come? 
 I would have staid with her, but you 
 said ' 
 
 ' I ^aid Vane had ordered us not to stay, 
 and I said truly. We have done as com- 
 manded — he has no right or reason to find 
 fault with us. To-morrow is but one more 
 day— to-morrow he will return for her, and 
 then ' 
 
 ' Well — and then ? ' says the elder woman, 
 btruck by the strange look Camilla Routh's 
 face wears. 
 
 ' And then he will bring her to Flintbar- 
 row perhaps,' answers Camilla, with her 
 
 most suggestive smile. 
 
 * ■ * » # ♦ 
 
 Dolores' excuse has been something more 
 than a mere excuse ; her head does ache 
 with a dull, persistent pain. But as the 
 carriage rolls away she gets up and dresses — 
 not in one of her pretty, much-embroidei-ed 
 morning robe j, but in thelplainest travelling 
 suit her vtardrobe contains. For she is 
 
 ?oing on a journey to-day, though not to 
 !ornwall, a very long journey, and Manor 
 Valentine is to know her no more. This is 
 the end. All she can bear she has borne, 
 flight alone is left. Death were better than 
 what awaits her in that desolate house down 
 by the Cornish sea. Life by the side of 
 Vane Valentine is at au end for all time. 
 Outrage, insult, sneers, neglect, have been 
 her portion fron the tirst in this hated 
 house — this h'^use to which neither she nor 
 the man who is her husband has any longer 
 claim. To-day slie quits it to return no 
 more. She has thought it out, over and 
 over again, during these two silent, secluded 
 days ; no one shall know whither she goes, 
 not even Rene— least of all Rene. He is 
 Btill at the village inn she is aware, but she 
 will neither see him nor write to him. She 
 
 is going to her one faithful friend. Jemima 
 Ann, waiting for the answer to her letter, in 
 her London lodgings, and with her she will 
 returu to America. What she will do when 
 she gets there she does not yet know, time 
 enough for that, at present she has 
 but one thought, escape, before her husband 
 comes. To-morrow night he will be here, 
 angry, buspicious, more sullen and despotic 
 than ever her escape must be secured before 
 that time. And once away, no power on 
 earth shall compel her to raturn. Come what 
 may — death itself — she will never return 
 to this life from which she flies. 
 
 She dresses. She packs a satchel with 
 some needful things ; she takes the jewels 
 given her by Madam Valentine, and money 
 sufficient for all present needs. If these 
 things are not hers, they are not at least the 
 property of Vane Valentine. If M. Paul 
 ic their rightful owner, M. Paul is her true 
 and generous friend . Then she rings for tea 
 and toastj and makes an effort to ea^. 
 Strength is necessary— courage, presence of 
 mind. Hope is rising within her. Once 
 free — once with Jemima — once far from this 
 house — once across the ocean — once faiily 
 out of the power of her tyrant and Camilla 
 Routh, and she fears nothing, neither work, 
 nor poverty, nor homelessness. She will be 
 free— her heart beats at the thought. A fen- 
 weeks more of this life would drive her mad . 
 
 The Louse is very still, in i s kng foreuoon 
 repose. The servants are engaged in their 
 various duties — the watchful Lucy has goue 
 with her mistress No one notices the quiet 
 figure that, veiled and cloakod, with hand- 
 bag and shawl strap, leaves the house by a 
 side entrance, and disapn^rs amid the thick 
 growth of the park-land.^Pie take' the short 
 cut to the station, along which Rene came, 
 and found her the other day — there is a Lon- 
 don up-ttain at eleven tiity. At the turn 
 where the path branches off' and the house 
 disappears, she turns for a moment, aversion, 
 hatred, strong in her face, and looks back. 
 It is a leaden, sunless day, threatening 
 rain — the gray old Manor looks grayer and 
 more gruesorae than she has ever seen it. 
 How utterly miserable from the very first 
 she has been there. With a shudder she 
 turns away, pulls her veil over her face, 
 and hurries on. 
 
 She is in excellent time. She takes her 
 ticket, and hidden behind her thick veil, 
 waits. No one she knows is at the station 
 — the village folks have seen very little of 
 her during her brief reign at tho Manor 
 House. Presently the train rushes in — she 
 slips into an empty carriage— a moment 
 more and she is speeding on her Loudon 
 way — flying fiom Valentine — tree. 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 168 
 
 riend. Jemima 
 > her letter, in 
 h her she will 
 I will do when 
 it know, time 
 nt she has 
 a her husband 
 will be here, 
 I and despotic 
 jecared before 
 no power on 
 1. Come what 
 never return 
 
 satchel with 
 Les the jewels 
 e, and money 
 is. If these 
 ot at least the 
 
 If M. Paul 
 ill is her true 
 B liugs for tea 
 fifort to ea\i. 
 e, presence of 
 
 her. Once 
 I far from this 
 I — once faiily 
 t and Camilla 
 oeither work. 
 She will be 
 uught. A few 
 irive her mad . 
 Icng foreuoon 
 ^aged in their 
 ucy has goue 
 ices the quiet 
 i, with hand- 
 iie house by a 
 mid the thick 
 ake'. the short 
 h Rene came, 
 lere is a Lon- 
 
 At the turn 
 nd the house 
 ent, aversion, 
 d looks back, 
 threatening 
 ks grayer and 
 ever seen it. 
 he very first 
 
 shudder she 
 >ver her face, 
 
 )ho takes her 
 er thick veil, 
 at the station 
 very little of 
 at the Manor 
 ushes in — she 
 ;e — a moment 
 her London 
 tree. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 'after lonu grief and pain.' 
 
 The cleae of a murky London day. Over 
 the chimaey pots a sky of dullest drab is 
 settling down ; from the court below the 
 voices of women and children come u^.|In 
 her room — bedroom and sitting-room in 
 one — Jemima Ann leans out A the little 
 window and tries to catch a breath of air, 
 where air in this pea-soup atmosphere there 
 is none. On her knees, har folded arms 
 on the sill, dejection in her face, she watchen 
 the matrons laden with babies in arms, 
 comparing notes concerning the 'eat of the 
 past day, and the tattered children at play 
 on the flags. For she is homesick and 
 lonely, and longing for a word of farewell, 
 from her darling ere she starts on her long 
 return journey across the Atlantic. That an- 
 swer wts due two days ago, and has not 
 yet arrived. She is sufficiently well pro- 
 vided with money— Dolores has ever been 
 a generous mistress — but she feels this week 
 must perforce bring her waiting to a close. 
 
 She so longs to get away from the sights 
 and sounds of this great grim city, from 
 these innumerable atrange faces, from the 
 land that holds tHe one beiu^ she loves 
 best on earth, and yet keeps her so far 
 away. She will go home — nay, she has no 
 home, but to New York. It will seem home to 
 her afterLoudon.and take a new service there. 
 If Miss Snowb-vll would but write that good- 
 bye she so hncigers to hear. All day long she 
 has beenlibtening for the postman's knock — 
 listening in vain. Even the illustrated 
 ' penny dreadful ' she has gone out and 
 bought, with its four pages of thrilling narra- 
 tive has failed to interest her. And now, 
 disap^K>inted and discouraged, hope has left 
 her for the day. She does not blame her 
 young lady — it is the doing of Sir Vane and 
 thoae two cantankerous old maids. Only 
 she will go well n; 'h to break her heart alto- 
 gether if she has to leave London without a 
 word. 
 
 The gray evening grows grayer ; the leaden 
 sky threatens speedy rain. The mothers 
 and most of the children go indoora to sup 
 per. Boys from the iiearest public house flit 
 about in the obscurity with pots of beer. 
 There is a savory odour iu the thick air as 
 of toasting mu^ns, and frizzling sausages, 
 tripe and onions, and other dainty dishes to 
 go with foamy flagons of bitter beer. Jemima 
 Ann absorbs sights, and sounds, and smells, 
 dreamily, and opines that she will light her 
 candle and have a cup of tea, and another 
 try at the illustrated penny work of light 
 literature. The sound of wheels — of a cab 
 
 drawn up at the entrance of the court fails 
 to attract her notice — it is only the sight of 
 a lady entering, and making her way in the 
 dingy dusk down the court that rousea her 
 ont of her apathy. 
 
 A lady even in that murky light — siender 
 and tall, who pauses to ask her way of the 
 children. Jemima Ann hears the answer, 
 ' Up them stairs — three pair front — there 
 she is at the winder,' and starts wildly to 
 her feet. 
 
 Is it— can it be possible that this is the 
 answer to her letter ? 'She dashes to the 
 door, opens it, and encounters on the land- 
 ing a slender young lady, dressed in dark 
 gray. An oil lamp swings in the passage ; 
 its dim light falls on the face of her visitor— 
 a very, very pale and weary face, but a face 
 whose like, Jemima Ann rapturously thinks, 
 the wide earth again does not hold . 
 
 ' Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear Miss 
 Snowball ! ' she cries out, in a transport of 
 amaze and joy. 
 
 She has her in her little room, the door 
 shut, seated in a chair, she herself kneeling 
 at her feet, her arms clasped about her, 
 laughing, crying, hugging, all in a breath. 
 
 ' Oh, my dearest darling Miss Snowball ! 
 To think of your coming yourself all this 
 long way — of flnding out poor Jemima Ann, 
 of travellinij; hundreds and huudreds of miles 
 to say good-bye to your poor girl who loves 
 you so much.' 
 
 'Dear Jemima,' her vov. ig mistress says, 
 her head drooping Wearily on Jemima's 
 shoulder, a stifled sob in her tired voice, 
 * not good-by. I have come to stay if you 
 will have me, Jemima Ann. ' 
 
 ' Miss Snowball ! My sweetest Miss 
 Snowball — to stay !' 
 
 'To stay, t have run away, Jemima. I 
 am not going back — never, never, never 
 more 1 No, do not ask me questions to-night; 
 yl am tired, so tired. I cannot talk. Give 
 me some tea, please, if you can, »nd let me 
 lie down somewhere and rest. To-ir.orrow I 
 will tell you everything.' 
 
 Utter weariness, heart-sick pain, are in her 
 voice. Jtmima Ann starts up, full of con- 
 cern and repentance. In a moment the candle 
 is lit, and she is removing her young lady's 
 liat and mantlu. Now she sees how thin she 
 has grown, now pale, how worn — a very 
 shadow of the brightly beautiful 'Miss Snow- 
 ball ' of hardly a year ago. 
 
 ' Oh, ray poor dear,' she murmurs, tears 
 rising to her eyes as she kisses Dolores' list- 
 less SIhand. ' What a haro, hard time you 
 must have had.' 
 
 ' Yes, hard — hoart-broakiug,' Dolores an- 
 swers, in the same spiritless way, ' but I am 
 only tired now, Jemima, for all this is over 
 
154 
 
 L03T FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 I am here with you, and we 
 more, my true and loving 
 
 S.:!"'' 
 
 O 
 
 — over forever. 
 w'"l part no 
 friend.' 
 
 She drops her head against the side of the 
 upright wooden chair, and rests so, with 
 ofosad eyes, pallid, spent. Full of a great 
 compassion, Jemima bustles about' up stairs 
 and down, brings ti-a, sets the table, goes 
 out and returns with a crusty loaf, a pat of 
 fresh butter, watercress, and a cold roast 
 fowl. These refreehinonts she arranges in the 
 old, deft, neat way, and then gently sum- 
 mons her beloved arueat. In her hard, stiff- 
 backed chair. Lady Valentme is half asleep, 
 thoroughly fatigued and worn out. The 
 little supper looks tempting, and she is 
 hungry, and eata with a relidh she has not 
 felt for weeks. She is free — her P ttile is ■ 
 left behind that in the thought that gives 
 zest to the viands. After supper, refreshed 
 and invigorated, fUi'. is ready tor a talk, but 
 Jemima, with gentle insistance, puts it off 
 until to-morrow, 
 
 ' There is plenty of time. Miss Snowball — 
 I am in no hurry to go now that you are 
 here ; to-morrow will be time enough. Have 
 a good sleep to-night, and tell me all about 
 it after breakfast. Mine is a harder bed than 
 you are used to, but it ifi as clean, and after 
 ten there is no quieter or respectabler court 
 in London than thiu. So undress, and lie 
 down. You do look just look tit to drop.' 
 
 Dolores obeys passively. She is complete- 
 ly wearied with her journey, and she slept 
 none last night. She lies down on the little 
 hard, clean bed, and holds out her hands 
 like a child, to her faithful attendant. 
 
 ' Dear Jemima,' she says, 'what would I 
 do without you ? Ki^s me good-night.' 
 
 ' My own, own darling Miss Snowball ! ' 
 
 Jemima says ' Oh ! ' under her breath, 
 watching vue sweet, wan face, the tired blue 
 eyes slowly closing, ' to think there should 
 be a man in the world hard and cruel to you! 
 But Sir Vane Valentine is not a man -he is 
 a brute ! ' 
 
 And thus the answer to Jemima's letter 
 comes. 
 
 Next day dawns foggy and raw. The rain 
 is pattering on the window-panes, when quite 
 late, Dolores opens her eyes on this mortal 
 life in the 'three pair front. ' Outside there 
 is wind, and wet, and mud, and fog ; iuside, 
 a brisk little tire blazes in the grate — a glow 
 of hospitable warmth, and welcome, and sun- 
 shine, in itself — an aromatic odour of coffee 
 perfumes the air, hot rolls are on the table, 
 and her clothes, all brushed and fresh, lie on 
 a chair V eside her. No one is in the room as 
 she gets up, half bewildered at first by the 
 atrangenesB of it all. but wonderfully 
 strengthened by her long sleep, and proceeds 
 
 to d-ess. She has nearly tinished when Je- 
 mima enters, rosy with rain and rapid walk- 
 ings laden with eggs, and marmalade, and 
 cool, pink radishes. 
 
 * Now, now, Jemima,' Dolores remonstrates, 
 laughing, the matutinal greeting over, 'this 
 will never do. What sort of a gourmand do 
 you take me for, that you must run out in 
 rain like this in search of delicacies ? I shall 
 need no tempting after this, remember — my 
 appetite has not been left behind at Manor 
 Valentine. And you are not to waste your 
 substance in riotous living for me. We are 
 going to get on plainly and economically you 
 know, and save our money, and return to 
 New York as soon as may be. And I shall 
 wait upon myself after this — we are friends 
 from henceforth, recollect, frienda and equals 
 — no more mistress and maid. I shall never 
 be any one's mistress as long as I live, again. 
 ' My lady ' is dead and (buried down there 
 in the dreariness of Valentine. This is Snow- 
 ball — your friend — who has no friend in the 
 world to whom she can even turn but you, 
 deer old Jim !' 
 
 Jemima Ann laughs gleefully. To see her 
 darling with the old brightness in her face, 
 the old blitheness in her tones, to know she 
 is to part from her no more — it is bliss — she 
 asks no more of fate. 
 
 They breakfast well and leisurely. Over 
 the coffee and rolls Dolores tells her story — 
 all of her story at least that she can, or may 
 ever bring herself to reveal. There are 
 things she will never be able to think of, 
 much less speak of, without, without a pang 
 of the old bitterness and cruel pain. Jemima 
 listens — lost in a medley of wrath and pity, 
 and .anger and love. Dearest dear Miss 
 Snowball ! that brute Sir Vane ! green-eyed 
 cat. Miss Routh ! that sour old Tartar, Miss 
 Valentine ! Ah ! it is a blessed escape to 
 have out the cord, and got away from that 
 diamal old house. 
 
 Miss Snowball has done right — of course 
 she has done right. What ! go and be buried 
 alive in a drearier dungeon even than Manor 
 Valentine, with Sir Vane for her jailer, and 
 Miss Routh exulting and triumphant ! Bet- 
 ter poverty, better hard work, better the 
 worct that life can bring than such death in 
 life as that. 
 
 They sit together through the long, dull 
 rainy day, and discuss their plans. It will 
 not do to depart at once — they are safer hid- 
 den away here, in this obscure nook of the 
 great city, than in seeking further flight. 
 Sir Vane will search for his wife, will leave 
 no stone unturned in his efforts to trace her. 
 He will move the whole detective force, and 
 spend his beloved money lavishly to capture 
 
 her if he 
 flash, her 
 
 •I will 
 it. 
 
 Death 1 
 of retnrni 
 
 • I will 
 may do w 
 the part, 
 wife, ma} 
 tbines, bu 
 
 They d 
 •ent mast 
 an intervi 
 (names an 
 go to Liv( 
 passige f( 
 begin ane 
 tion no 
 very like 
 free. Thi 
 past year. 
 
 Work I 
 with eagei 
 is strong, 
 ber tastes 
 New Yorl 
 quite hap 
 were near 
 
 * Some 
 some hav< 
 says, laug 
 former. ' 
 on Dree I 
 Ma'am W> 
 bread, an 
 Bay Chal 
 What a hi 
 go ^back ^ 
 tage, wit] 
 eottage sfa 
 bulent. trc 
 to old Tin 
 to chattel 
 Louis, my 
 foretaste o 
 
 •X] 
 
 T 
 An( 
 
 T 
 Fai 
 
 E 
 Fai 
 
 T 
 
 She sin| 
 sighs impi 
 all the sof 
 and down 
 in the nar 
 
 ' If one 
 ont the la 
 ful remet 
 its heart 
 
led when Je- 
 I rapid walk- 
 malade, and 
 
 'emonatrates, 
 ig over, 'this 
 afourmand do 
 t run out in 
 lea ? I shall 
 netnber — my 
 nd at Manor 
 
 waste your 
 me. "We are 
 omically you 
 id return to 
 And I shall 
 9 are friends 
 da and equals 
 
 1 shall never 
 I live, again. 
 1 down there 
 rhis is Snow- 
 friend in the 
 ;urn but you, 
 
 To see her 
 
 s in her face, 
 
 to know she 
 
 is bliss — she 
 
 urely. Over 
 8 her story — 
 i can, or may 
 There are 
 ) to think of, 
 thout a pang 
 ain. Jemima 
 ith and pity, 
 ; dear Miss 
 ! green-eyed 
 Tartar, Miss 
 jed escape to 
 ay from that 
 
 ht — of course 
 iud be buried 
 i than Manor 
 er jailer, and 
 phant ! Bet- 
 k. better the 
 luch death in 
 
 bhe lonKi dull 
 ans. It will 
 are safer hid- 
 B nook of the 
 urtber flight, 
 fe, will leave 
 to trace her. 
 ve force, and 
 ly to capture 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 155 
 
 her if he oan. If he can ! iJolorea eyes 
 flash, her hands clench at the thought. 
 
 'I will die first !' she crien, and she means 
 it. 
 
 Death holds no terror so ereat as the terror 
 of retorning to that horrible life. 
 
 •• I will never go back !' she exclaims ; 'he 
 may do what he likes. The law that takes 
 the part, of the husband always a((ain8t the 
 wife, may do its utmost. I will bear all 
 thinet, but I will never go back. ' 
 
 They decide, therefore, that for the pre- 
 •ent masterly inactivity will be safest. After 
 an interval of a month or so under assumed 
 oames and more or less disguised, they may 
 go to Liverpool, or cross to Havre, and take 
 pas«.ige for New York. Once there life will 
 begin anew, a life of bbonr and much priva- 
 tion no Houbt, of loneliness and discomfort 
 very likely , but they will be together and 
 free. That is everything after the life of the 
 past year. 
 
 Work ! Work is nothing Dolores thinks 
 with eagerly flashinp eyes ; she is young, she 
 is strong, she is full v.i confidence in herself, 
 ber tastes are simple, her wants, few. In 
 New York, and together, they will he quite, 
 quite happy again. If only the good time 
 were nearer, and they were on their way ! 
 
 * Some people are born to be obscure, and 
 gome have obscurity thrust upon them,' she 
 says, laughingly, to Jemima. * I am of the 
 former. The happiest time of my life was 
 on Dree Island, in a Holland frock, helping 
 Ma'am Weesy to shell peas and toast the 
 bread, and digging for clams, and scouring 
 Bay Chaletto in a batteau with the boys. 
 What a life-time ago aJl that seems now. To 
 go ^back f and live in the little white cot- 
 tage, with the solitude of the little white 
 eottage shutting us in^ and all this big, tur- 
 bulent, troublesome world shut out, listening 
 to old Tim croak and Weesy scold, with yon 
 to chatter to, and Inno Deseraux, and Peie 
 Louis, my only visitors. Oh, that would be a 
 foretaste of heaven 1' 
 
 ' ^'here I am the great and noble 
 
 Tell me of renown and fame. 
 And the red wine sparkles highest 
 
 To do honour to my name. 
 Far away a place is vacant 
 
 By an humble hearth for me, 
 Far away where tears are falling 
 
 There I fain would be.' 
 
 She sings the words under her breath, then 
 sighs impatiently, aud gets up, pushing hack 
 all the soft rings of fair hair, and Wteiiws up 
 and down, a lofty, slender, gray clad figure 
 in the narrow dingy room. 
 
 ' If one could forget ! If I could but shut 
 ont the la»t horrible year, with all its hate- 
 ful remembrances, its bitter humiliations. 
 its heart-burnings, its shame, its insults. 
 
 But I will carry i with me always, a plague 
 spot in my life down to its very end. \n<\ 
 though I have snapped my chain, I shall 
 carry my half clanking with roe to the grave. 
 What latent possibilities of evil lie un- 
 dreamed of within us. I am afraid of my • 
 self when I think v> bat a few months more 
 of that life, might have made me. I don't 
 wonder women go wrong so often throut^h 
 sheer desperation. I have felt the capability 
 within myself. Thank God, all these evil 
 thoughts of hatred and vengeano have been 
 left behind. I am conscious of nothing now 
 but an unutterable longing to be out of Eng- 
 land. Go where I may, endure what I will, 
 I can never suffer again as I have suffered 
 here. ' 
 
 And now the days of waiting begin— weary 
 days, when they Mit in the ilull little tnree- 
 pair ftoiit, and never stir out except in the 
 very early dawn, when only milkmen and 
 market people ure abroad. Under assumed 
 names and characters, keeping always aloof 
 from the matrons and maids of the crowded 
 Court, yet finding their best security in that 
 very crowding, the long buinmer days drag 
 themselves out one by one. No one disturbs 
 bhem, no suspicion follows them tha* *hey 
 can see. Hope buoys them up, and et. Abies 
 tbem to bear the depressing coutinentent 
 without much harm to health. Only ut it- 
 turvals profound depression, deadly apathy, 
 passionate regret for her wrecked life, lays 
 their hold upon Dolores, and fur the time she 
 sinks and droops. Wfiat is there worth liv- 
 ing for ? She is a slave who has escaped, 
 but a slave her whole life long none the less, 
 aud liable to capture any day. She is Vane 
 Valentine's wife — no power on earth can alter 
 that. Life or death — what do they matter ? 
 All that makes life worth living— love — has 
 guue forever. She grows nolioweyed, 
 silent, wan ; she fades away before Jemima's 
 affrighted eyes like a shadow. These moods 
 do not last, of course ; the natural vigour 
 aud elasticity of blessed youth reassert them- 
 selves. 
 
 The days, weeks, of waiting drag them- 
 selves out ; the time approaches for their 
 second flight, and the excitement rouses Do- 
 lures to i>ew life and hope. 
 
 Early one morning they take the Havre 
 steamer, thinking this route safest, and cross 
 to France in safety. By the first steamer 
 that leaves that port they take passage to* 
 New York. No one pursues them ; nothing 
 happens. They shut themselves up in thei>^ 
 cabin, and wntch with glad eyes the receding 
 land, the leaping waves of the wild ocean, 
 that is to sever them for all time from Vace 
 Valentine. 
 
 * And now, my own sweet Miss Snowball,' 
 
156 
 
 LOST F01 A W0M4N. 
 
 Q 
 
 oriet Jemima Ann, daaping her handn glee- 
 fully, ' we are free, and off at last, and all 
 the world is before us to seek «ur fortune, 
 like the princesses in a fairy tale ! And 
 good-bye to Sir Vane Valentine and hia 
 Cornwall prison, and his two sour old maidb 
 forevei and ever ! 
 
 But we cannot quite say good-bye to Sir 
 Vane Valentine, after Jemima Ann's sum- 
 mary fashion . On the evening of the day of 
 my lady's tllight. Sir Vane comes up from 
 Cornwall, black with disappointment, and 
 fiercely angry with his wife tor her unexpect- 
 ed defections. That she would dare refuse 
 to come at the last moment, he has ne^er 
 for an instant thought, and in her sudden 
 and violent headache he has no faith. No 
 idea has ever entered his mind that she 
 had^chanced to oveihear his interesting little 
 plot in the park. He has been disponed to 
 vei>t his wrath on Miss Dorothy and Miss 
 Routh, for coming without her, but Miss 
 Routh has a way of putting him down that 
 never fails. Drawing her small figure up to 
 its tajlest, looking him full in the fiery black 
 eyes, with her coolly gleaming green ones, 
 for a full minute in silence, he is cowed and 
 .. ■"■merized into sullen silence, before she 
 ipeaks a word. 
 
 ' Be good enough to reserve your abuse 
 for your wife— when vou see her — Sir Vane 
 Valentine,' she sayo, haughtily, ' we do not 
 ^ deserve it, and ridcline to take it. We have 
 obeyed your riders, and are here. There is 
 a return train at six, I am told— we can go 
 by that if you like.' 
 
 But the baronet does not like. He mutters 
 a sulky apology, and will go back for his 
 wife himself instead. 
 
 He takes the train, ' nursing his wrath to 
 keep it warm," and reaches the Manor 
 House in the cool of the evening. He finds 
 the servants gathered out of doors, enjoy- 
 ing tue fresh beauty of a very fine moon- 
 rise. They disperse precipitately at the 
 first sight of his scowling face, at the first 
 harsh sound of his imperious voice. 
 
 Where is my lady ? He wishes to see her 
 at once. Let her be told he is here, and 
 waiting for her in the drawiug-room. 
 
 They look at one another a moment in 
 startled silence. Then Watkins, the oldest 
 and most confidential servant there, ad- 
 vances. 
 
 'If you please. Sir Vane,' rather tremu- 
 lously. * my lady ia — is not here. ' 
 
 ' Not here ! ' with a start and a stare. 
 'Wheie'thenis she?' 
 
 ' Sir Vane, we think she has gone. Al- 
 most as soon as Miss Valentine and Miss 
 Routh left this morning, she dressed and 
 left the 'ouse. None of us taw her co, but 
 
 we missed her at luncheon time, and a cou- 
 ple of hours ago ' 
 
 • Well,' he savs, blankly ; 'well ? ' 
 
 ' A couple of hours a^o I was down at the 
 station, it you please. Sir Vane, and I heard 
 
 there ' another nervous pause, and a 
 
 furious stamp from iSir Vane. 
 
 * Go on, you starin^f fool ! ' he cries out. 
 •I heard there,' said Mr Watkins, turn- 
 
 ing red and defiant, ' that luy lady had taken 
 a ticket for London, and left by the arf after 
 ten express. And there is a letter for you, 
 Sir Vane, in my lady's dressting-room." 
 
 ' Bring it here.' lie says, ' and go.' 
 
 He stands dazed — stunned — his fierce 
 temper quieted by the ver> force and unex- 
 pectedness of this crushing blow. Run 
 away, he thinks, blankly He has never 
 thought of that. Watkins brings him the 
 letter — yes, it is in her hand. He tears it 
 open and reads : 
 
 ' I hope to have left Valentine forever, 
 hours before pou receive this. Search for 
 me if you will —find me if you can, but no 
 power on earth shall compel me te return to 
 the life I now leave — life with you. Leave 
 me in peace to work my own way, and hid- 
 den from all who have ever known me, 1 
 will trouble you no more. Let me be dead 
 to you who hate me, as I shall be to the few 
 frienda who still care forme — I ask for no 
 more than that. Hunt me down and it shall 
 be at your peril. I will throw myself on 
 the protection of George Valentine, and 
 proclaim to the world with him, that you 
 hold illegally his title and estate. 
 
 Dolores. ' 
 
 He stands with the letter in his hand- 
 silent, overwhelmed by this blow, this total 
 overthrow of all his plans— filled with fury 
 and disappointment. Fled — escaped ! She 
 has srspected then, has perhaps overheard. 
 He reads the letter again and again. If he 
 leaves her in peace her lips are sealed ; if 
 he seeks her out she will claim the friend- 
 ship of the man he hates — ay, and fears. 
 He does not for a moment doubt what she 
 says here, he knows that she is true as truth 
 itself. But what of her lover in the village 
 — is he in ignorance of her flight too ? He 
 puts on his hat and goes straight to the 
 Raitherripe Arms. There, standing on the 
 threshold, enjoying the starry beauty of the 
 night, Rene Macdonald stands— as he is 
 convinced he would not stand, if he knew of 
 to-day's work. He passes by without enter- 
 ing, and walks moodily back to the Manor. 
 Here further confirmation meets him in the 
 shape of a note, brought by a boy from the 
 village, in his absence. It is addressed to 
 
 Lady Valentine, 
 begins abruptly. 
 
 He opens it at once; it 
 
bimOi and ft oou' 
 
 1 'well?' 
 
 was down at the 
 
 me, and I heard 
 
 I pause, and a 
 
 I. 
 
 ' he oriel out. 
 
 VYatkini, turn- 
 y lady had taken 
 i, by the arf after 
 a letter for you, 
 ^ingroom.' 
 
 and go.' 
 kued — his tierce 
 
 iorce and unex- 
 
 Dg blow. Run 
 
 He has never 
 
 ; brings him the 
 
 ud. He tears it 
 
 dentine forever, 
 ;his. Search for 
 you can, but no 
 il me te return to 
 vith you. Leave 
 ?n way, and bid- 
 der known me, I 
 Let me be dead 
 lall be to the few 
 me — I ask for no 
 down and it shall 
 throw my sell on 
 Valentine, and 
 ih him, that you 
 estate. 
 
 Dolores. ' 
 er in his hand — 
 is blow, this total 
 —tilled with fury 
 . — escaped ! She 
 irhaps overheard, 
 and again. If he 
 ps are sealed ; if 
 claim the friend- 
 ) — ay, and fears, 
 doubt what she 
 le is true as truth 
 ver in the village 
 flight too ? He 
 straight to the 
 standing on the 
 ,rry beauty of the 
 stands— as he ia 
 kud, if he knew of 
 by without eater- 
 ck to the Manor, 
 meets him in the 
 ly a boy from the 
 is addressed to 
 D9 it at once; it 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 101 
 
 ' Dolores— I have hbd a letter to-day 
 from George Valentine summoning me to 
 London, where he awaits me. Can I not 
 nee yoa for one moment before I go, if only 
 to say good-by ? Rene. ' 
 
 ' The boy is waiting, if you please, Sir 
 Vane,' the servant says who delivers it ; 
 ' there is an answer, he says. ' 
 
 ' Tell him Lady Valentine left for Corn- 
 wall this morning, and that you do not 
 know when she will be back,' responds Sir 
 Vane. 
 
 The answer is delivered, and the boy 
 goes. 
 
 That nis;ht Sir Vane spends perforce at 
 Manor ; next morning he takes the earliest 
 train for London, and his first action is to 
 drive straight to Scotland Yard and sot a 
 clever detective on the track of his runaway 
 wife. 
 
 ' I'll find you, my lady, if skill and money 
 can do it,' he says, with a vicious snap of 
 his white teeth, ' and I'll take the cun- 
 Be( aences, and by — , so shall you ! ' 
 
 Vhat same early train bears away another 
 passenger — the dark, foreign-looking young 
 artist who has been stopping for the past 
 week at the village inn. The two men 
 meet, and eye each other in no very friend- 
 ly fashion at the station. No greetings are 
 exchanged, they are enemies to the death, 
 and they read it in each other's glance. 
 Rene Macdonald turns away, a chill sen- 
 Hatiou of repulsion filling hiin, and thinks, 
 with a shudder of pity and love, what 
 Dolores' life must be like beside this man. 
 Her pale, pathetic young lace, so worn, so 
 altered, rises before him as he saw it that 
 evening in the park. 
 
 ' And I am powerless to help her,' he 
 despairingly thinks. ' I would give my life 
 to save her from one sorrow, and I must 
 stand aside and yield her up to be tortured 
 to death by this sullen scoundrel. Oh, my 
 darling t my little love ! if only the past 
 could be undone, what power on earth 
 should be strong enough to force me to 
 yield you up to Vane Valentine ?' 
 
 And so, with the falling night of Dolores' 
 first day in London, the train that comeb 
 thundering in through the dismal twilight 
 disgorges among its crowd of passengers the 
 man who hates and the man who loves her. 
 At the moment her thoughts are with both — 
 with fear for one, with longing for the other 
 —as she drearily sits at the window of 
 Jemima's dingy little lodging, watching, 
 with blue, melanoholy eyes, the ceaselessly 
 falling rain. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 'for sad TIME8, AND «»IjiU TIME.S, AND ALL 
 TIMEH PA.S.SOVKR.' 
 
 It is the afternoon of a wild and tempest* 
 ouB winter day — a day for glowing coal tires, 
 and drawn curtaioE, and easy chairs, and 
 cozy ingle nooks. Long lines of sleet lash 
 the windows sharply as steel, the wind 
 whistles shrilly down the streets, half beat- 
 ing the breath out of the unwary, and goes 
 whooping through the streets of New York 
 like a March wind gone mad. Shutters 
 bang, loose casements rattle, ancient tene- 
 ments totter before the face of the blast. 
 Few are abroad — the pavements are brittle 
 and slippery as glass, street lamps twinkle 
 gustily athwart the sleet and wind. Stores 
 are closing early — only the lager-bier saloon 
 at the corner, with its dazzlinc display of 
 gas, looks brisk and cheerful, and seems to 
 drive a thriving trade. 
 
 'And I hope to goodness gracious she'll 
 take a stage down town, and not get her 
 death trying to save ten cents,' murmurs a 
 watcher, flattening her nose anxiously 
 against a window-pane ; ' it's an awful 
 afternoon. ' 
 
 It ie. The wind sweeps by with a whoop 
 and a howl as she says it, a fresh dash of 
 sleety rain beats noisily against the panes. 
 The watcher leaves the window, and gives 
 an admonitory poke to an already brilliant 
 coal fire, another touch here and there to a 
 tiimly-set table, places the small cane rocker 
 more geometrically straight in the centre of 
 the hearth-rug, and turns the lamp up yeC a 
 trifile higher, for it is nearly dark at five 
 o'clock. It is a comfortable little room, 
 with a warm- looking red carpet, some cane 
 chairs, v/hite curtains, a piano iu a corner, a 
 litter of books and magazines, and a pile of 
 needlework iu a basket. It is an apartment 
 big enough for two, for three perhaps fitting 
 tightly — no more, fiut as only two persons 
 are ever in it, this is hardly an objection. 
 ' And less coal does to warm it,' 
 says, sagely, Jemima Ann. It is 
 Jemima Ann who moves about 
 now, in a flutter of nervous unrest, waiting 
 for tier young lady, who has not returned 
 from her day 's work. And no queen recent- 
 ly come into her kingdom was ever prouder 
 of that dominion than is Jemima Ann of this 
 furnished ' floor through ' in the third storey 
 of a third rate New York house, in a very 
 third-rate street. For it is their own, their 
 very own, and they are together, and happy, 
 and free, and she helps to keep it— is not 
 ; only sole housekeeper and manager, but also 
 part bread winner. That pile of plain sew- 
 
158 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 '-..rrl 
 
 II K there in the bMket ii hen, thrown down 
 
 while ahe gets tea. And hard and trying 
 
 imea have come and gone ere they found 
 
 thninselvea aafely moored in thia amali haven 
 
 of reat. 
 
 They have been adrift for weary montha iu 
 N«w York city before fortune ateered them 
 hi^fti, and into afe and pleaaant work. True, 
 they have never known want, nor anything 
 u'jpro&ching to it, but auapioioua eyea havu 
 looked at them, inaolent voioea have apoken 
 to them ; they have been unproceoted, aud 
 louely, and full of fear. But all that iapast, 
 and hardly to be regretted now, as they look 
 liaok. It waaone phase of life, imagined be- 
 fore, but never aeen ; it ia over, aud not like- 
 ly to return. 
 
 Eight montha have gone aince they left 
 Havre — nearly ten ainoe Lady Valentine Hed 
 fr om her husband — and in all that time she 
 has heard little of the life and the people left 
 behind. 
 
 * What be you going to call youraelf when 
 we get to New York ?' said to her, one day 
 on shipboard, Jemima Ann. 
 
 ' Call myself V Dolores, vaguely, looking 
 up from the book she ia reading. 
 
 * What name will you go by ? Not Lady 
 Valentine, I hopo I' aays Jemima, .aughing. 
 '|No one will believe that.' 
 
 ' Lady Valentine ! No,' Dolores says, with 
 a shudder ; ' I hate that name. No. Let 
 me see. I might take yours, only Hopkins 
 is not pretty. Let me think.' She looks at 
 Jemima, half smiling. ' Suppose I go back 
 to the old name I had as a child — Trillon ? It 
 will do as good as any. How many I seem 
 to have borne in my time* Yes, the name 
 by which you knew me first, my Jemima, 
 you shall call me by again. I am, from the 
 hour we laud, Mrs, Trillon.' 
 
 The sea- voyage does her a world of good. 
 Depression, melancholia, drop from her as a 
 garment ; she brightens in spirits, gains in 
 health and strength, looks like her own 
 blooming self once more. The relief is so un- 
 utterable of thia almost accomplished escape. 
 For now that the .\tlaDtiu flows between 
 them, she fears Vane Valentine no longer. 
 To discover her in New York will be a dilil 
 cult task even for him ; to force her to re- 
 turn to him, an impossibility. And she is 
 scarcely more than twenty years old — and 
 life so easily puts on its most radiant face 
 when one is free, and twenty years old. 
 
 They land, and try boarding at first — Mrs. 
 Trillon and her friend, Miss Hopkins — there 
 isjo be no more the distinction of mistress 
 an maid. 
 
 They Hnd a boarding-house, and, after a 
 few days' delay, begin to look about them 
 for work. Both are fai]urei>. Life in a 
 
 °<)i*y« g'^'iipiogt second-rate boardinghouie 
 ia not to he endured * a month of it is aa 
 much aa Dolores can bear. Neither ia work 
 to he had for the aaking ; thev are not 
 adapted, theae two, to many kinda of work. 
 ' Let UB try houaekeeping, Jemima Ann,' 
 auggedts Mrs. Trillon, looking up one day 
 from the big daily, with knitted browy. 
 ' Here are no end of furnished ap«rtmenta 
 for "light houaekeepin«." Let ua try light 
 housekeeping, Jemima .Ann. I fancy it will 
 coat us no more than we are paying here, 
 and it will certainly be more private and 
 more clean.' 
 
 Jemima Ann hails the happy thought ; she 
 puts on her bonnet, aud r-allieM forth in the 
 quest. But New York is a large city, adver- 
 tisements are deceptive, and landladies 
 sour. 
 
 Another week gone by, much shoe-leather 
 is worn, many door-bella are rung, and many, 
 ma 11^ weary stairs mounted before anything 
 is found suitable to limited me&na and 
 rather fastidious tastes. Then references 
 are demanded, and references they havt 
 none. At last the tiniest of all tiny French 
 flats is discovered — a minute parlour, tw" 
 dindy-lit closets, called bedrooms, a micro.-.- 
 oopic kitchen, and dining-room — all neat ami 
 clean, and at a price high, but within their 
 united means. Best of all, the janitress -a 
 pleasant-faced matron — conaenta to take her 
 month's rent in advance and waive refer- 
 ences. She likes the looks of her. she 
 smilingly tells Jemima Ann. 
 
 Here they come early in September, and 
 here they have been ever since. 
 
 They hnd it agreeable enough at first ; it 
 is like playing at housekeeping in a doll's 
 house. Jemima Ann cooks the most delici- 
 ous little dishes, and proves her»elfaveiv 
 jewel of a housekeeper. Lady Valentine is 
 charmed with everything — the dots of rooms, 
 the wonderful little kitchen range, that 
 sccn^o ha-rily too large to be i-Ut in her 
 pocket— the absolutely new life that begins 
 for her. Even the street is not without a 
 charm of its own — a dusty, stuffy stieet 
 enough, with a commingled odourof adjacent 
 breweries and stables hanging about it, a 
 sidewalk noisy with children all the day 
 lone, a favourite haunt of organ-grinders, 
 with weary matrons holding babies, and 
 sitting on door-stepa in the cool and aileui 
 eventide. The charm is surely in nothing 
 but its entire novelty, bat Dolores likes to 
 sit behind the Nottingham lace curtains of 
 the little parlour, and take it all in. Life in 
 this phase she has never seen before, and she 
 is among them, if not of them, for all time 
 now. 
 But still work comes noli' *Dd work they 
 
LOST FOR A WO>!AN. 
 
 150 
 
 Vmardinii home 
 
 >nth of it is aa 
 
 Neither is work 
 
 thev are not 
 
 kinds of work. 
 (, Jemima Ann,' 
 ing up one day 
 knitted brows, 
 shed ap»rtment8 
 
 Let us try liRht 
 
 I fancy it will 
 
 re paying here, 
 
 lore private ami 
 
 ipv thought ; she 
 
 lieH forth in the 
 
 kfHe oity, adver- 
 
 and landladies 
 
 luoh ahoe-leather 
 I rung, and many, 
 
 before anything 
 ted me ins and 
 
 Then references 
 enoes they havt 
 f all tiny French 
 ute parlour, tw' 
 Irooms, a micros- 
 om— all neat and 
 but within their 
 the janitreBB -a 
 ■ents to take her 
 nd waive refer- 
 
 ks of her. she 
 
 1. , 
 
 September, ami 
 
 tice. 
 
 ough at first ; it 
 eeping in a doll's 
 I the most delici- 
 es herwelf a very 
 ,ady Valentine id 
 he dots of rooms, 
 hen range, that 
 be l-nt in her 
 life that beKi"» 
 ia not without a 
 iBty, stuffy stieet 
 odourof adjaceut 
 inging about it, a 
 dren all the day 
 organ-grinders, 
 iing babies, and 
 cool andsileai 
 urelyin nothing 
 Dolores likes to 
 lace curtains of 
 , it all in. Life ia 
 iD before, and she 
 hem, for all time 
 
 ; and work they 
 
 loon must Hod. Their united board, in< 
 creased by the sale of Dolores' jaweU, is 
 melting away — let Jemima Ann cater never 
 so cautioudy. Their rooms are secured fur 
 this months at least, before it ends work 
 must be found. Winter is approauhiug, and 
 ' winter is not man's friend.' 
 
 * Wt) must keep together, come what may,' 
 says Dolores, decidedly, ' that at lei»t ia aH 
 tixodttsfato. Work or nu work, part we 
 shall not, my Jemima. ' 
 
 ' No, my pretty, I hope and pray not. ' 
 
 'Let me see,' says Mrs. Trillon, tapping 
 her pretty uhiu t /ith her pencil, that reflec- 
 tive frown so often there now, knitting her 
 browfi, ' my work must be teaching if I can 
 get it:, I uau teach music, vocal and iostru- 
 mental— that is my strong point. French, 
 of course, German after a faahion,and I could 
 aive Itissous in cra^ on and pencil drawiu^, 
 and water colours. Embroidery, too, of 
 every kind, we were thoroughly drilled lu at 
 Villa de Anges. ' Here her gravity sudden- 
 ly gives way over the list of her accomplish 
 meutH, and her joyous young laugh ring!* out. 
 ' It sondes ridiculous, doesn't it, catalougiug 
 my wonderful talents after this fashion. 1 
 ought to make out a list of terms for to- 
 morrow's Herald, and inform the public that 
 the highest bidder can have me cheap. 
 one laughs, but it is no joke after all. I 
 will advertise, Jemima Ann, and try my 
 fortune twice. ' 
 
 She does ; after a score or more attempts 
 an advertisement is drawn up. \t is a re- 
 pugnant task, this cold-blooded c^ironicling 
 of what she can do ; it sounds boastful and 
 blatauc read over. One is written at last 
 that Jemima Ann pronounces perfection, and 
 which Mrs. Trillon finds the best she can do 
 — and it is sealed up m uti envelope, and 
 dropped before Jemima seeks her veutal 
 couch, in the nearest letter-box. 
 
 There follows an interval which Jemima 
 .Ann employs in looking out for work for 
 herself. Dolores tries to dissuade her. 
 
 ' If I get a situation as governess,' she 
 says, ' it will autttoe for us both. Your 
 work will be to keep this little house bright 
 and cozy.' 
 
 But Jemima is as resolute when she likes 
 as her youug mistress. 
 
 ' No, Miss Snowball,' she says, earnestly, 
 'that would never satisfy me. I must do 
 something- for my keep — sewing if I can get 
 it — as well aa you. I will have plenty of 
 time for the hoosekesping. There ain't no 
 kind of plain sewing I ain't up to, I guess, 
 and Mis' Scudder, our landlady, has took a 
 kind o' fancy to me from the first, and she 
 reckons she can get me something to do 
 pretty soon.' 
 
 Mrs. Scudder proves to be as good as her 
 word. She gets Jemima Ann ' slop ' shirt 
 making, and plenty of it — coarse work and 
 wearily unremunerative prices, but still a 
 help, and from thenceforth Jemima is as 
 busy as a bee and an happy as a quee- . 
 
 But Dolores' ambitious advertisement 
 seems as bread oast upon the waters Many 
 days elapse and it does not return. Answers 
 they are, and terms are stated, and ap. 
 plications are personally made ; but some> 
 how, nothing comes of tne*e negotiations — 
 the reference question stands in the way 
 again. Pretty young widows, highly ac- 
 complished, without references, are not de- 
 sirable preceptresses for innocent youth, and 
 a fair, sweet face and gentle, graceful 
 manners ^ail to compensate. 
 
 At last, in November, when blank despair 
 ia coming upon her, one impulsive lady falls 
 in love at sight with her pathetic pale face, 
 ana great wistful blue eyes, and low, sweet- 
 tone' ' voice, and braves fate and referen ea, 
 and engages her as French and music teach- 
 er to he"* two boys on the spot. Even with- 
 out a reference, she can do no particular- 
 harm to Willy and Freddie, aged ten aud 
 tw Ive. 
 
 8he ;'' closely watched for a little, and is 
 found to be n oainstaking teacher, even more 
 gentle and winning than ahe looks. 
 
 'Nothing succeeds like succeKs.' Her 
 first employer speaks of her pretty paragoi) 
 to her frien 's, and speedily three other en- 
 gagements follow. 
 
 And now all day long behold DolorcF, 
 draped in waterproof and v?*il, a roll of 
 music iu her hand, fully eilablished as a 
 ' trotting governeas,' and adding dollaas and 
 dollars monthly to their humble n,( naRe. 
 
 About Onristrnaa ahe is engaged nt rini.-th- 
 ing governess to Miss Blanche Pettir.gil'. 
 sole dan lighter of the house and heart nf 
 Peter Pettingill, Esquire, rf L^exingtoa 
 avenue, millionaire and wooden manufac- 
 turer, the wife of whose bosom literall,- 
 hansis herself with diamonds,and blazes with 
 them at her big parties up in the brown- 
 atone palace in this one of New Yoiks 
 stateliest avenuec. 
 
 There is a villa at Newport, a homeate.id 
 up the Hudson, a winter place in Florida, 
 and the enchanted princess who ia to havi' 
 all this one day is nineteen years old, nutl 
 rather an ignoramus than otherwise, and haa 
 suddenly wakened up to that fact, and niai'e 
 up her mind to atone for lost timo'by study- 
 ing under the pretty, and gentle^ 'and ob- 
 scure Madame Trillon. 
 * ' Pa says he would give ten thousand 
 dollars to have me able to play, and sing, 
 and talk French as you do, Mrs. Trillon, 
 
160 
 
 LOST FOR. A WOMAN. 
 
 
 
 says the Princeaa, with a despairing sigh ; 'I 
 wish to goodness he'd have thought of it half 
 a dozen years ago. He has bmn so busy 
 making money ever since I oan remember, 
 and ma's been oo bney spending it, that they 
 neither of them had time to attend to my 
 education, and here I am an heiress and 
 everythine, and hardly an accomplishment 
 about me. And when a person is nineteen, 
 and in society, studying languages.and doing 
 piano-forte drudgery, is no end of bore.' 
 
 Mrs. Trillon sympathizes, does her best, 
 and spends three hours daily in the Lexing- 
 ton avenue mansion, secluded in Miss 
 Blanche's boudoir. For it is to be a pro- 
 found secret from all the world that this 
 polishing is being given to Miss Blanche. 
 
 * That is what 1 like Mrs. Trillon for,' 
 remarks Miss Pettingiil to Mrs. Pettingill, 
 ' she knows how to hold her tongue. And 
 yet she is sympathetic, you can see she ap- 
 preciates the Hituatiou, and is trv ing to do 
 her very best for me. And she has the most 
 elegant and aristocratic mauuera. I only 
 wish I could ever be like her.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Trillon is a person, I guess, who 
 has seen better days, ' responds mamma. 
 
 ' I should rather think so,' Miss Blanche 
 cries, energetically. ' She plays and sings 
 perfectly splendid, and talks French like a 
 native. She never speaks of herself, but I 
 know she must have a story and a romantic 
 one, if a person could only get at it. But I 
 never oan ask questions of Mrs. Trillon.' 
 
 It is at the Pettingill Mansion that Dolores 
 is this wild and blustery March afternoon, 
 M'hile Jemima Ann stirs the (ire, and looks 
 expectantly out of the window, and waits for 
 her coming home. It is late when she oomes, 
 neither wet nor weary from the howling 
 storm, and all laughing and «vith cheeks and 
 eyes bright with the frosty wind. 
 
 ' Ob, my own dear,' cries Jemima, ' you 
 are half dead, I know. I do hope you rods 
 down town in the stage.' 
 
 ' No, I didn't,' returns Dolores, laughing. 
 ' [ rode but not in the stage. They sent me 
 ' a the carriage ; Miss Pettingill would have 
 it so. They are really the best-natured 
 people iu the world. They wished me to 
 stay all night, and as I would not, insisted 
 on the carrisige. Is supper ready ? for I am 
 hungry, although I had tea and cakes at 
 tive o'clock. It must be nearly nine now.' 
 
 ' Just twenty minutes to,' says Jemima, 
 bustling about. ' Take off your things, my 
 deary, and sit here iu the rock er and warm 
 your feet. Supper's all ready, and will be 
 on the table iu ten minutes. ' 
 
 ' Ho«v cozy it is here,' Dolores says, with 
 a delicious sense of rest well earned, and of 
 the long evening to comf , with two or three 
 
 new magazines to speed its flight. 
 ' What a dear little home we have 
 and what a queen of housekeepers is my 
 Jemima Ann. It is very splendid up there 
 in the Pettingill Palace, but I really do not 
 think I would care to exchange. I like our 
 duodecime edition of housekeeping best.' 
 
 Supper is served — two or three delicate 
 little dishes, and tea brewed to the point of 
 perfection. Outside the whistling and lash- 
 ing of the March night accents the sense of 
 comfort and warmth. 
 
 ' There is to be a prodigious party up 
 at the Pettingill's next week,' says Dolores, 
 as they sit and discuss their repast. ' Quite 
 a mammoth gathering of the plutocracy of 
 New York, and I am to go and play the ac- 
 companiments of Blanche's songs. She has 
 not much courage about performing in pub- 
 lic, although she has reallv a very tine voice, 
 and absolutely insists that I shall play the 
 accompaniments. I do not like it, but I 
 cannot refuse, they are so extremely nice 
 to me, and Blanche is such a dear, simple- 
 minded, good-natured little soul. The piano 
 is to be placed in a sort of bower of tower- 
 ing plants, and I shall be pretty v^rell screen- 
 ed from the company. 1 must get a dress 
 for the auspicious occasion — white, trimmed 
 with black, I suppose, and jet ornaments, to 
 keep up my character of a widow, in half- 
 mourning. I find the whole thing rather a 
 bore, but I cannot disappoint Miss Pcttineill.' 
 
 So in the lamp-lit, fire-lit little parlour 
 they sit together and chat over the domgs of 
 the day. These evening home comings are 
 delightful to both — Dolores snugly ensconsed 
 in the rocker, Jemima with her sewing at 
 the tuhK There is talk, and music, and 
 the shrill beating of rain and sleet without, 
 and perfect peace, monotonous perhaps, but 
 very grateful within. 
 
 ' If it will only last,' Dolores says, looking 
 dreamily into the tire ; * at times it seems 
 almost too good. Peace is the best thing in 
 all the world, Jemima Ann — better than love 
 with its fever, better than wealth with its 
 cares. If it will only last. ' 
 
 It is the night of the great ball up on Lex- 
 ington avenue. The big brown corner house 
 is all a-ghtter with gas, a lengthy row of car- 
 riages winil down the stately street, a little 
 group has gathered to see the guests go in. 
 MuBic resounds, Mrs. Pettingill all alight with 
 those famous diamonds, like an Indian idol, 
 receives her friends. Miss Blanche, in a 
 wonderful drens from Paria, stands near, 
 looking flushed and nervous, and wishing 
 more than ever before, pa's wealth could buy 
 for Mrs. Trillon's beautiful, graciovs, grace- 
 ful manners. Mrs. Trillon is up-stairs in the 
 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 
 
 m 
 
 its flight, 
 ke we have 
 keepers is my 
 idid np there 
 really do not 
 9. I like onr 
 [)ing best.' 
 three delicate 
 >the point of 
 ling and lash- 
 I the sense of 
 
 0U8 party up 
 says Dolores, 
 past. ' Quite 
 plutocracy of 
 
 play the ac* 
 tgs. She has 
 ming in pub- 
 ery tine voice, 
 ball play the 
 [ike it, but I 
 ictrtmely nice 
 
 dear, simple- 
 il. The piano 
 ver of tower- 
 y vfcU screen- 
 ' get a dress 
 hite, trimmed 
 ornaments, to 
 low, in half- 
 :hing rather a 
 .issPottincill.' 
 
 little parlour 
 
 thedomgs of 
 B comings are 
 igly ensconsed 
 er sewing at 
 1 music, and 
 ileet without, 
 
 perhaps, but 
 
 aays, looking 
 iiies it seems 
 
 best thing in 
 strer than love 
 alth with its 
 
 bU up on Lex- 
 
 corner house 
 
 by row of car- 
 
 street, a little 
 
 guests go in. 
 
 all alight with 
 
 I Indian idol, 
 
 Blanche, in a 
 
 stands near, 
 
 and wishing 
 
 ftlth could buy 
 
 aciovs, grace- 
 
 ip-stairs in the 
 
 boudoir, where, by her own desire, she 'is to 
 be left nntil summoned fur these soot{8. Miss 
 PettingUl has had but one flurried moment 
 with her. 
 
 ' It will be even worse tha^i I thought.' 
 sbo exclaims, in a panic of nervous apprehen- 
 sion, * there is an Eni^lishman coming, some- 
 body very great, a nobleman, I believe, and I 
 wish he was saf^^ly back in his own country. 
 He if coming with the Colbarts— he is their 
 guests while in New York. It was bad 
 enough before, goodness knows ; it will be 
 dreadful — dreadful to have to slug before 
 him. 
 
 Dolores laughs. 
 
 ' I do not see why. Let us hope the 
 nobleman is no musical critic. What is bis 
 name ?' 
 
 ' Th<)re is ma calling,' cries the excitable 
 Miss Pettingi''. 'I wish— I wish ma 
 wouldn't insist upon my singing, but she does 
 and I know — 1 feel I uball break down and 
 disgrace myself forev.^r. 
 
 She flies away and Dolores settles down for 
 a quiet hour or two over a new book. The 
 swelling music floats up to her. sounds of 
 laughter and gay voices reach her now and 
 then, but the story she reads absorbs her pre- 
 sently, and when at last the message comes 
 that it is time to go down, she starts up.sur- 
 piised to flud it so late. 
 
 ' And you need not go through the crowd* 
 ed room,' says Miss Pettingill's maid who 
 onmes from her, ' although' with an honest 
 admiring glance at the crisp ce^v dress And 
 ornaments, and golden curled hair and 
 flower face ' there is not » lady down there 
 ihat looks prettier than you, Mrs. Trillon. 
 I can take you right to the piano without 
 passing among the people at all.' 
 
 'Yes,' Mrs. Trillon says, ' that will be 
 best. ' 
 
 They go, and manage to make their way 
 almost unnoticed to where the big Steiuway 
 stands. Tall shrubs, and a very bower of 
 ferns and lofty plants, almost completely 
 screen the inntrument and the performer. 
 Blanche cornea up in a flutter of apprehension 
 anil nervousness. 
 
 From where ohe sits Dolores can see far 
 down the dazzling vista of light, and flowers, 
 and thronged rooms, herself invisible. 
 
 ' Courage !' she whispers, brightly ; 
 ' imagine we are alone, and it is our daily 
 music less on.' 
 
 Sue strikes the first chord of the sym- 
 phony, and Miss Blanclie bursts into song. 
 
 A little group follows the heiress and 
 listens tohersonu* Dolores glances through 
 her vervant bower as she plays, thinaing of 
 other nights and scenes like this in far>off 
 landi| when she was queen of the revels. Of 
 
 that other ball that Menu so far off now, »t 
 Lady Ratherripe'i, where Colonel Deering 
 waa her devoted slave, and she oame npon 
 that never-to-be-forgotten soene betweea her 
 husband and Camilla Routh. A chill, creep* 
 ing makes her shiver in the perfumed 
 warmth as she recalls it ; some of the shame, 
 the pain, the anger, the hunted feeling of 
 that night returns to her. 
 
 And yet it is as a dream now — a bad 
 dream, that is over and gone. That life is 
 at an end forever. There is no longer a 
 Dolores, Lady Valentine— only a Mrs. 
 Trillon, who teaches for a salary, and walks 
 the New York streets in shabby dreaaee, 
 and lives in a poky five-roomed flat, and 
 plays Miss Blanche Pettingill's accompani- 
 ments for se much per night. That life has 
 come and gone like a dream, and she is quite 
 content— or tries hard to think she is — to 
 let life go on indifferently like this. 
 
 The song ends, and with no disastroaa 
 breakdown. There is a soft mu'-mar of 
 thanks and pleasure, and Blanche breathes 
 again. Bat the respite is only for * 
 moment. * *^ 
 
 ' Here is——' 
 
 Dolores does not catch the name, lost in 
 the last vibrating chords she strikes, but » 
 flatter goes all at onoe through the little 
 circle behind her. 
 
 ' Oh 1' cries Blanche, with a gasp of very 
 real horror, * it is the Englishman and ma I 
 Now I know she will make me sing again 1' 
 
 Dolores half laughs at the anguish of the 
 tone, the tragic terror of the look, and peeps 
 with considerable curiosity through her 
 leafy screen. She sees coming down the 
 lonsr, brilliant room Mrs. Pettingill in her 
 diamonds and moire antique, on the arm wf 
 a tall, dark gentleman, who does not look in 
 the least like an Englishman. And as she 
 looks the room spins round, the gas-lights 
 flash out and blind her, a mist comes before 
 her eyes, her heart absolutely stops beating. 
 
 For the man on whose arm Mrs. PettingUl 
 leans, the English ' nobleman' ooming 
 straight to where she sits, is — Sir Vane Val- 
 entine I 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 'rOR TUIB AT LAST MAXS9 ALL THIN08 
 EVEN. 
 
 She sits for one dizzy moment, stunned, 
 bewildered, motionless. Her husband ! — 
 and here ] - drawing nearer, his head a 
 little bent, listening to what hia hostess is 
 saying, with something of a bored look in his 
 sallow, dissatisfied face. 
 
 She holds her breath, «nd site gazing, held 
 
16t 
 
 L03T FOR A WOMEN. 
 
 
 by »»methiDg of that anbtle, horrible faaoi- 
 aatioD with which » serpent hold* its qnirer- 
 ingTietim. They arealready within five yards 
 of her ; a saouod or two and they will be 
 face to face. 
 
 And then — what will he do then ? He 
 hatea a scene — will he make one before all 
 these people? As she thinks, her brain 
 wbirlinft. some one meets them, and Mrs. 
 Fafetingill paasea for a moment to introduce 
 the aome one to the lion of the ni^ht. 
 
 And then, like a flash, Dolores awakes 
 from her stunned stnpor. He has not seen 
 her ; it is not yot too late ; no one is looking 
 at her ; Blanche is watching, in a flutter of 
 apprehension, the approach of ma and her 
 nobleman. 
 
 She BtMrts to her feet, slips between the 
 tall plants, fli«s ont of the room, down a 
 long hall, up the stairs, and into the room 
 she BO lately left. Her hat and mantle lie 
 wbere she threw them u] on entering ; she 
 anatobes them up, breathlessly, and puts 
 on. No time to stop, no time to think, no 
 time to falter or hesitate. Flight I — that is 
 her one idea — to get away from this houfie — 
 from him — without a second'^B loss of time. 
 A Mckening fear of him tills her — a blind, 
 nnreasonieg fear that makes her 'fly and heed 
 no ooui-equenoes. A clock on the mantel 
 strikes two. It is an unearthly hour to be 
 ont alone in the streets of New York ; but 
 the never heeds that — nothine thatcnn befall 
 her can be as terrible as meeting Vaue Va- 
 lentine. 
 
 With the thought in her mind, she ia down 
 the stairs, and ont of the houRe, and hurry- 
 ing rapidly down the silent street. It in 
 moonlight, bright and onld. 
 wind, and the cold, keen air 
 f«el. If it wfire blowing a 
 wouH not feel it now. She 
 hot one idea — to get home, to bide berself,*o 
 fl^ to the uttermost ends of the earth, it 
 need be. from this man. Of course he 
 is here in search of her Will her suri 
 den disappearance to-uivht create conimeut, 
 and come to bis ears ? — quick and suspicious 
 ears always- Will he » k question^- and get 
 a description of her, and recognize her at 
 once ? Will h^ set the city det« ctives on 
 her track, and hunt her down ? It will not 
 bo di£BiouIt — an asnamed name is but a thin 
 disguise. And when be has found her, wh»t 
 then? 
 
 ' I will die before I return to him, 'nbe "ays 
 alond, as she flies breathlessly on, ' No law, 
 no power on earth shall compel me, I will 
 never go back— never t ' She is panting and 
 breathleas with her haste ; once or twice a 
 passing * guardian of the night ' tries to stop 
 %fi ffa^t her^ but she la patt like «: flakii 
 
 There is no 
 she does not 
 hurricane she 
 is tilled with 
 
 before he can frame the words. She may be 
 pursued — she does not know — they will be 
 fillet walkers who will overtake ber to- night. 
 At last, without harm or nolsp^^tion, but 
 spent, gasping, fainting viith fati^iiue, fthe un- 
 locks her duor, uud <irups in a iieap on the 
 little parlour sofa. 
 
 Jemima Ann is in bed and asleep, she is 
 not expected back until to-moirow. She 
 does not wake her, she lien there in a sort of 
 stupor of exhaustion, and at last drops asleep. 
 And so, still sleeping, when v: ith the morn« 
 ing sunshine Jemima Ann ripei§, sh ^ duds her 
 — dressed as she came in, with tb^ exception 
 of her bat, which lies on the fl.jor beside her. 
 Her exclamation of surprise and alarm, faint 
 though it is, arouses Dolores — she sits up in 
 a bewildered way and looks with wild eyes 
 at her friend. 
 
 'J emima,' she cries, ' he has cone.' 
 
 ' Lor ! ' says Jemima Ann, and y ts down 
 flat. She needs no antecedent to the pro- 
 noun ; there ih but one he for theee two in 
 the universe— their arch enemy. * L<-rd'8 
 sake ! Misf) Snowball, you never mean that.' 
 
 ' I saw him last nielit. He was at Mrs. 
 Pettingill's party. I got up ard tied. 1 ran 
 <-uCof ihe house at two in the mornmg, and 
 never stopped to draw breath it seems to 
 me, until I fell down here. Jemima — 
 oh, Jemima ! what i-hall we do ?' 
 
 ' Lord sake,' exclaims J( mima Ann again, 
 Htunned. Maid and uiifitress tit gazing 
 blHukly and feai fully at each other — 
 altogether stupttied by the maguiiude of the 
 blov. 
 
 ' We must leave here, Jemima — we must 
 go to-day. He is here to ^eaiou for me, he 
 >«ill never rest until he tiuds me. We must 
 fly again. And we have been so happy here,' 
 she pays, despairingly. 
 
 But J- mima's wits are beginning to return. 
 
 ' Wait a iiiinu'e, ^.ji»s Snow ball,' she sajs, 
 'let us think. It's of no u^e fl>ing — this 
 big city is the safect place we can hide in, it 
 Heems to me. If be tiu<lB us out under false 
 names here, in a crowtled part of the town 
 like this, why he will tiud ungowberewe 
 may. I don't believe in flying ; it ain't a 
 mite n' good. Let us juat stay here, and face 
 it out' 
 
 ' Jrmima Ann, it would kill me to see 
 him I 'hink — just that.* 
 
 ' Ble»<s >ou, my deary, no it wouldn't. It 
 takes a night more to kill us thun we reckon 
 for. Besides you can reluse to see him — you 
 c>«i) fl> )ou ku(»w, wheuit comes to that. 
 What is he going to do to you ? Sir Vane 
 Vtilentiie may go to giassl This is a free 
 country. I giieHh ; there ain't no lor as ever 
 I heeid ou to make a wife go back to a 
 bubbaud as iU-tieattd her, if she's a mtu)l tQ 
 
 \ 
 
LOST FOR A WOMEN. 
 
 She may be 
 ey will be 
 6r to- night. 
 •*Ation, but 
 jue, Hhe un- 
 leap OD the 
 
 \cep, the i* 
 II row. She 
 
 in a sort of 
 ropB asle«|:, 
 
 the morn* 
 lb >> tiudfi her 
 \^ exception 
 * beside her. 
 alarm, faint 
 e Rita up in 
 1 wild eyes 
 
 one.' 
 
 (• ts down 
 
 to the pro- 
 
 eoe two in 
 
 y. ' L-rd's 
 
 mean that.' 
 
 was at Mrs. 
 
 tied. 1 ran 
 
 lurniniBr, and 
 
 it f<eenis to 
 
 Jemima — 
 
 Ann a^ain, 
 
 bit gazing 
 
 )h other — 
 
 nude of the 
 
 a — we must 
 
 tor me, be 
 
 We must 
 
 lappy here,' 
 
 )g to return. 
 I,' she ss)a, 
 ilviiifl! — this 
 J hide in, it 
 under false 
 the town 
 ;o where we 
 it aiu't a 
 )re, and face 
 
 me to see 
 
 )uldn't. It 
 we reckon 
 e him — yuu 
 R to that. 
 • Sir Vane 
 H is a free 
 lor as ever 
 (I back to a 
 a nuujl tQ 
 
 work for her own livin'. H'j can't carry yon 
 offlike they do in stories, and ma wouldn't 
 stay carried off if he did. We can't rub 
 awav — we ain't got no m'>ney, and we're 
 s«'ttled here like, and makin' a nice livin' 
 We ain'c goin' to let Sir Vane Valentine spiU 
 all Chat. No. Miss Snowball mv pretty, 
 don't you be skeered — he won't find us, an' 
 if he does then we'll cl^-ar. 1 will stanti m} 
 ground and face him if you'll let me, and 
 that for Str V»ne Valentine ! I ain't mar»ie<l 
 to him, thaiik the Lord, and he can't carr} 
 thingn with soch a high h«nd here in N^v\ 
 York city as over there at Valentine. But 
 I don't believe he'll find us anyhow. Nn 
 one knows our real names, and th« 
 PHttingill's don't know whnre you live. 
 Don't you be scared, Miss Snowball, m> 
 de«ry. ' I don't believe he'll ever find n^ 
 out all' 
 
 Jemima Ann has reason on her side and 
 as she says they cannot sff ird to fly. What- 
 ever comes, they must perforce stay and 
 face it out. So D Oores lets her first panii 
 be soother^, and yieMs But it in settled she 
 is to go on the street no more at all f<>r the 
 present, and th^ir doors are to be kept lock 
 d to all the world, 
 
 * I shall lose Mi-s Pettingill, and all my 
 other pupils,' she says, monrnfn'lv ; ' snd I 
 bad r.o mu'^h trouble getting ihem. I hardly 
 knnw what we are to do, Jemima A'in. 
 Mrs. P" tiiiKil ani BUi.c*ie will think I 
 mu-ft 8U Idenly hwe gone crazy.' 
 
 * Th«y musr think wh%t th«y pl«ase f r 
 awhil -, I retrkon In a week or two I might 
 go up early some morning with a n')te fron 
 you. to say yon waH kind o' ailiu* or some- 
 thin' for gettin' along ; we will get aloD)j 
 never you fear I have saved something, 
 and I mean to work double tides until you 
 gut a»>out aeain. The wornt thing about it 
 all IS, that y.iu will tVe*; and theconfinement 
 to those cloB" rooms will hurt your health.' 
 
 But fretting and ;;onfiiiement must be 
 borne. Anrt now fo"- the 8ecnn<l time a 
 dreary interval of watting and watching, and 
 daily breaa sets in. Behind the closed blinds 
 P dores sits all day long, anxiously peering 
 into the street, drawing back whenever a 
 panser bv chances to glance up, seeing in 
 every man who looks at the house a detec- 
 tive on her track. Jemima Am does hei 
 errands at the earliest hour of opening the 
 grocer's, and sews by her mistress' side all 
 the rest of the day . Dolores essays to help 
 h»r, but it is little better than an tffort ; the 
 dread of discovery paral\ B's all her energies. 
 She cannot settl- to sew, to read, to practice; 
 she iits through the Iwa hours, silem, 
 anxious, pale. It ih au unreasoning dread, 
 morbid and out i>f prop rtion with its cause; 
 
 she simply feels aa she hM said, thai if she 
 meets him she will die. 
 
 Five days go by, rerv, very "loWly, but 
 without word or sign of diacoreiy. Then a 
 tthook all a{i once cornea. 
 
 It comes in the shape of a letter, delirered 
 by the postman, and addressed to Mr*. 
 Trillon. She turns qnite white aa she re> 
 oeives it. * Hast thoa found me. mine 
 •>nemy ?' is the ory of her heart. No one 
 knows her address ; this is the first letter 
 t'idressed to her since she has been in New 
 Vork. It is in a man's hand — not her hns* 
 oand's, but what of that? — and is correotlj 
 lirected both as to the street and number. 
 She sits with it in her hand, in a tremor of 
 uervous affright that shakes her from head 
 CO foot. 
 
 * Open it. my deary^don't yon be afraid. 
 L>r— Sir Vane Valentine can't eat yon. 
 Open it — he ain't inside the enrelope, wher«> 
 ver he i8,'Bav8, cheerily, Jemima Ann. 
 
 She oheyt with shaking ti gers. It is 
 
 lated N««w York, and the day before. I^he 
 
 glances at the signature, and utters aery. 
 
 >•' or ttie name at the end is George ValtB- 
 
 tine. 
 
 Head it. Miss Snowball— read itoutlondl' 
 ;ries Jemima, in a transport of cnnoiutyi 
 ind Do'ores obeys. 
 
 It IS short. 
 
 New York, March 27th, 18-. 
 
 ' My Dear Suuwtwll, — I may atill call yoa 
 by the *dd name, may I not? — the dear little 
 uet name by which * M. Paul ' haa so often 
 called yon. It will not alarm you surely to 
 Know that I am here, and have found yon ? 
 My dear child, you know you may trust your 
 old friend. I have crossed the ooean in 
 xearch of you, and am most desirous of seeing 
 you at once. I will call upon you this aftei* 
 noon. I send this as an avant-conrier, to 
 break the shock of the surprise. Yoa at e 
 living in striotost seclusion, I know, but yea 
 will hOi me, I feel sure. Are you aware 
 that Vane Valentine is also in this city, aUo 
 lu search of you ? Hrf has not found yon, 
 aud depart'', 1 am tola, in a few da>B. Yi n 
 need not fear him, I think. At present he 
 18 about starting with one Mr. Lionel Ool« 
 bert on the trial trip of the latter gentleman a 
 yacht down the bay. I shall call at your 
 iodising at three this afternoon. Uutil then, 
 uiy dear Snowball, I am as ever, 
 
 * Your faithful friend, 
 
 George Valentine,' 
 
 'Thank the Lord for all aia meruieal' 
 ejaculaies, piously, J«.aiima Ann. 
 
 ' But do you believe it?' asks Dolores, 
 the glad flubh fading from bur face, and the 
 aoxiotis ccmtraction growing ha itual there, 
 beudmg her brot»s ; 'it may be a ruse. It 
 
 I 
 
m 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMEN. 
 
 
 m«7 be the work of Sir Vane himself, or of 
 his emisgariei. Oh, Jeminu I I am afraid 
 —afraid I ' 
 
 ' Now, Miss Snowball, there ain't no rea- 
 son. That sonndi like an honest letter, and 
 I believe it Ab three this afternoon. I'll 
 be on the watch down at the front door, and 
 if it ain't Mr. Valentine— well, then, the 
 part^ that comes will have some trouble in 
 getting in to this room. Don't you be 
 afeard. Just put on your prettiest dress 
 and perk up a jl)it, for you do look that pale 
 and tbio. Alias Snowball, that it's quite 
 heart-breakin' to see you ; and trust to me 
 to keep him out if it's the wrong man. If 
 it's the right one, as I feel sure it is, all our 
 troubles is at an end. A man's such a com- 
 fort at times when a body's in a muddle, 
 and don't know what to do. I wonder,' 
 s'ays Jemima Ann, stitching away diligently, 
 and keeping her eyes on her work, ' if Mr. 
 Rayney is with him ? ' 
 
 .There is a sound as of a sudden catching of 
 the breath at mention of that name, but no 
 reply. Indeed Dolores hardly speaks again 
 fdt hours. She sits silently at her post by 
 the window, in a feriir of aitemate hope and 
 dread, watching the passers-by. She tries 
 to read, tries t& play, walke up and down, 
 ahd has worked herself into a feverish and 
 flushed headache long before three o'clock. 
 
 It strikes at last She resumes her nlace 
 by the window, and clenches her hands to- 
 gether in her L^. as if to hold herself still by 
 force. .At the moment the bell rings. 
 
 'Thert^ I ' oiier Jemima Ann. 
 
 Both utart to their feet Jemima Ann 
 l^arries down stairs, locking the door behind 
 her, and Dolores stands pale, breathless, her 
 hands still unconsciously clenched, her heart 
 beating to suffocation. It seems to her the 
 sbpremest hour of her life. Is it salvation 
 and ' M. Paul I ' Is i«; ruin and Vane Vale.n. 
 tine ? She hears a joyful cry from Jemima, 
 the rapid sounds of footsteps flying up the 
 stairs— the door is unlocked, and the maid 
 rttshes joyous'/ in. 
 
 ' Oh. Miss iuowball ! dear Miss Snowball I 
 it's all right— it's him, it's him ! ' 
 
 And then before her, tall, strong, hand- 
 ■oaie, bearded, resolute, good to see, comes 
 Qenrge Valentine. 
 
 The quick revulsion of feeling,, the sudden 
 joy, takes away hec last remnant of strength- 
 She holds out both bands to him. and would 
 fall, so dizzy does sh^e p;ruw, but that she is 
 in His arms, held against his loyal, lovinit 
 
 hMTt 
 
 * My little Snowball I my dear little girl I ' 
 he says, and stoops and kisses the p»l^ 
 obanged face, more touched by that change 
 thfta Le oatm to show. »<: 
 
 'I — how foolish I am,' she says, and 
 laughs, with eyes th«t brim over , forgive 
 me, M. PauL I have been wretched and 
 nervous lately, and the shock of seeing 
 you ' 
 
 She breaks off, and sinks back in her 
 chair, and covers her face suddenly with her 
 hands, and, for a little, utterly breaks 
 down. 
 
 ' Oh, I beg your pardon,' she says, shock* 
 ed at her own weakness ; * do not mind me, 
 pray. I will be all right in a moment. 
 Only it so brings back the old times, and 
 dear old Isle Perdrix, and — oh ! how good, 
 how good it is to see a friendly face agiin.' 
 
 ' That is a pleasant hearing. ' he says, 
 cheerily, ' so you were afraid my letter was 
 all a ruse ? My dear child, I have known 
 for over a week you were here. If you had 
 been discovered by the other, I was always 
 ready to come to the rescue. My poor 
 little Snowball I how pallid auH thin you 
 have grovra. Life has gone hardly with you, 
 I fear, since I saw vou last.' 
 
 Tears, hard to hold back, spring to her 
 eyes once more , they till, they overflow. 
 The sympathetic tone, the loving look, go to 
 her heart. She covers her face, and it is a 
 moment before she cun speak. 
 
 ' I am very weak ; I never used to be a 
 crying animal,' she says at last, trying to 
 laugh through the falling drops. ' Yes, life 
 has gone hard, but I did not mind so greatly 
 until I found him here after me. We weie 
 getting along so nicely, I was almost quite 
 reconciled before that. But M. Paul — I 
 may call you by the old name, raay I not ? — 
 I would rath'>r die than go back. You will 
 not let him try to force me, will you ?' she 
 says, holding up her pleading clasped hands 
 like a little child. 
 
 ' My dear girl, you shall not go back — no,' 
 he answers, more moved by the gesture, by 
 the pitiful change in the bright beauty he re- 
 members so well, than he cares to let her 
 aee ; ' no one shall force you against your 
 inclinations. You have nothing to fear, I 
 think. He certainly has been in searoh oi 
 you : he certainly, also, has not af. yet 
 found you. He is not in New York tu-day. 
 The yaoht started on her trial trip this 
 morning, to be absent a week ; so your en- 
 forced imprisonment may end for the 
 present I mean to take you for a drive 
 this afternouu — oh, you must 1 I will have 
 no refusal. I am quite alone in New York , 
 our good friend, Rene, is in R»me, back ac 
 his wurk. He wanted to come ; he was per- 
 fectly insane, I think, just at first, when he 
 heard of your fligHt ; but I managed to make 
 him hear reason . For obvious rca o >s, it was 
 better he should not accompany me. I dis* 
 
 t 
 
LOST FOR A WOMEN. 
 
 U| 
 
 iay«, and 
 r , forgive 
 tched and 
 of leeing 
 
 k in her 
 r with her 
 ly breaks 
 
 yg, shock* 
 mind me, 
 
 moment, 
 bimes, and 
 low good, 
 ace agtin.' 
 ' he says, 
 letter was 
 ve known 
 I you had 
 ras always 
 
 My poor 
 I thin you 
 with you, 
 
 ing to her 
 
 overflow. 
 
 look, go to 
 
 and it is a 
 
 9d to be a 
 
 , trying to 
 
 • Yes, life 
 
 so greatly 
 
 We weie 
 aost quite 
 . Paul— I 
 y I not ? — 
 
 You will 
 , you ?' she 
 ped hands 
 
 >ack — no,' 
 ;e8ture, by 
 kUty he re- 
 to let her 
 ainat your 
 
 to fear, I 
 
 search oi 
 )t ae, yet 
 >rk tu-day. 
 
 trip this 
 J your en- 
 
 for the 
 for a drive 
 
 will have 
 few York , 
 le, back at 
 le was per- 
 ;, when he 
 id to make 
 o '8, it was 
 ne. I dis- 
 
 him the moment I 
 to write to him at 
 you any messages, 
 
 patohed a telegram to 
 discovered you. I am 
 lenght to night. Have 
 Snowball ?' 
 
 No ; Snowball has none — her remember- 
 ances, and she is well — nothing more. That 
 is all of Rene — her last colour comes and 
 goes at the sound of his name, but M. Paul 
 is considerate, and ti>o ouch interested in 
 the dingy street to look at her closely. 
 
 ' You have done nothing in the matter of 
 your claim to the title and estate ?' she asks, 
 after a pause. 
 
 ' Nothing ; and mean to do nothing, for 
 the present at least. Rene told vou that, 
 you know The exposure of my life to the 
 world would be no easy thing for a thin- 
 skinned fellow like mw to bear ; I doubt if 
 any fortune could compensate for it. There 
 would be a prolonjyed contest, no end of 
 names of the Jiving and the dead dragged 
 through the mud of a public court and a 
 confoundedly public press. No ; Sir Vane 
 must remain Sir Vane, I suppose, ur ; '\ my 
 moral courage grows a good deal stronger. 
 Now run, and wrap up ; it is a jewel of a 
 day. Y^our imprisonment has lasted long 
 enough ; we are going for a drive to the 
 Park, in this fine, frosty air. I want to see 
 the roses I remember so well, in these white 
 cheeks before we part.* 
 
 She obeys. Oh ! the relief of feeling her 
 great enemy is no longer in the city— the re- 
 lief of feeling she is free to go out once more, 
 that ' M. Paul,' strong and resolute, is beside 
 her. 
 
 ' And I will have supper ready when you 
 come back,' calls aft'er them .Jemima Ann. 
 
 It is an afternoon never to be forgotten, 
 all the more enjoyable for the gloom, and 
 terror, and hiding, that have gone before. 
 Dolores enjoys it thoroughly ; the fleet 
 horses, the rapid motion, the sparkling air, 
 the startling equipages, the bright, sun-gilded 
 park, thecris0, cheery talk, the deep, mellow 
 iaueh of her frienn. He tells her of his life 
 in Rome, of Rene, an hia woik, of his search 
 for her, of the finding. It is all dtlightful, 
 and when at last, shortly after uightfall th^y 
 return, they find a clear fire, a smiling ace, 
 and a hot supper, fit for an epicure, awaiting 
 them. 
 
 For the next two dayR life takes in its 
 bnghtpst cl'iver, fear departs, care is thrown 
 off Dolores lives iu the present, and enjoys 
 it thoroughly. ' M. Paul' comes daily, and 
 the lost bloom of happinese* seems to return 
 at his bidiiiug, as if by mag<c. 
 
 But on the third day he does not come. 
 Tbe forenoon, the afternoon pass, and do not 
 bring him. Dolores grows alarmed — si» 
 little startles her now, when just at dusk he 
 
 presents himself, but with m sIowimm oi iftep 
 and a gravity of face, tU unussal. 
 
 ' Something has happened I ' she oriti, ia 
 quick alarm. ' Sir Vane has retuxiMd ! ' 
 
 ' Sir Vane has returned — yes.' 
 
 He standi holding both her handa, lookisff 
 down at hei- with his grave d*rk eyes. 
 
 ' Dolores, dear child, there is nothinf^ to 
 wear that frightened faoe for. He h»» re- 
 turned, but not to trouble yon. I doaht if 
 he will ever trouble you or any on« mor«. 
 An accident has happened to the yaoht.' 
 
 She stands silent, f, ^le, looking, at him* 
 waiting for what ia to oome next. 
 '^' It was last night — it waa very foggy, yoa 
 may remember. One of the great paaaanger 
 steamers of the Sound ran her down and sunk 
 her. Three of the seven on board wer« 
 drowned — the others were picked o^ ^y the 
 steamer's boato. Young Colbert, the owdw 
 of the yacht, is among the lost, and fvon 
 what is said, I think his guest, Sir Vane.' 
 
 She sits down, feelliog suddenly siok and 
 faint, unable to speak a word. 
 
 ' The bodies have just been reooyerad ; 
 they lie as yet at a .7«ter-side hotel, await* 
 ing identification. I am on my way to ^9|9| 
 and it may be to identify your husband. 
 Try not to be overcome by this shock. I 
 will keep you in suspense as short a timie aa 
 I can. Once I have seen the hodiea I will 
 return here. ' 
 
 He departs. It is a bright, aterry t^i{|^ 
 the street lamps are twinkling; in the Apni 
 dusk, as. he strides rapidlv alon^ .ia hail* 
 a coupe presently, and is driveL. > hi* deati* 
 nation. He finds a crowd already ooagr«* 
 gated, and much excitement ; the poHoa on 
 hand to preserve order, fie makes Jiia w»y 
 through the throng to the ghaatljf^room in 
 which the three stark bodies as yet lie. 'Ths 
 gas-light floods the dead, upturned fanes ; 
 the drowned men lie side by aide, awaiting 
 removal. The first is a slender, fair-haired, 
 fair-mustached young man — Lionel Colbert. 
 The second is a seaman , the third— he 
 draws back and holds his breriih. Ther« be* 
 fore him lies his enemy — the man who has 
 hated him, who has worn his title and used 
 his wealth, who haa done his beat to break 
 little Saowball's heart— Vane Valentino, 
 stark and dead. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 'ERE I CEASE TO LOVE HER. MT QUUK, MY 
 
 LOVE r 
 
 It is a Mayday, cloudless, flawIeH, anmiy, 
 breezy. Isle Perdrix lies like an emerald in 
 its sapphire seting, in the danoHig waves of 
 Bay Chalette. As white •■ p«mt oaa make 
 
m 
 
 Lost FOR A WOMtN. 
 
 
 
 it, the little cottage nestles as of old, iti 
 baok comfortably puffed against a granite 
 bowlder, its foar bright windows looking 
 like crystal eyes, with a smile in their depth, 
 down on the blooming enuare of hardy 
 flowers below, the steep, i^oky path beyond, 
 le4ding to the most cbarmini; strip of beach 
 in the world, and still beyond, over the 
 ■olemn, whisuering, illimitable Hea. 
 
 It is yet early morning -not yet quite 
 nine o'clock, but, eyen at thin matutinai 
 hour, the shrill, pitched French C'lnadian 
 voice of old Ma'am V» eesy rises on the snntiy 
 air in aooeots of keen reproach, The yel- 
 low-painted kitchen is one fl )0<1 of eastern 
 sanshiae ; the rows of burnished tin ami 
 copper make the beholder wink avain ; two 
 huge family oats bask in front of the polish 
 ed eookrug stove ; pots of geraniums an<i 
 pink rosea on the window sills scont the air ; 
 a fragrance as of tea and toast is in the at- 
 mosphere. 
 
 Uosoftenel by all these mellowing in 
 fluences. Ma'am Weeny stands, with handx 
 on hlp«, and pours forth a tcreni of reproach 
 io mingled Frenoh and Eogliah. Jemima 
 Ann stands near, and listens and laiif^hM. 
 The cnlprit. out in the hop wreathed p'>rcb, 
 tries — also in foreign accents — to make him- 
 ■elf heard. 
 
 • Sure, thin, 'twasn't my fault — that I may 
 niver av it was, ould Wasy ! It was all the 
 doin' an' the divilmint av Masther Jnhnnv. 
 Ax himself, av ye don't b'lave me. T'lere 
 he is now, forninst ye, an' divil ' another 
 wordav ye're abuse I'll take this hlisnid day 
 av ye wor twice the ould catamoraa ye are !' 
 
 With which Tim stamps away indignant- 
 ly, and another manly form — a good deal 
 manlier, bigger, browner, younger, hand- 
 somer, pleasanter to look at every way — 
 takes his place. 
 
 ' What's the row ?' demands this new 
 oomer ; ' what the duce, Ma'am VVee»y, are 
 yon and old Tim kii-kiog up such a con- 
 founded clatter about this time of morning !' 
 
 ' Ah I bon jour M'sieur Je^n I' 
 
 Instantly all trace of wrath vaniobes as 
 if by mat^o from the face of Ma'am Weesy 
 — her coffee-coloured visage beams with pri-^e 
 and joy. Tim has ouly forgotten madam'H 
 bouquet after all, but M. Jean has it, she 
 fails not to perceive. Th^ tall, stalwart, 
 sun-browned sailor does hold a magnificent 
 posy of hot house flowers in cue hr vzed 
 band, where it looks decidedly out of keop- 
 ing with the eternal fitness of things. He 
 hands it to Jemioaa Ana, evidently relieved 
 to be rid of it. 
 
 * fttadnm nearly ready, I hope, Miss Hop 
 kins f he mjs. 
 
 ' Nearly ready, Captain John— dressing-. I 
 
 will tell her you have come, and give her her 
 bouquet.' 
 
 * A 1(1 I rrill give you some breakfast, M. 
 Jeao.'HUktgtists radiant Mit'am Weesy. 
 
 No, M. Jran says, he do<<en't 
 want anything. His appetite has 
 deserted him this morning, it appeal's, 
 ne l<)ok8 and feels nervoui and fidgety, and 
 keeps pulling out his watch every few 
 imnutes, and glancing »t it with impatient 
 H^es, H<>w time lags this morning how 
 many more hours he wonders before Snow- 
 bull is rigged, and ready to set sail — it comes 
 o9 at eleven. It is only half past nine now ; 
 fiow is a fellow to get through the inter* 
 vening little forever ? 
 
 ' I wish it was this time to morrow,' he 
 growls, inwardly, ' all the to-do over, and 
 Inno aud I — dear little soul 1 fairly out on 
 idue water, with all the starmg eyes and 
 gaping tongues left behind. It's a capital 
 cbini; to marry the Q,\rl of one's heart, no 
 doubk, hut it*H a very vjonsiderable bore get- 
 ting the preliminaries satVly over. I'll go 
 *«wn to the beach and m k« a cigar, 
 We sy,' he says "^LiU'^l. ' Waeu ma lam it 
 i»a ly call me, will you T ' 
 
 F <r D flofea— oiiue Lidy Valentine — is 
 'mida<ie' here, and for the la->t fourteen 
 m n hd has hidden he'Self, and her sorrows, 
 istul her wi lnwhood in the sea girt seclusion, 
 -o often Bg!ied for, of I le Pertlrix George 
 Vnl utine brought and leit her here when he 
 <)eiiart-d to assert his rights, and proultim 
 (lis iilentity as the next iu sui^cesMon to Va- 
 ientine Aoi' here, amon^ ihef iend?of her 
 u'irlhood aud happiest ^lyo, amid the dear 
 o d familiiir places and face*, gladness of 
 neart and hope tor the future have returned. 
 
 Ad now, fitaiidng bf-f.ire the dressing- 
 i.li^s in her Utile r lom, she is rowing for a 
 bi-ida), and feeling as if the past years had 
 >ir>)pped away from her life like a bad 
 dream, and tbat it i^ ih- jubilant girl, S low- 
 hall, who sings softlv c«. herselr a ul smiles 
 b<i<^k at her own fair ima^e in the mirror. It 
 is John Mactiouald'a wedding-day, and Inno- 
 c<^titu Dfserea'tx is the biide. It is John 
 Macilonald's big ship she can see ont there 
 in the bay, with a cabin fitte 1 up for its 
 queen, readv to Siil to morrow morning, and 
 imtkt away bridegroom and bi ide to fair,far-off 
 lan<is. And to-day Didores lays aiide weeds 
 and crape and puts on a white dress — a 
 '«uowy Silken, trailing robe, and iu it laoks 
 hko a radiant young bride herself 
 
 The golden hair is coiled away, in many 
 elaborate ItraMs, and a white rose nestles iu 
 its sunny glitter ; delicate laces drape the 
 pearly iieuk and arm*, snd there are roses 
 tor breast and shoulder knots. Altogether 
 it is a very fair aud girlish Snowball who 
 
LOST FOR A WOMEN. 
 
 m 
 
 give her her 
 
 reakfait, M. 
 
 eesy. 
 
 3 do^en't 
 letite has 
 it appeara, 
 iil((etjr, and 
 
 every few 
 h impatient 
 irniiig how 
 fiore Sanw- 
 11 — it oomes 
 
 it DIDO DOW ; 
 
 the inter* 
 
 norrow,' he 
 
 over, and 
 airly oat on 
 
 eyea and 
 a capital 
 
 heart, no 
 le bore get* 
 er. I'll go 
 e a ii\ii&r, 
 
 maiam is 
 
 al en tine — is 
 t fun I teen 
 tier ajrrows, 
 rt seclusion, 
 riz George 
 lere whon he 
 knd prouLtim 
 isniun to Va- 
 
 iend? of her 
 lid the dear 
 
 gUdaess of 
 ve returned, 
 he dressing- 
 ro'>iug for a 
 ,Rt ypars had 
 
 like a bad 
 t girl, S low- 
 r a ui smiles 
 B mirror. It 
 y, and luno* 
 
 Ic is John 
 ee oat there 
 1 up for its 
 aorning, and 
 to fair, far-off 
 I a>iide weeds 
 ite dreHS — a 
 i in it Loks 
 If 
 
 ay, in many 
 Be nestles in 
 !S drape tb« 
 ire are roses 
 Altogether 
 lowball who 
 
 comes flattering oat and down stairs, pink 
 roses in her cheeks and starry brilliance in 
 her eyes — a rone and a star herself, as so it 
 seems to Captain John Maodnnnlil. who 
 catches a glimpse of this sunny vision and 
 oonien in. 
 
 ' By Jove ! ' he says, and stands and looks 
 at her, 'if Innn had not done for me before 
 yoa came — well, it's of no uhc talking now 
 of the migbt>bav«i-been'a. You look like a 
 rosebud yourself, Snowball — queen lily and 
 rose in one, and will outHbiue ray Inno her 
 B?lf, if you don't take care. Nothing elqe in 
 St. Gildas, of cuarde, will have a ghost of a 
 chance near you.' 
 
 ' What a charming courtier you are, 
 Johnny, ' retorts ' madame, ' derisively. 
 ' Such delicate flattery, such subtle compli- 
 ment ! If you cannot acquit vonrself more 
 creditably than this, sir, you had better leave 
 it to those who understand the business. 
 Outshine your Inno, indeed I You know 
 very well if the Venus Aphrodite rose from 
 the fturf there this moment, vou would con- 
 aider the goddess rather a plain-looking 
 young woman compared to your Inno. Stand 
 off a little and let me look at you. ' 
 
 John Macdonald does aa he is bid, an(i 
 laughinftly 'stands at ease,' and folds his 
 arms ai>d holds biniself erect for inspection. 
 Mis ' dashing white sergeant ' eyes him nar- 
 rowly rrom top to toe, from the crown of his 
 brown curly head, to the sole of bis new, 
 and pain'ully tight, and btiiliantly poli^thed 
 bootn. Then, still Bravely, hbe nods. 
 
 ' You will do,' she says ; ' worse looking 
 men than you get married every day in the 
 week, Johnny.' 
 
 In her secret heart she is thinking, in a 
 ghtw of sisterly admiratio.: and priile, that 
 he is beantiful enough t be a demi uod. He 
 looks like a viking — like a brighthairt-d, 
 blue-eyed Norse king, so brouzi^d, so hand- 
 some, so strung, so stately. 
 
 ' I really do not think Inno need be 
 ashamed of you much this morning,' shf 
 says, * onlv I hope you won't fl >under ab* ut 
 and be Hwkward, Johuny, and drop the 
 ring and turn a bright rrimKon at the wroniii 
 time, and make a xuy of yourself generally, 
 when we get to church. Pere L^uis wdl be 
 sure to lauuh at >ou if you do- you know 
 his dreadfully keen eenne <if the ridiculous 
 alwajR; ami nilh the sifl'erly motherly re- 
 gard I have for y<.u, my dear boy, it would 
 piiin me to xtse the Hoger of ri^ilility nointex 
 at you on your we i<)uu-'lay. You wdl try 
 anil (Conduct Nouroelf latioiialh — i>ow won't 
 yuu ?' implores D.ilores patheriually. 
 
 ' Yes, I'll try, nays Captain Macdonald, 
 and laughs ; ' with your maternal eye upoc 
 (AO, how can I fail? Ten o'clock, Suowbali,' I 
 
 pulling out the perpetual watoh ; 'look 
 sharp, will you, like a dear girl ? Have yoa 
 had anything in the way of breakfast, or 
 will you wait for the breakfast? It takes 
 place, you know, at eleven.' 
 
 ' I know. I will not be late. I will 
 take a cup of tea. please. Ma'am Weesy— 
 itotuiog more. We cannot keep this flery 
 lovei any longer from his bride. It's aw< 
 fully good of you to come after me yourself, 
 this morning, Johnny ; I fully expected old 
 Tim to be my cavalier servente. Did yoa ' 
 —she ssks this carelessly, her faoe averted 
 while sipping her tea—' did yoa receive the 
 letters you looked for last night after I left 
 — from .VI. Paul. I mean?' 
 
 ' Oue from M. Paul - Sir George Valen- 
 tine rather— none from Bena. Is was m 
 disappointment, let me tell yoa. Hang it 
 all ! he might have dropped a screed, no 
 matter how busy he is, even supposing he 
 didn't care to come. He is so taken ap with 
 bis marble goddesses, I suppose, that he has 
 no time for flash and blood. Sir George's 
 letter is all right — what miijht l>e ezpeoted 
 from such a thorough good fellow. He will 
 come — will be here by the afternoon train 
 ( U. V ) to wish us felicity and all that. Bat 
 It will be no end of a bore if Rene fails to 
 put in an appearance.' 
 
 ' Yru atill hope then, ihat he may 
 come ?' 
 
 ' Wiill you see, while there's life there's 
 hope, as they say, and the very fact of his 
 not ha\iug written encourages me in the 
 belief that he may be on his way. I haven't 
 seen the dear ol<i boy for years ; it will spoil 
 even my wedding-day if ne fails me now. 
 Rei*(ly ? come ou then.' 
 
 They go. As they enter the boat Cap* 
 tain Macdonald takes from his pocket * 
 letter, and hands it to hei'. 
 
 ' Valentine's ' he says, ' read it M we 
 cross It is auapiral letter, from the prinoe 
 of good fellows, and there is a message for 
 you. 
 
 Fur M. Paul F.irrar is Sir George Valen* 
 tine at last, in sight of all the world, and 
 leiguiog Signeur of Manor Valentine. Ttie 
 .Meat foitune, the old name, lost onoe for a 
 voman, havo been regained. His claim was 
 i-ufli(jieutly easy to prove ; many still re* 
 inaiueil in T iron to, who remembered George 
 Valentine perfectly. A host of witnesses — 
 MrH. Tinker at their head, cam forward to 
 Mwear to his identity with the George Valen- 
 tine, so long supposed to be drowne<t. Mrs. 
 Tinker is installed as housekeeper at the 
 viauor, por'ly, upright, vigorous still, in her 
 gn eu old a.:e, vice Mitts Dorothy retired to 
 rlintbarrow. Mi^s Camilla Routh is also 
 Socially txtin^t tor all time in the lonely a^d, 
 
Ml 
 
 LOST FOR A WOMEN. 
 
 
 
 d«bUt« oM ffTMige. And bo it comet to 
 fmm tk*t among the pnm old Queen Anne 
 |ftrd«M, vp Mid down the leafy, lofty 
 »v«nne»| inrMgh the empty, echoing 
 l^allerisa of Manor Valentine, Sir George 
 waHls, and amokee, and muaee, alone. 
 He it far more of a favourite 
 with th« reaident gentry, than 
 th« lata baronet ever was ; people — women 
 pAxtioalarly, think it a pity, a man still in 
 the prime of life, still unnsnally handsome 
 asd attractive, should appear to think so 
 little of nunrying and giving the Manor a 
 mistreaa. Bac George Valentine, smoking 
 hia solitary pipe, and dreaming his own 
 dreams of future and pamt, knows he will 
 B«v«nr man^ — his one hrief, dis- 
 aaferoms experience, has put >n end forever 
 to all thought of t *- — ir >ee many wan- 
 derijBg yeara he has :• n , , aoe he has oared 
 to look at twice, ^ ^ man who has 
 
 taken captive, even tc w^- >•>. ""r, his errant 
 ^oy. 
 
 And yet through these dreamut nt. dreams 
 — through theee visions he sees arising in the 
 olavda of Cavendish — there are the faoes of 
 little children brightening the dnsky Manor 
 roolns, he hears their gleeful shouts up and 
 dowa these deserted garden walks — where 
 no childish footsteps have trodden for more 
 than half a century. Sometimes these 
 babies of his fanoy look at him with the dark, 
 ■okmn, handaome eyes of Rene Macdonald, 
 sometimes the long tresses that wave in the 
 wind have the oaie gold sheen i . little Snow- 
 baU Trillon. But of these idle pictures he 
 says nothing, * patient waiters are no losers.' 
 
 He bides hia timn and hop<^s. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 And now it is eleven, and the bells— 
 wvdding-beHe — are ringing out their jubilant 
 peal. Pere Louis, in surplico and stole, 
 aCanda within the altar rails, and Captain 
 John MaodonaLd, and pretty Innoceate De. 
 seraaux, in her glistening bride's robe and 
 and veil, knell to receive their nuptial l>eue> 
 dioti«u. It is all ovor, a bride has been 
 given away, and evt-n under the eev^rf) 
 iiiatl-imonial inspection of ' madame ' — 
 whose blue eyes are a tiifle dim to be sure, 
 tha bridegroom has not distinguished hini- 
 aelf by auy notable gaucheric. It is all well 
 over, to Captain John's unutterable relief, 
 for even to a * tar who plows thti water ' to 
 be r « centre and focus of some fifty pairs of 
 feivinine eyes must be rather a trying ordeal. 
 It is over, and they are back at the mansion 
 of Desereanx pere, whence the daughter and 
 darling ia tn depart to*murrow, with the hus- 
 band of her heart, for two long years. And 
 thai broAkfaat is over too, healths have been 
 «lra'.tk, Md toMto reapwided to, and Bpeeohes 
 
 made, and blushes blushed, and tears wiped 
 away, with smdes to uhase tbem, and it is 
 afternoon and nearly train time, and one 
 heart is beating, beating — ah ! as hearts 
 have beaten for all time — will beat rtiU in 
 that day when all time shall end. Others 
 discuss the coming arrival, or arrivals it may 
 be, only ' madame ' says nothing. A deep, 
 permanent flash burns on her cheeks, a 
 brilliant, feverish light is in her eyes, her 
 pulses are throbbing with sickening rapidity 
 at times, and then again seeming to stand 
 still. 
 
 Will he come — will he come ? Every 
 feverish beat of her heart seems beating out 
 that question. She has not seen him since 
 that day, so long ago. Oh I so long, long 
 ago, under the trees of Valentine. By which 
 it will be seen, by all whom it may concern, 
 that it is Sir George whose coming, or non- 
 coming, is setting her nnrves and pulses in 
 this quiver. 
 
 She breaks away from it all, presently — 
 the talk, the laugbter, the music, and goes 
 out. It is a little out of the ordinary rou- 
 tine, this wedding — the day— the last day 
 tor so long, is spent by tbti happy pair here 
 among their relatives and friends. This 
 evening they go on board ihe big ship wait- 
 ing out there in the stream, ready to spread 
 her white wings tor iSouth America, the hrst 
 thing to-morrow moruing. The little dark- 
 eyed bride keeps close to her mother's side 
 this one last day, but with adoring eyes 
 that fallows her young husband wherever 
 he goes. 
 
 The shriek of the incoming train reaches 
 Dolores as she steps out into the garden — a 
 long, old fashioned garden that slopes down 
 to the very sandsof the shoreofBayChalette. 
 Taat shriek, listened tor all day, comes to 
 her ears like a shock at last. She turns 
 white in the May sunshine and cold — what 
 if It has not brought him after all ! If it is 
 so she feels she must bear it just at hrst 
 alone, not under all those eyes in there, and 
 BO tihti hurries on, and down aimlessly, to 
 the waier'a edge. A^ shti staudis hhe can 
 see Isiu I'uMrix, its tall light-huuse piercing 
 tne hazy blue, its long white strip of hard 
 bf aoh, the smoke curling up from the little 
 peaceful cottage. Before her, sparkling as if 
 sown with stars, lies blue Bay Chalette — 
 many boats dotting its shining surface. Far 
 down, the current, big and briny and at rest, 
 lie« the big ship that ia to bear happy Inno 
 away. Behind, in a haze of amber log, lies 
 St Gildas, busy and bustling, going on its 
 work-day way as it marrying and giving in 
 mariiage, throbiug human hearts, waiting, 
 fearing, hopiug, loving, were as nothing to 
 the dull hum of its tiaiiio and goiQmeroe, 
 
LUST KoK A VVUMAN. 
 
 'IV > 
 160 
 
 and te«ra wiped 
 tbem, and it it 
 I time, and one 
 -ah 1 as heart* 
 ill beat rtill in 
 ill end. Otheri 
 tr arrivals it may 
 hing. A deep, 
 her cheeka, a 
 n her eyes, her 
 ikening rapidity 
 teeming to stand 
 
 come ? Every 
 9ms beating out 
 seen him sinoe 
 ! BO long, lung 
 tine. By which 
 it may concern, 
 cominf{, or non- 
 I and pulses in 
 
 i\\, presently — 
 usic, and goes 
 
 ordinary rou- 
 ^— the last day 
 lappy pair here 
 
 friends. This 
 ) big ship wait- 
 ready to spread 
 merioa, the tirst 
 ?he little dark- 
 ir mother's side 
 L adoring eyes 
 band wherever 
 
 ig train reaches 
 > the garden — a 
 lat slopes down 
 ofBayChalette. 
 day, comes to 
 ast. She turns 
 ad cold — wnat 
 er all I If it is 
 it juat at tirst 
 )H in there, and 
 aimlessly, to 
 UudH hhe uuu 
 ■house piercing 
 
 strip of hard 
 from the little 
 sparkling as if 
 ay Chalette — 
 { surface. Far 
 inyand at rest, 
 ir happy Inno 
 amber log, lies 
 , going on its 
 and giving in 
 earts, waiting, 
 
 as nothing to 
 ad voiDffleroe, 
 
 And as she stands — as she looks, some one 
 comes up the path from the street, and it ia 
 Sir George Valentine, and alone ! 
 
 The little limpid baby waves slip up and 
 down over the white pebbles at her feet, the 
 alauting afternoon sunlight (/ilda her pale 
 face and golden hair as she atanda — a very, 
 very pale face now. The pang ia ao sharp, 
 HO cruel, so utterly unbeat able for a moment ! 
 He has not come. She sinks down on the 
 low garden wall, and covers her face with 
 her hands. He has not come ! At laMtahe 
 is alone with her puin. But, oh ! ahu has so 
 hoped, ao longed for his coming, so hunuereil 
 for the bi^ht of hia face, the sound of hiu 
 voice. All her life she has loved hini and 
 known it not — it seemd to her ahe haH never 
 known how ahe has loved him until thia 
 bitter h»ur. ' Keue — my love — Rene !' she 
 aays, and stretches out her arms passion- 
 ately ; ' why have you not come ?' 
 
 Have her words evoked him '! A huriieil 
 step, a voice, a call, ' Snowball !' a voice 
 that would call her back from the dead al- 
 most it seems to her, in the wild, incredul- 
 ous joy of that moment. ' Dolores — my 
 darling !' the voice aays. And it ia Rene 
 who stands before her, who clasps her im- 
 petuously in his arms, Rene, who is looking 
 down upon her with all hia loyal, loving 
 heart in hia dark, radiant eyes. ' Dolores ! 
 my own, my dearest ! Carissiina inia ! we 
 inunt all last !' he cries. 
 
 She slips for him, and sita down again on 
 the garden wall, dizzily. Joy, rapture, 
 amaze fill her. What ahe aays is in a weak 
 voice. 
 
 ' I thought you were not going to come. ' 
 He laughs, and seats himself lieside her, 
 poaaessing himself of the two amall, flutter- 
 ing hands in a strong, close claap. 
 
 ' Becauae Valentine came in firat alone ? I 
 I met old Tim at the gate, and of course had 
 to atop a minute and shake hands with the 
 dear old fellow. I juat elanced in the par- 
 lour, kissed the bride, congratulated the 
 bridegroom, inquiied for you, and waa di- 
 rected here. 1 came — 1 saw — 1 — have I con- 
 quered ? Snowball, my little love, my life's 
 darl'.ng, how good it seema to sit here beside 
 you, to look at you, to listen to you once 
 mi)re ! ' 
 
 ' I really thought you were not coining: ! ' 
 In this supreme hour it is all Dolorea, ever 
 ilueut and ready, can find to say, and L-ven 
 in saying that she cannot look him in the 
 face. But, oh ! the rapture, the unspeak- 
 able gladness that Hlla her heart as she site. 
 ' Thought I was not coming,' laui^he Rene 
 again, ' anima mia, it has been all I could do 
 to keep from coming any time the past 
 year. I held myself by force — shear for-'e of 
 
 neither the tluio 
 We will hi oari 
 there, an l >re 
 ceremon . T.iea 
 
 will— away. It was too soon, out of con- 
 sideration tor you, but you do not know, 
 you never can know, what the etfort coot me 
 And thoHe letters, few and far between, for- 
 mal and friendly, I used to tear up a doztn 
 drafts of each, in which my heart would 
 creep out at the point of my pen. Thought 
 I was not coming ! Oh ! you might have 
 known mo better than that. And novr I 
 have come, ami for you, my long lost lo - - 
 never to leave \oh again — to take yo'i v. „h 
 me, my own forever, when I go." 
 
 What is Dolores, is any one, to s^^ to 
 such impetiuous wooing as his ? It sweejus 
 awa> all before it. 
 
 Rene, ailent habitually, can talk it seem 
 when he likes. 
 
 ' 1 have the programme all arramjed. You 
 are to listen, if you please. Madam Rene 
 Macdonald, and to oHer neither remonstrance 
 nor ol>jection. Our wedding takes place — 
 well you shall name the day of course, but in 
 June sometir and there is to be no talk of 
 elab(>r.ite tr^ ^ae or delay, because I have 
 the inclination to listen, 
 in the little church over 
 Louis simll perform the 
 we go to Valentine for 
 July and Ai. ist to Paris for September and 
 the Aut imn, and back to Rome, our home. 
 Carina. th . early winter. I have all ar- 
 ranged, ,oi understand, and if you know 
 any just or lawful reason why it may not be 
 carried out, you will be kind enough to state 
 it now, or forever after hold your peace.' 
 
 'Some one is Binging. Listen ' is 
 
 Dolores' still in^nnsequent reply ; ' it is luno 
 — has slie not a ciiarniing voice? ' 
 
 Through the open windows the tender re 
 frain of the mucl» sung love aong, • My 
 Queen," comes to t'le happy lovera sitting 
 here. 
 
 When and how shall I earliest meet her? 
 
 What are the wo ds that she ftrai will aay I 
 B what name atiali I learn to greet her? 
 
 I know not now ; ii will come some da}-, 
 v^ ith this self same sunlight shining upon rer, 
 
 shining down on her ringlets sheen, 
 t^he is rtandin eome where— she I will honour, 
 
 She that I wait for— my queen, mr queen ! 
 
 ' She muct be courteous, ah** must be holy. 
 
 I'ure. sweet, and tender, the girl I love; 
 Whether h'r birth be humble or lowly, 
 
 I 'are no more t han the angeln abov e. ' 
 
 And I'll give my heart to my lad > 's keeping. 
 
 And ever her strength on mine shall lean, 
 And 'he stars shall tall and the saints be weep 
 ing. 
 
 Kre I cease to love her— my queen, my queen ! 
 
 ' And all this time,' says Rene, 'I have 
 not asked you once, if you love me, my 
 queen ? ' 
 
170 
 
 LOST K'»F{ \ WOMAN. 
 
 Wbo is it talks of brilliant Hanhea nf 
 ■ileors? Dolorea doea not anawi-r — in 
 words— and Rene does not repea*'. his quea- 
 tion. They rise as the sweet kook ends, and 
 turn to go bt>ck to the honae ; and who 
 
 needs words when hearts are tilled with 
 bliiis ? Kor love is strong, and youth is 
 sM'eet, and both are theirs, and they are 
 together to part no more. 
 
 TUK »NU. 
 
 
 
re tilled with 
 ind youth is 
 and they are 
 
 i >* ■