D IT A 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY MARGARET MAJENDI& 
 
 86 This Is the prettiest low-born lass that, ever 
 
 Ran on the green-sward: nothing: she does, or S66E3S, 
 But smacks of something greater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place. 1 ' 
 
 WINIEB'S T&LB. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 OEORGE MUNRO'S SOXS, PUBLISHER^ 
 
 2? TO gT VANPEWATEK STREET.
 
 DITA. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 "HooT, man! wake up, Minister! Canna ye wake for 
 ance in your life, Minister! Mr. Malcolm! ye're speired 
 for frae Dunmonaigh!" Master Malcolm Farquhar was 
 in bed, and, wearied by two long sermons for it was the 
 evening of Sunday he slept soundly. 
 
 The wind roared round the bleak little manse, and the 
 rain deluged the windows, sweeping down the valley with 
 a hissing sound; but the noise had no power to wake the 
 weary Minister. Kerenhappuch, the honest servant, who 
 formed the whole domestic household of the manse, was 
 fain to take him by the shoulders, and give him such a 
 shake as could not fail to rouse him. 
 
 " There," she said,, stopping to get back her breath, as 
 she saw the gleam of returning consciousness in Master 
 Malcolm's blue eyes. " Ye're ill to waken, Minister!" 
 
 "What's the matter now, Huppie?" he said, rousing 
 himself, and sitting up. 
 
 "Matter! there's matter eneugh! Here's Willie come 
 down frae Dunmonaigh my Lady Grisel's speiringfor ye, 
 and she says ye maun come awa' doun as fast as ye can 
 win." 
 
 " But what can it be? are they ill? can you not tell me?" 
 
 " Yon^ll just pit on your bit duds, Meeuister; I'll no be 
 telling ye till ye're nigh upon ready." 
 
 Knowing that to argue with his housekeeper was but 
 waste of time, the Minister rose from his bed, and began 
 to dress himself in haste, in great anxiety. He would 
 willingly have continued the conversation through the 
 closed door; but to his imploring repetition of " What 
 will it be, Huppie? hi\s anything terrible happened?" 
 
 2138624 *
 
 DITA. 
 
 Huppie vouchsafed no response whatever, and he eould 
 only hasten the more. 
 
 When fully dressed, he emerged from his room, a strong 
 hale man of fifty, with a kind but rugged countenance, Ins 
 gray hair brushed back under a Glengarry bonnet, and a 
 stout stick in his hand. 
 
 Huppie stood waiting, holding a lantern, and with her 
 shawl pinned tightly over her head. 
 
 'You'll not be coming with me, Huppie," said Master 
 Malcolm; " it's a wild, rough night!" 
 
 Huppie tossed her head, and led the way out into the 
 darkness. The first blast of wind, as they left the shelter 
 of the house, made both stagger back, and it was not till 
 they reached a place where the path was sheltered by trees, 
 that Kerenhappuch found her tongue. 
 
 '' There's been a terrible accident doun at Dunmonaigh " 
 she said, "and the young laird has been brought hama 
 man- dead than alive. Yon Willie (useless carle!) says 
 -hat there's nae hope noo but in the mercy of God for 
 ilka bane in the puir lad's body is broken." 
 " God help him! how did it happen?" 
 Again Kerenhappuch was forced to pause, overpowered 
 by the gust of wind and rain which met them as they 
 
 turned a corner: then she went on 
 
 "It's all Maister Ewan's fancy for yon wild brute that 
 Willie had christened Beelzebub. The laird himsel wouldna 
 ride him, I m tauld; but Maister Ewan must aye be doiuo- 
 
 what nae ither body wad dream of; and this mornino- " 
 
 This morning, the Sabbath!" groaned the Minister. 
 Ihis morning he must up, when ither decent folks 
 were at the kirk, and awa' to Strathluan, where he goes 
 maist days: and he rode Beelzebub." 
 " Hush, Iiuppie!"'' 
 
 "I maun use the brute's lawfu' name," said Huppie, 
 
 obstinately " He could na have left Strathlnan three 
 
 3 behind him, when doun comes the rain, and the wind 
 
 S ai ;s the rain fly in Beelze m the black horse's eyes: 
 
 and Willie, wha saw the young laird pass by to his death 
 says that nae power on earth could gar him stop; he was 
 mad wi fury and rage, and doun Monaigh hill they came: 
 and the black horse had the bit in his teeth, and he 
 Jookit neither to right nor to left, but awa' doun the road 
 to the loch."
 
 DITA. O 
 
 " God be merciful to us!" said the Minister. 
 
 " Ay, maister, ilka drop of blood froze in Willie's body, 
 for he saw what maun come. Maister Ewan held on like 
 the deil hirnsel, and he might hae stoppit ony ither horse 
 but yon at the corner. As they passed, Willie gaed siccan 
 a skriech that ye couldna tell what it might be, and the 
 young laird gied him ae look as he passed, with his hands 
 weel doun, and grasping the black horse's mane; bu.t when 
 he was come to the dyke,, he loosed his twa hands sudden- 
 ly, and struck hard wi' whip and spur. Weel, Willie saw 
 his thocht, to gar the black horse loup ower the dyke and 
 awa' into the loch; but wae's me? it is steep, and he 
 couldna stop for the loup. He struck his broad chest on 
 the dyke, and awa' they went thegether, till ye couldna 
 tell whilk was the man and whilk was the beast, till they 
 stoppit half in and half out of the water; and the black 
 horse had broken his back, and the young laird was mair 
 like to a corpse than a living man." 
 
 11 Pray God he may yet be alive!" cried Master Mal- 
 colm, hastening his steps almost to a run. 
 
 " Not that gate, Minister!" cried. Huppie, interrupting 
 him, as he turned down the narrow road leading to the 
 loch. 
 
 " Ye'll no cross the loch the night?" 
 
 " I must do so it takes two miles off the road; there 
 is no time to lose." 
 
 " But it's a fearsome night!" 
 
 " 1 know every stone in the loch, so do not be afraid, 
 Huppie; it is not the first time I have crossed at night." 
 
 They were descending the path which led abruptly to 
 the edge of the mountain lake, on the northern shore of 
 which stood Dunmonaigh Castle. They could say no 
 more, for their words were unheard in the whistling and 
 howling of the wind. 
 
 It was a good fortune that made the moon shine out 
 for one moment, uncertain and wavering, struggling and 
 wading through heavy cloud?, but giving sufficient light 
 to enable Master Malcolm to draw the boat out of a 
 sheltering hole in the rock, and begin to unloose the oars. 
 
 Huppie, whose nerves were roused to the highest pitch 
 of excitement, now suddenly uttered a scream.- 
 
 "What's that, Maister Malcolm what's that?" she 
 cried, trembling.
 
 6 DITA. 
 
 Down the path they had just quitted, they perceived a 
 figure running swiftly after them. 
 
 " It is some one who needs our help," said the Minister, 
 severely. He hated unreasonable fears, and he went a 
 few steps back to meet the new-comer. 
 
 "If you are a Christian, as you are a human being, 
 help me in my need!" cried a voice through the darkness, 
 the sound of which Master Malcolm recognized. 
 
 " Assunta!" he said; "you here? at this hour?" 
 
 "Is it you? ah, be merciful! take me to Uunmonaigh; 
 there are yet two miles by the road, and they tell me he is 
 dying!" Her voice rose almost to a scream. 
 
 " Get in and seat yourself," said the Minister, gravely; 
 and taking the oars, he began to row out into the lake. 
 
 Assunta cowered down into the bottom of the boat, 
 folding more closely in her arms the little child she 
 carried. 
 
 "Assunta," said the Minister, solemnly, "is it well 
 that you should be here now?" 
 
 " Alas! signore, to say farewell Maria santissima, help 
 me!" she cried, wildly. 
 
 Tlio Minister said no more. The wind lashed the loch 
 up with a restless, surging movement, and it needed all 
 his attention to row safely to land. 
 
 Lights flitted backward and forward through the long, 
 dark passages of Dunmonaigh; backward and forward 
 hurried bewildered and terrified servants; but in the sick- 
 chamber all was profoundly still, except for the deep- 
 drawn breathing of the dying man. 
 
 The little group were gathered around him of his 
 nearest of kin Lady Grisel, his mother, who tended him 
 with a rigid countenance, all her life's lessons in self- 
 control now summoned to her aid; beside her, her second 
 sun Angus, whom she loved far better than hapless Ewan. 
 
 Angus's face was strange, so dire were the conflicting 
 passions that altered its expression from moment to mo- 
 ment us his keen blue eyes were fixed on his dying brother. 
 Angus should have been the eldest son all agreed in 
 that; his was the clear intellect, the power of organiza- 
 tion, the steady self-respect. Poor Ewan was the ne'er- 
 do-weel, full of heart and affectionate, but self-willed, 
 weak, and extravagant. Was the birthright to be his at 
 last? Was fortune to smile on Angus, the dearly-prized
 
 DITA. , 7 
 
 inheritance to fall to him, hitherto a penniless younger 
 son? Was he on the eve of possessing all, heir of the 
 almost fendal power Macmonacli inherited with his blood? 
 Angus strove hard to pray that his brother might yet be 
 spared, but tof long had he yielded to envy and covetous 
 longings to resist the tempter now, and his lips would 
 not frame the words, and his heart would not utter 
 tbe lie. 
 
 Lady Grisel moved to and fro, and moistened her son's 
 lips with brandy, and the doctor sat with his finger on 
 his pulse, waiting till the deep-drawn breaths should grow 
 slower and fainter. 
 
 There came a soft knock at the door, and Lady Grisel 
 opened it noiselessly. "The Minister is come," said a 
 whispering voice, and Lady Grisel went out to him, and 
 closed the door behind her. 
 
 The great door and entrance to Dunmonaigh opened on 
 to the mainland, but a small side or postern door in the 
 great hall opened on to the loch, and from this half-a-dozen 
 steps descended into the water; here the boats unladed 
 and were fastened to large iron rings in the wall. 
 
 Master Malcolm had fastened his boat, and by the light 
 of the lantern which Kerenhappuch held up at arm's- 
 length standing in the stern, he half supported, half car- 
 ried Assunta up the steps and into the hall. 
 
 The Minister took off his great cloak, throwing it on a 
 gtool, from which, before long, the water with which the 
 garment was saturated streamed on to the floor. 
 
 The hall was but dimly lighted by two brass lamps 
 which stood on the great stone chimney-piece, and As- 
 sunta, faint and cold with terror, shrank into the shadow 
 thrown by theAvide mantel-shelf, so that when Lady Grisel 
 passed into the hall, she only perceived the tall figure of 
 the Minister and Kerenhappuch who stood by the postern. 
 
 "You have come to a bed of death, Master Malcolm," 
 she said, and her voice sounded cold and passionless. 
 
 "Ay, Lady Grisel, God help the poor lad through the 
 valley of the shadow of death I am come to pray by him 
 and with him." 
 
 Lady Grisel shook her head, and her hands clasped each 
 other tightly. 
 
 " Too late," she said; " before another hour is past, he 
 will be called to give an account of his stewardship."
 
 8 EITA. 
 
 A look almost of displeasure crossed the Minister's gen- 
 tle face, as he said, "God is merciful!" 
 
 She turned toward the door, and motioning with her 
 }iand that he should follow her, led the way. 
 
 Assunta started up and followed them swiftly with the 
 child in her arms. 
 
 "Ewan, the Minister has come to you," said Lady 
 Grisel, bending over her dying son. "Have you no word 
 of repentance?" 
 
 She held the candle full in his dimmed sight, she spoke 
 loud, but there came no response except the labored 
 breathing no movement of the half-shut eyelids. 
 
 " He shouldna be vexed, Leddy Grisel," said the doc- 
 tor, tenderly; "man-canna help him the noo;" and he 
 moistened the white lips again. 
 
 Noiselessly As&nnta had stolen to the door, but now she 
 burst from Huppie's hands, who would fain have held 
 her back, and, throwing her shawl back from her face, 
 she rushed forward to the side of the dying man. She 
 threw herself on her knees, and the agony of her voice 
 filled the astonished bystanders with momentary a\vo. 
 
 "Ewan! Ewan! it 'is I! Speak to me! look up, my 
 own! Ewan, I have brought my child look xip^ rny 
 heart! my treasure! it is I ah, speak to me!" 
 
 ' Take her away," said Lady GrisePs stern voice, and 
 she looked to the Minister and the doctor, but neither 
 moved. Assunta had laid her child on the pillow; she 
 leant over the dying man, and her cry rose louder than 
 ever 
 
 "Ewan! once more one word you never say me nay 
 look at me speak to me only one word! God! oh 
 God, have pity!" 
 
 "'Take her away," repeated Lady Grisel, hoarsolv, then 
 suddenly started back, for Ewan Macmonach's eyes 
 opened wide, his broken arms were useless, but by the 
 mighty strength which had made him famous on the 
 country-side, he raised himself in bed, and said loudly 
 
 "Mother! Assunta, my " No more: the false 
 
 strength left him and he fell back. Huppie, who had 
 crept in, caught Assunta in her arms and pressed her to 
 her breast. Lady Grisel knelt down till the death-struggle 
 ceased. 
 
 " Lord, help now thy servant, as he passeth through
 
 D1TA. 9 
 
 the valley of the shadow of deaih." Even as the words 
 of the Minister ceased, they saw it was over. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ONE by one they withdrew, drawing back as those draw 
 buck who feel that their work is finished. The unfortu- 
 nate Assunta remained kneeling by the bed, clinging fran- 
 tically to the clothes, to the hand they would have re- 
 moved from her grasp. 
 
 " Take her away," whispered Lady Grisel again, and 
 this time Master Malcolm obeyed. The child, still an in- 
 fant, began to wail; Lady Grisel started at the sound, but 
 the mother gave it no heed: Kerenhappuch took it from 
 the bed. 
 
 The doctor and the Minister raised Assunta to her feet, 
 her eyes still fixed; they undid one by one the clinging 
 fingers; they carried rather than led her to the door, where 
 sense forsook her, and she fell insensible to the ground. 
 
 The two men laid her on a settle in the hall, and the 
 doctor knelt down beside her and chafed her cold hands. 
 
 Lady Grisel sat down by the fire. The wind was howl- 
 ing, and the rain beating outside. Angus came and 
 stood by his mother: he was deadly pale. There was a 
 profound silence, the clock ticking heavily, and the doc- 
 tor's movements sounded loud and distinct. 
 
 At last Lady Grisel rose: she put her hand on the Min- 
 ister's arm and drew him aside. " Alas!" she said, (i dis- 
 grace as well as grief has fallen on Dunmonaigh." 
 
 " Lady Grisel," said Master Malcolm, solemnly, " I be- 
 lieve her to be his wife." 
 
 " You know not what you say Master Malcolm," she 
 answered; " Ewan Macmonach was never married." 
 
 " Ewan never was a villain," said the Minister, firmly. 
 " Man and boy have I known the lad, and his heart was 
 as true as steel, and he was the soul of honor." 
 
 "That girl his wife!" cried Lady Grisel " the daugh- 
 ter of an Italian adventurer, a stranger to us and not of 
 our creed, would you " 
 
 "Ewan!" that faint imploring voice came from the set- 
 tle; con scion sues had returned to Assunta: one wild look 
 from her great dark eyes, and she staggered to her feet,
 
 10 DITA. 
 
 Lady Grisel turned to the fire, and away from the un- 
 happy girl. Terrible was that return to consciousness; 
 moans burst from her lips, and her hands were wrung to- 
 gether; she crossed the room and threw herself on her 
 knees before his mother. 
 
 "Has he told you?" she cried; "has he acknowledged 
 me and our child"? Pie was all I had in the wide, wide 
 world, and he is gone. I am his wife, laay his own wife 
 and he is dead. Have pity on me have pity on his 
 child I am Ewun's wife!" 
 
 Lady Grisel for one moment turned and stooped over 
 the unhappy girl, but started, for she felt Angus's cold 
 hand on her shoulder, and heard him whisper 
 
 "Mother, say nothing do nothing: this claim must be 
 proved." 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Grisel, turning to the Minister. " If 
 she can prove it, Master Malcolm, bring her to in e as my 
 son's wife till then, will you care for her?" 
 
 " Hear me, lady!" cried Assunta, once more; "you will 
 not cast us out. It is not for myself, it is for Ewan's 
 child; Ewan is mine my husband and you are his 
 mother." 
 
 Lady Grisel drew her gown gently from the poor girl's 
 grasp and rose from her seat; Assunta fell forward with 
 her face hidden on the chair. 
 
 Again Lady Grisel would have spoken, but once more 
 Angus interposed "Come away, mother," he said; and 
 turning to the Minister, added, " These ravings are most 
 painful and unseemly, Master Malcolm; may 1 beg of you 
 to remove this girl?" 
 
 The Minister bowed, and approached with a look of 
 deep sadness. 
 
 " Come, my poor child," he said "come home with 
 me; to-morrow we will talk of these things." 
 
 She rose up at his words, looking blindly round her 
 and clinging to his hand. He led her toward the door; 
 then she stopped, and pressing her hands on her heart, 
 she said 
 
 "Stop, Padre, I have forgotten my child." 
 
 Kerenhappuch brought her the little one, and the 
 Minister wrapped a great plaid round them both. He 
 opened the door and looked* out on the lake; the water 
 Burged sullenly up and down, but the moon had struggled
 
 DITA. 11 
 
 through wild, broken clouds, and edged them with fitful 
 light. Kerenhappuch unfastened the bout, and now 
 took the oars herself; slowly the Minister followed, sup- 
 porting Assunta, and with a strong thrust Huppie rowed 
 off into the loch; then Assunta looked back, and she 
 threw up her arms to heaven, uttering one agonized 
 cry. At that sound Lady Grisel came out on the steps, 
 and stood watching the boat making its slow way over the 
 black water, and through the sound of the wind and rain she 
 could hear the wailing of the little child. Then she re- 
 turned to her sou, and they were alone. Lady Grisel put 
 her hand on his arm, and looked into his face 
 
 " You believe nothing of all this, mother?" s&id An- 
 gus, restlessly. 
 
 Lady Grisel sat down, and rested her brow on her hand 
 
 " What can I say, Angus?" -she said. 
 
 " You cannot believe it; on the very face of it is false- 
 hood." 
 
 " Ewan was never false." 
 
 He shook his head impatiently. "Why should he 
 have deceived us by concealing his marriage? Tell me 
 jou do not believe it. Why, look you, mother, it cannot 
 be true it is quite impossible; why do you not speak?" 
 
 " If it be true." said Lady Grisel, " the proofs will be 
 forthcoming: till then, Angus, let it rest." 
 
 "But," said Angus, faltering for one moment, "if it 
 should be true?" 
 
 " Then the child of this strange woman will be the 
 heir." 
 
 "It must be proved to be a lie: mother, why do you 
 not say it is impossible?" 
 
 For one moment her self-command gave way, and she 
 wrung her hands. 
 
 " Why, Angus, do you ask me why I say nothing? Be- 
 cause I see nothing on any side but sorrow and trouble, 
 disappointment or dire disgrace; I can bear no more 
 now," and she left the room. 
 
 Angus paced up and down he could not be still. Was 
 the golden cup just placed to his lips to be dashed thence 
 by cruel fortune? It was hard, bitterly hard: his teeth 
 ground together, and the drops stood on his brow as tho 
 thought pressed on him that it might be true; his very 
 knowledge of his brother's headstrong but honorable nat-
 
 12 DITA. 
 
 ure added to his feara. What did that dying effort mean 
 when all effort had seemed impossible? Angus's dread 
 grew more and more; he could scarcely suppress the agi- 
 tation which swelled his breast almost to bursting. He 
 had so longed for the wealth so lavishly spent by his 
 brother; it had seemed to him to be the only thing worth 
 having, the key to power, the stepping-stone of ainbiiion 
 and it had been so nearly within his grasp. When the 
 men had brought poor Ewan home to die. Angus had 
 striven hard for a natural feeling of grief. He had knelt 
 beside his brother and held his hand and listened to encli 
 groan, telling himself that they pierced his heart, that 
 tlu-y were agony to him; and when the doctor pronounced 
 his verdict, he mistook the tears that rose to his eyes 
 for genuine grief. But the heart knoweth its own bitter- 
 ness; and the tears he was shedding now the unmanly 
 tears drawn by the intense irritation of suspense and dis- 
 appointment were a thousand times more genuine. 
 
 The morning had begun to dawn, and the cold blue 
 light shone in on the deserted rooms; all the servants 
 were gone to bed save the watchers in the death-room, 
 when Lady Grisel stole down once more to gaze on the 
 face of the dead. The women drew back when she en- 
 tered and left her alone; the dreary light filled the room, 
 and outside the wind had sunk to a whispering moan. 
 
 Lady Grisel stood looking on her son, and visions 
 passed before her, not of the marble form on which she 
 gazed, but of what once had been; of blue eyes gleaming 
 With youth and strength of yellow curly hair of the 
 tall, stalwart figure, the first m hurling the stone, the 
 truest shot, the keenest sportsman, the idol of his men, 
 and now how still! Had she ever loved him as he 
 should be loved? Old days came back to her mind, her 
 husband bending over the" boy, bidding him dry his tears, 
 for his mother should not chide him, and she saw books 
 and tasks flung aside, and father and son away to the 
 mountains, both untaught and unlettered, but bright 
 find beautiful and strong: could it then be strange that 
 her disappointed ambition should turn from these and 
 center on clever, industrious Angus. 
 
 These visions fled, and she saw only the closed eyes, 
 the still brow, and knew that her son was dead. 
 
 A\ hat was this feeling rising in her breast? She turned
 
 DITA. " 13 
 
 away -with clasped hands she must go anywhere away 
 for she felt that within her was a feeling that, were it 
 not mightily suppressed, would rise up into an uncon- 
 trollable agony. 
 
 Sometimes when in life one is denied the power of in- 
 spiring love, Death, cruel or kind, comes in, bringing ret- 
 ribution in his hand: the living man dies, and from his 
 ashes Death creates a love that is all agony, and so avenges 
 him. 
 
 Angus was at the door when she came out, and she put 
 her hand into his that he might lead her away, her heart 
 yearning for sympathy. As they went together, one of 
 the women touched Angus's arm, and held out something 
 to him. It was his brother's signet-ring. A strange 
 feeling made him shiver from head to foot as he placed it 
 on his finger. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ASSTJNTA had placed herself and her child unhesitating- 
 ly in the hands of worthy Master Malcolm, and with the 
 true charity of his kindly nature, he took in the friendless 
 woman, housed and feu her, and administered to her 
 broken spirit. Till the funeral of the young laird should 
 be over, he would not question or disturb her; and indeed 
 she seemed to be in no wise capable of answering ques- 
 tions, but sat with vacant eyes, bending over her child, 
 and rocking herself to and fro; but when that solemn day 
 had parsed by, the Minister judged it best to hear Assunta's 
 story before inquiries were made from Dunmonaigh. 
 
 Assunta de' Carol i was the only child of an unfortunate 
 political refugee. While she was still a little child, 
 Leone de' Caroli had been forced to flee from his native 
 country with her and her young mother: the latter fell 
 an easy victim to the colder climate of the north of Scot- 
 land, whither motives of economy and the necessity for 
 secrecy had induced them to come, and Assunta was left 
 to the sole guardianship of her father. She adored him; 
 she entered fully into the wild political schemes he formed 
 in his imaginative brain; she aided him in a thousand 
 secret correspondences, all of which, one after another, 
 crumbled away to be replaced immediately by still more 
 secret and extravagant plans. De' Caroli's family was
 
 14 DITA. 
 
 noble, but impoverished like himself by political intrigue, 
 o the exile and his child were at times in actual need. 
 
 In the midst of this poor and half-fed life, Assunta 
 grew up and developed into a lovely girl. Her education 
 had not been neglected, for her father was a well-read man, 
 but it had been careless and desultory. She was fond of 
 wandering in the woods which covered the hills at the 
 back of the town of Strathluan; she loved the scent of 
 the fir-trees and the crimson heather; and here one day 
 she met with Ewan Macmonach, his gun on his shoulder, 
 surrounded by dogs; and again and again would Ewan re- 
 turn, and the dogs grew to know her so well, that they 
 would leap and fawn on her as she came up the path; and 
 when yellow-haired Ewan and dark-eyed Assunta walked 
 slowly "through the heather, the timid deer rejoiced, for 
 they were safe. 
 
 Sometimes De' Caroli would join them, but of tener they 
 were alone and entertained each other well. 
 
 One day Ewan told Lady Grisel that he had set his 
 heart on making Assunta his wife: her displeasure was 
 indescribable. She was a stern Presbyterian; her horror 
 of the "idolatry of Eome " was one of the strongest feel- 
 ings of her religion. 
 
 Ewan was not learned, was less clever than other men, 
 simple in his tastes, throwing away money foolishly, act- 
 ing on impulse, loving the free open air, and the exercise 
 of his herculean limbs: he could neither plead nor argue; 
 his mother's bitter words and opposition hurt him her 
 threatened curse disarmed him. Ewan loved peace, and 
 in his bewildered grief he entreated Assunta to assent to a 
 private marriage, only to be secret for a while, a short while, 
 till he should have brought his mother to listen to his suit. 
 Assunta loved him too dearly to refuse. Love of mystery 
 was one of the curses of De' Carol i's character: he knew 
 that his health was failing; it was all-important to him 
 that his daughter should be provided with a home and 
 he promised that if they would leave all arrangements to 
 him, it should be accomplished with perfect secrecy, and 
 without delay. 
 
 A very few weeks after his daughter's marriage the exile 
 died, and Assunta was not left desolate. 
 
 A whole year elapsed, and still Ewan had not told his 
 mother, and Assunta was so happy with the husband she
 
 D1TA. 15 
 
 loved, that she cared nothing for the life of perfect seclu- 
 sion she led, and asked for no more. In the pride of his 
 youth and strength, Ewan was cut down, and Assunta 
 found herself left, at nineteen years old, a widow and 
 alone. 
 
 It was with an anxious and sad heart that Master Mal- 
 colm begged Assunta to tell him what she could about her 
 marriage. 
 
 "It is all-important, my child," he said; "more im- 
 portant than perhaps you think it affects so many." 
 
 " Not so much as it would have done if baby had been 
 a boy," said Assunta, leaning her head wearily on her 
 hand. 
 
 "Boy! he is not a boy!" cried Master Malcolm, in the 
 greatest astonishment. 
 
 "No; she is a little lassie," said Assunta, sadly. 
 
 "Alas! alas!" he cried, "all the lands of Dunmonaigh 
 to go to a girl; oh! why was she not a boy?" 
 
 "It is best so," said Assunta, " for now it will only be 
 to give her money, and Angus Macmonach will still be the 
 laird." 
 
 Master Malcolm shook his head sorrowfully. " Not 
 so," he said; "all, everything goes to the heir, be he male 
 or female." 
 
 "I did not know," faltered Assunta. 
 
 She gave into the hands of the Minister a desk in which 
 Ewan had been wont to keep a few treasures, which she 
 had sent for from Strathluan. 
 
 "Here, Padre Master Malcolm I mean in here you 
 will find my proofs." 
 
 The Minister turned the rusty little key in its lock, and 
 opened the desk. The contents were motley enough. 
 Two gorgeous salmon-flies, a roll of wire, all unraveled and 
 twisted about everything else. There was a packet marked 
 in Ewan's school-boy hand, "Letters from Assunta." 
 There was a child's india-rubber ring; and quite in the 
 back, a roll of papers done up tightly and fusr.enc'd round 
 with a green ribbon, the knot of which was carefully 
 sealed. A bunch of labels were fastened tothesea.l. The 
 Minister took them and read them one by one. 
 
 "Attested copy of marriage certificate, taken from half- 
 burnt register, after the burning of St. Agnes's." The
 
 16 DITA. 
 
 next " Baptismal cert iflcate of Margaret Griselda. " Both 
 were dated. The third simply " My will." 
 
 " What does this mean? ? '*said the Minister. " In what 
 church were you married?" 
 
 "In the Roman Catholic chapel at Strathochie, which 
 was burnt down last year." 
 
 "And the registers were destroyed. Is the clergyman 
 who married you to be found?" 
 
 "Alas, no!" answered Assunta, the tears streaming 
 from her eyes; " he died about a month after the baptism 
 of the child. He was a dear friend to me." 
 
 " Who were witnesses of the ceremony, my poor child?" 
 
 "My father." 
 
 "Dead also," muttered the Minister; "and who else?" 
 
 "The sacristan of St. Agnes's he has left Strathochie 
 now." 
 
 The Minister looked very grave. "What would you 
 have me to do?" he said; " shall I open these papers and 
 make an examination of them? I will act according to 
 your wishes." 
 
 "No," answered Assunta. "When Ewan put them 
 there, he said they were meant for his mother's hands. I 
 would rather that no one but Lady Grisel should break 
 the seal. Do you believe my story, Master Malcolm?" she 
 cried, suddenly. " You do believe me? Will you hc'p 
 me?" 
 
 " I do I believe it all. The young laird was very dear 
 to me," he said, passing his hand across*hiseyes; " I never 
 knew him deceive man, woman or child the only gift he 
 inherited from my Lady Grisel; but, alas! this lias been 
 a mad concealment. Do not fear, I believe yon, my child;" 
 and he laid his hand on the young widow's shoulders, and 
 therewith heaved a deep sigh. Was not Presbyterian 
 nature woful at this Papist alliance? 
 t Assunta cared not for the sigh; she impulsively kissed 
 the hand of the Minister, who withdrew it hastily. 
 
 "We must give these papers to Lady Grisel," he said. 
 " You shall accompany me to Dnnmonaigh to-morrow, 
 that she may open them in our presence with all for- 
 mality." 
 
 "To-morrow! so soon!" cried Assunta, shrinking. 
 
 " It should be done at once; meantime, for safety, they 
 had best be left in my drawer; that is but a feeble guard
 
 Bit A. 1? 
 
 for so precious a packet," he said, looking at poor As- 
 sun tu's little leather desk. 
 
 "It will be safer there," she answered, looking at the 
 strong wooden table; and she returned up-slairs to her 
 little child, her one comfort and help in this dark hour of 
 her life. 
 
 The Minister sat by his table, with his head leaning on 
 his hand, wrapped in melancholy thought-. The drawer 
 was open, and as his eyes fell on the packet, he sighed 
 more heavily than ever. "It will be a terrible blow to 
 Lady Grisel," he reflected. " It will almost crush her 
 for t cannot doubt this story." 
 
 He sat thus when the door opened, and Kerenhappuch 
 announced "Mr. Angus, Minister," and Angus Macmon- 
 ach walked in. His look was so disturbed, and his face 
 BO pale, that Master Malcolm did not notice his omission 
 of customary salutation. He sat down, and rushed with 
 painful eagerness into the subject of his visit. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Malcolm," he said, " this story is all a lie, 
 is it not? Is the girl still here? You shall be no loser by 
 your charity. We will do what we can to help her " 
 
 " Hold," said the Minister, gravely; " this is a graver 
 matter than you wot of, I believe in her story." 
 
 Angus began to pace up and down. "Believe in it, 
 Minister! a man of sense and experience like yourself to 
 give credit to so transparent an imposture! you do not do 
 yourself justice." 
 
 " I have known this girl and her father for many years: 
 they are no impostors, but well-born gentlefolks albeit 
 Papists," he added, below his breath. 
 
 " But Ewan " 
 
 " Your brother never did a dishonorable action, nor told 
 a lie in his life/' interrupted the Minister. 
 
 "Pshaw!" said Angus, impatiently. "What means 
 have you of knowing?" 
 
 " But I have papers by me." 
 
 "Papers!" cried Angus, eagerly. "They are not 
 proofs?" 
 
 " They are here," said the Minister, and he proceeded 
 to read the labels aloud. 
 
 " Give me that packet I have a right to open and ex- 
 amine it." 
 
 " Not so," said Master Malcolm, replacing the packef
 
 18 MIA. 
 
 in the drawer and turning the key. " JSTo one may toucli 
 them but Lady Grisel, your mother, and that in the pres- 
 ence of Mistress Macmonach and myself." 
 
 Then Angus swore a violent oath; the Minister's face 
 grew pale with displeasure. 
 
 " Angus Macmonach," he said, "no evil words will un- 
 do what is done." 
 
 Angus flung himself into a chair. 
 
 "Would the girl hear of a compromise?" he asked. 
 
 " You can ask her," said Master Malcolm. " But no! 
 do not so insult her." 
 
 " Yon have no pity for me," cried Angus, suddenly 
 changing his tone.. "You think only of this upstart 
 woman and her child, who would ruin my dearest hopes " 
 
 " I do pity you, Angus," said the Minister, "and would 
 give the best years of my life that this had never been; 
 but justice must be done, though to see a Papist in your 
 mother's place would go near to break my heart." 
 
 " It must not, it shall not be!" cried Angus. "I will 
 offer her money anything rather than that." 
 
 " You must not while the matter is still uncertain; that 
 were the worst course you could take." 
 
 "Would to heaven that it were uncertain!" said Angus, 
 and ere the words had left his lips, he repented of them; 
 again he paced up and down. The Minister began to 
 wonder where this would end. when, unwittingly of who 
 was within, Assunta entered the room. 
 
 Seeing Angus, she stood still, clasping her child, her 
 large eyes fixed upon him, and in her whole manner and 
 rnicn were a dignity and innate nobleness for which he 
 was not prepared; but it was life or death to him, and he 
 would not spare her. 
 
 The Minister shrank back as though he were guilty; he 
 could not bear to see the shaft wing its way home in that 
 quivering heart. 
 
 " Madam," said Angus, and his voice was low, each 
 word dropping with a cruel distinctness "Lady Grisel 
 and myself are desirous of knowing how much money will 
 induce you to withdraw your claims." 
 
 Assunta looked at him, and as the meaning of his words 
 slowly entered her mind, every trace of color receded from 
 cheek and lips, leaving her white as marble. Shedeigned 
 no answer, but he heard the click of her small teeth to-
 
 DITA. 19 
 
 gether. Angus never forgot the look she gave him; and 
 she turned and left the room. 
 
 To her dying day she spoke to no one of that scene, but 
 she went dowu to the kitchen, and putting down her child, 
 she took hold of Kerenhappuch's hands, 
 
 " Huppie," she said-*-" Huppie!" and so fell into a 
 violent fit of trembling and shivering, lying cold as ice, 
 with chattering teeth, for hours. 
 
 ' So you will not let me see those papers?" were An- 
 gus's last words as he quitted the Minister's house. 
 
 " To-tnorrow you shall all see them, and doubts will be 
 set at rest," answered Master Malcolm; and Angus went 
 home yet more anxious than he came. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN Dunmonaigh. old-fashioned laws were kept, and by 
 half-past ten every inmate of the house was in bed, and 
 the doors barred and chained; but on the night of the day 
 after Ewan Macmonach's funeral, some one was stirring 
 even at midnight. 
 
 The night was very fine. The loch lay like a sheet of 
 silver in the light of the moon; there was not a ripple on 
 its surface not a cloud on the purple sky. 
 
 Secretly and softly as a thief in the night, Angus Mac- 
 monach opened the little door, descended the steps to the 
 boat, and pushed off into the silent loch. Eacli little 
 splash, as the oars touched the water and dashed back 
 glittering showers, struck him as unnaturally loud, but 
 not a light shone in the windows of the old house; black 
 and silent rose the tower, the numerous turrets and bat- 
 tlemented walls, and high up hung sullenly half-mast 
 high the great flag. 
 
 Swiftly flew the little boat: Angus's foot touched the 
 opposite shore, ami wrapping his plaid round his breast, 
 he mounted the hill. 
 
 In the manse all likewise slept Assunta with her 
 child in her arms, worn out with weeping and sorrow. 
 No one h'eard stealthy movements below. The manse 
 was never barred nor locked up atniglit. "There are no 
 robbers here," Master Malcolm would say; "and should 
 robbers come, here is nothing to rob:" so without let or
 
 20 DITA. 
 
 hinderance Angus found himself alone in the Minister's 
 room. 
 
 It was bitterly cold, but he wiped the drops from his 
 brow as he drew from his pocket a large bunch of keys 
 and knelt down by the table. A great luminous star 
 shone down on his deed, and throbbed in the cloudless 
 sky: between him and the eye of God was no cloud or 
 shadow to hide him. 
 
 lie tried one key after another would none fit? yet the 
 lock was a common one. Another and yet another; at 
 last, with a loud crack which made Angus vibrate from 
 head to foot, the lock flew back and the packet was be- 
 fore his eyes. Quickly and softly he unrolled its folds by 
 the light of the gleaming moon; he took out the precious 
 papers; he thrust in blank sheets instead; retied the 
 green ribbon and labels. Angus must strike a light: 
 how loud the match sounded! it thrilled him through and 
 through. All had been thought of the red wax was 
 pressed down, and he bent over and sealed it anew with 
 his brother's ring. 
 
 The baby moved restlessly in her sleep, and Assunta 
 pressed her closer, half opening her weary eyes. 
 
 "Hush, hush, darling! sweet little one, sleep! God 
 watches over the fatherless and widow." 
 
 Swiftly the little boat crossed the loch again, and there 
 was no movement or light in the windows of Dunmon- 
 aigh. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ASSUXTA rose on the following day with the heavy 
 weight on her heart of one about to go through a painful 
 ordeal. She could scarcely touch the food Kerenhappuch 
 placed before her; and as the time for their going to 
 Dunmonaigh approached, she grew hourly paler and paler. 
 
 Early in the morning Master Malcolm had sent over a 
 
 messenger to Lady Grisel asking her at what hour it 
 
 would suit her to receive them, and the answer came that 
 
 at mid-day would be best; so when the sun was rising 
 
 'i the heavens they started together. 
 
 Assunta had need of the good Minister's arm, for never 
 had road seemed so long or so rough. An unspoken feel-
 
 DITA. 21 
 
 ing made Master Malcolm choose to go by the road rather 
 than by the loch. It seemed to his simple mind that, 
 humble as she might be, E\van Macmonach's wife should 
 enter her husband's home by its principal entrance with 
 all dignity. 
 
 Long as the way seemed at first, Assunta thought it all 
 too short when they stood before the great doors. 
 
 '' Courage, my child summon up all your courage," said 
 her kind friend; and he rang the bell, which resounded 
 through the house. 
 
 In one short moment they found themselves in the 
 presence of Lady Grisel and her son. 
 
 They were sitting at the end of a long library; the 
 blinds were still drawn, and the dark furniture of the 
 room, witli its tiers upon tiers of old books, gave it a 
 gloomy aspect. 
 
 Lady Grisel rose from her seat when she saw them, and 
 saluted them gravely. She was above the ordinary height, 
 and moved with much dignity. Assunta's appealing eyes 
 found no response in hers: she sought in them for sym- 
 pathy, and could scarcely believe that she would find 
 none; there was no gentleness in the beautiful, stern face 
 of Ewan's mother, and the girl covered her face with her 
 hands and stood silent. 
 
 Angus did not rise when they came in, but sat leaning 
 back in his chair, studiously endeavoring to appear a mere 
 spectator of the scene. 
 
 Lady Grisel desired both to be seated, and then leaning 
 forward with one elbow on the table she began 
 
 " Master Malcolm, in a matter of vital importance such 
 as this is, we will lose no time in idle parley. I under- 
 stand that you consider that you hold proofs of my son's 
 marriage with this lady?" 
 
 The Minister bowed. 
 
 "This lady will not object," resumed Lady Grisel, "to 
 answering what questions I may see fit to make before we 
 proceed to examine her papers?" 
 
 " No," said Assunta, putting back the dark hair from 
 her brow, and raising her face; " I will answer all that 
 you ask me." 
 
 " At what church did this ceremony take place?" 
 
 "At St. Agnes's Catholic chapel in Strathochie." 
 
 "And who were the witnesses;"'
 
 22 DITA. 
 
 'My father and the sacristan.'' 
 
 ' And they only signed the register?" 
 
 < They only." 
 
 'What day was this?" 
 
 ' The tenth of September last }'ear." 
 
 Lady Grisel glanced at a little memorandum-book she 
 held in her hand and slightly started: she continued 
 
 " And after the marriage did you return to Strath- 
 luan?" 
 
 "No, we went north into the hills to Glentyre." 
 
 Again Lady Grisel glanced at her book, and saw re- 
 corded a letter from Ewan, dated from Glentyre, whither, 
 he said, he had gone for the purchase of dogs. 
 
 " Did my son make any purchases at Glentyre?" she 
 asked. 
 
 t( Yes; he bought Beaver and Raven, the two retriev- 
 ers." 
 
 "How long did you stay there?" 
 
 " Till the thirtieth of that month; when Evvan returned, 
 he said there were guests at Duumouaigh." 
 
 Lady Grisel sat thinking. 
 
 " How old is your child?" she said, suddenly. 
 
 "Five months old." 
 
 " And what is her name?" 
 
 " Margaret Griselda." 
 
 A momentary flash of emotion passed over Lady Grisel's 
 face as she heard her own name. 
 
 "This is vain talk after all, she said. " Give me the 
 papers." 
 
 Assunta held out the roll, labeled, and bound with its 
 green ribbon. She felt very faint, as though the room 
 whirled round and round. 
 
 " No hand but yours should open it," she said. 
 " Ewan trusted you, Lady Grisel, as he never could trust 
 another." 
 
 Then she sat back watching the papers that held her 
 fate, with clasped hands and blanched lips. 
 
 Angus rose suddenly and put his hand on the packet; 
 he bent down, and examined it closely. 
 
 " That is without doubt my brother's seal," he said. 
 "That is quite right;" and he slipped the ring from his 
 finger and placed it over the impression of the seal.
 
 DITA. 23 
 
 Lady Grisel was about to open it, when one* more he 
 stopped her. 
 
 " Would it not be wiser and more just to this lady," he 
 said, " that there should be independent witnesses to this 
 transaction?" 
 
 Assunta bowed her head she could scarcely speak. 
 Lady Grisel seemed struck with what he said, and prayed 
 Master Malcolm to ring the bell. It seemed as if the 
 minutes were hours that elapsed before the butler and 
 housekeeper and Lady Grisel's own woman stood to- 
 gether in a line, adding to the strangeness of the scene. 
 
 Lady Grisel's voice did not falter as she explained 
 shortly 
 
 "It is said that the laird was married, and that this 
 lady is his wife. In proof of this she has put into my 
 hands these papers to be examined before witnesses;" and 
 she read the labels aloud. 
 
 " So great was the silence, that all started when the 
 seal cracked and gave way; and slowly Lady Grisel un- 
 wound the green ribbon. One by one the labels unloosed, 
 fluttered to the ground; with a loud rustle the paper un- 
 rolled. One glance of her eye was enough they were 
 blank paper. Still Lady Grisel turned them from side to 
 side, and backward and forward. The Minister started 
 up; a faint smile had come over the faces of the impartial 
 spectators, and Angus gave a low, jarring laugh. Assunta 
 had sat still with her head turned aside, and saw not the 
 strange looks they were casting at her; but at the sound 
 of the laugh she turned and rose to her feet. 
 
 Not yet did the cruel truth force itself on her belief; 
 she spoke not, but went down on her knees on the ground, 
 and scanned every sheet of the paper up and down, in- 
 side and out all was white and blunk. Then she sprang 
 to her feet with gleaming eyes; pushing back the cluster- 
 ing hair, and leaning against the wall, she stood with 
 panting breath, as stands a noble young stag at bay. 
 
 At first no one spoke, but Master Malcolm stole gently 
 to her side, and, would she have allowed it, would hav 
 drawn her hand through his arm. 
 
 Angus broke silence at last. "You see, mother," he 
 said, " we were wise to invite witnesses to attest these 
 most binding proofs. You can go now," he said to thft 
 butler and the women; but Lady Grisel bade them stay,
 
 24 DITA. 
 
 and she advanced a few steps toward Assunta, hold ing out 
 her hand. 
 
 "Let all hear what I say," she said: "had I not seen 
 these with my own eyes/' and she pointed to the papers, 
 " I could not have believed that son of mine could have 
 been so base a villain." 
 
 " It is not so!" cried Assunta. " It is a lie! some one 
 has deceived me! You his mother, who knew well what 
 he was, tell me it is not true! believe the evidence of 
 your own heart! Ewan never deceived me! there has 
 been some treachery here! God! how shall I prove my 
 husband's truth?" 
 
 Her words came forth with panting breath, and she 
 pressed her hands on her heart, to control the violence of 
 its beating. 
 
 As Lady Grisel watched her, a burning flush of shame 
 came over her face shame for her son; she held out her 
 hand again, and hot tears rose to her eyes. 
 
 "What can I do for you?" she said. "Would to 
 heaven I had died ere I had seen this, day!" 
 
 Assunta seized her hand tightly in both her own, which 
 were burning, and she looked into Lady GrisePsface with 
 a wild, imploring look. 
 
 " You are kind to me now," she cried. " Why have 
 you changed to me? why do you look at me like that?" 
 and she flung away the hand she held, and raising her 
 arms, she cried 
 
 "I swear by the God above us! by my dead husband! 
 by all we hold sacred in heaven or earth, that I am Ewan 
 Macmonach's wife!" 
 
 One by one the servants had stolen sway; Angus had 
 again sunk into his chair, and was looking on very white, 
 hiding his quivering lips with one hand. 
 
 The Minister laid his hand on Assunta's shoulder. 
 " Come with me," he said. 
 
 " I am coming," she answered; and kneeling down, she 
 gathered together all the papers and wound the ribbons 
 and labels round them. 
 
 " These are all the justice that is for me," she said, and 
 turned to the door. 
 
 With swift steps Lady Grisel followed her and caught 
 her gown. 
 
 "Forgive," she said, faintly,
 
 DITA. 25 
 
 Assunta's whole faee changed to an expression of deadly 
 terror. 
 
 "Forgive!" she cried; "you ask me to forgive! Then 
 it must be true! and he has been false to me! false as hell 
 itself! and I am undone!" and she turned and fled from 
 the house fled along the road as if terror and anguish 
 had lent her wings. 
 
 "Oh, follow her! follow her, Master Malcolm!" cried 
 Lady Grisel. " All that I can I will do for her and her 
 child: you will be their friend?" 
 
 As the Minister went out, Lady Grisel bent her head 
 and wept more bitter tears than she had done over the 
 burying of her first-born son. 
 
 When Master Malcolm reached home, he found Keren- 
 happnch waiting for him at the door. 
 
 " So he's deceived the puir lass, Master Malcolm!" she 
 cried; "I couldna hae believed that siccan a bonny lad 
 could hae so black and fause a heart. She's daft wi' the 
 news, puir body." 
 
 The Minister shook his head sorrowfully. 
 
 "I take it, it was a' a pretense, Minister the marriage 
 and a'?" 
 
 "Ay, Huppie, never was woman so cruelly deceived. 
 What is she doing now?" 
 
 "She sits by the fire and doesna move, and she neither 
 greets nor manes; her wits are clean gane." 
 
 " Poor soul poor soul!" and the Minister went up to 
 pray. He held it best to pray first and to strive to com- 
 fort by-and-by. 
 
 But in the night, when all were asleep, Assunta took 
 her child in her arms and arose; she put bread in her 
 pocket, and wrapped a plaid round the child and fled. 
 Down the highroad she walked, and an unnatural strength 
 seemed to bear her up. 
 
 For about ten yards the highroad hung over the loch. 
 Assunta looked down into its quiet waters, so still and 
 deep and she clasped her child and thought of the rest, 
 of the peace, under the cold water escape for both from 
 this cruel world, but the child opened her eyes and As- 
 sunta moaned and went on her way. Some miles further 
 on the road she would wait for the coach which would 
 bear hr thence, nevtr to corn back never, never more,
 
 26 DITA. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE snow had fallen thick and fast, and all the ground 
 round the manse lay under a white unbroken sheet. 
 
 The manse stood at the brow of a hill, bleak and very 
 cold without, but it was so warmly thatched that it was 
 comfortable enough within. The path which led up to 
 the door had not been swept, and the deep snow impeded 
 Lady Grisel's steps as she mounted the hill. Her face 
 had grown older and more careworn during the two 
 months that had elapsed since Ewan's death, and her 
 eyes would often look fixed and troubled. The spirits of 
 the past were often with her, and their faces were mourn- 
 ful, and their gestures reproachful, and she could not 
 throw off the spell. As she slowly followed the path, they 
 were pressing their old memories on her, and she longed 
 for the healer Time to speed faster on his way for an- 
 other year to have driven them further back. There was 
 no sweetness in their presence to her. She had not valued 
 her husband and her eldest son as all around had done; 
 she had felt herself to be strong and capable, and was 
 full of ambition; and she was young when she married; 
 her husband was rich, very handsome, and beloved by all, 
 and she looked for great things anjd found nothing. 
 Horses and dogs were his delight; his business to see that 
 all were happy and spoilt; his religion a simple and child- 
 like faith. She had married an ideal, a creation of her 
 own imagination, and the awakening made her think her- 
 self deceived. Her husband loved her dearly at first; but 
 though he was neither clever nor brilliant, he saw that 
 she was disappointed in him, and that she looked down 
 upon him, soon ceasing to love him; but, self-absorbed, 
 she never guessed that he too had to fight a battle with 
 himself, generously hidden from her knowledge. Not till 
 the day of his death did he show the hidden bitterness: 
 when she was bending over him, he turned from her with 
 a movement almost like a child's; he put his arms around 
 Ewan's neck and kissed him, and said, " We two have 
 loved each other," and so died, holding the lad's hand in 
 bis own.
 
 DITA. 27 
 
 Afterward, when she would fain have begun a new 
 career for herself and her sons, she found that she was not 
 so rich as she had thought, so much had drifted away 
 large loans to poor kinsfolk, rents forgiven and lowered, 
 pensions, and bills backed for other men. Had she not 
 been justified in her estimate of one so weak? Ewau had 
 been just the same. 
 
 On Angus she had placed her hopes; he was clever and 
 shrewd he would some day do great things. But she 
 was but a woman after all, and seeing the intense love 
 that bound her husband and Ewan together, sometimes she 
 felt a yearning for a little of such love, but Angus was 
 too selfish, and she herself too reserved. When another 
 year should have passed, the proportions of her life would 
 again become true; had she been able she would have 
 drunk deeply of the waters of Lethe. The Minuter \vas 
 sitting in his little room when Lady Grisel came in. Ho 
 placed a chair for her by the low peat-fire and helped to 
 remove her fur cloak. 
 
 '" I am still very unhappy, my old friend," she began. 
 
 " Ah! the loss of such a son, Lady Grisel." 
 
 She waved her hand. "That was God's will, Master 
 Malcolm," she said, "and must be borne: it is about 
 Assuntu that I have come to you," and the tears started 
 to her eyes. "The older I grow," she said, "the more 
 does the sadness of life strikes me. God knows it is a very 
 sad thing. We are endowed with ambition that we may 
 see its disappointment, and may taste the bitterness of its 
 defeat; we are given the power of passionate love, and it 
 is misplaced, or denied, or transformed into anguish by 
 bereavement. The golden apples of knowledge, like the 
 Dead Sea fruit, turn to ashes between our teeth; our dear- 
 est friend may smile, and smile, and be a villain: we are 
 struggling through a tangled and intricate web." 
 
 "Yes, Lady Grisel; but do not forget, the workmen 
 work the tapestry of life from behind, weaving a thousand 
 unpatterned threads: not till the work is consummated, 
 not till heaven is reached, shall we see face to face that 
 every man who has labored in the gigantic loom has dene 
 his part in God's glorious design." Lady Grisel looked 
 thoughtful. 
 
 " There are times when courage fails, Minister," she said.
 
 28 DITA. 
 
 "We walk by faith, and not by sight," he said rery 
 gently. 
 
 She was silent for one moment, then raising herself, 
 she said 
 
 " I am anxious about that poor girl." 
 
 "Have yon heard from her, Lady Grisel?" 
 
 " Alas, no! it is not likely that she would write to me, 
 after what she said to you in Edinburgh. You are sure 
 of her address?" 
 
 " Quite sure; when I traced her there, she promised 
 always to let me know where she was." 
 
 11 Is she still in Edinburgh?" 
 
 " No, she has gone to London." 
 
 "To London! alone!" exclaimed Lady Grisel. 
 
 " She would not listen to me," he answered. " Her 
 one only wish and hope was to hide herself away from all 
 who had ever known or seen her." 
 
 "Had she money, Master Malcolm?" 
 
 " She had some, but she would not tell me how much; 
 it is useless to ask her to accept it, Lady Grisel she 
 will not." 
 
 " Alas! it is all I could do for her." 
 
 "I am thankful, dear lady, that you would be her 
 friend." 
 
 "She was most basely deceived, Minister; it seems 
 even now most hard to credit it." 
 
 "Alas!" said Master Malcolm, "who knoweth the 
 wickedness of the human heart?" 
 
 " But I thought I knew him so well I was deceived. 
 And yet, strange to say, I cannot believe it, or give credit 
 to the evidence of my tnvn eyes I cannot believe it." 
 
 The Minister grasped Lady Grisel's hand, and brushed 
 away a tear. 
 
 "God knows," he said, "that had I one inch of 
 ground on which to base my faith in Ewan's truth, I 
 would proclaim it as a trumpet-peal to heaven." 
 
 " You say that all trace of the chapel is gone, the priest 
 dead, the sacristan emigrated, and no one knows what has 
 become of the register?" 
 
 "It is all too true." 
 
 "And her papers were all blank; it is useless to doubt 
 longer." 
 
 " What more can I do, Lady Grisel?"
 
 DITA. 29 
 
 Lady Grisel hesitated for a moment, then she put her 
 hand lightly on the Minister's arm and said 
 
 "I hardly like to propose it to yon, but you are her 
 only friend." 
 
 " Would you have me follow her to London?" said the 
 Minister. 
 
 "I would; we know how utterly friendless she is: if she 
 will not accept the money, there are a thousand ways in 
 which we may help her still. You could find employ- 
 ment, fictitious employment from me if you will, to be 
 doubly paid; but this can only be done when you are, 
 there, when you see whether she be driven to great straits 
 or not. Perhaps her Italian relations may be willing to 
 take her home; that would be best of all." 
 
 The Minister shook his head sadly. 
 
 " She would rather die than let them know what has 
 befallen," he said. ''1 had not thought to find such a 
 passionate, determined nature in one I had supposed so 
 gentle. I would follow her with all my heart: but jnst 
 now, having been to Edinburgh but a month ago, I have 
 much business, and, truth to say " 
 
 The Minister hesitated, and a blush spread itself over 
 his hard-featured face; he could not acknowledge, even 
 to so old a friend, that to make such a journey was far 
 beyond his means: not a week before, Michael, the ne'er- 
 do-weel of the village, had come hack from prison, Mas- 
 ter Malcolm fondly hoped, an altered man. and it had 
 taken a round sum of money to start him afresh in a new 
 and congenial trade; so in spite of Kerenhappuch's loud 
 remonstrances and heavy sighs, the good man had had but 
 little meat to his porridge of late. 
 
 '* Truth to say," he hesitated, and patted his knees and 
 rubbed back his rough gray hair. 
 
 "Then you will not go, and seek for this poor child?" 
 said Lady Grisel, and there was somewhat of condemna- 
 tion in her voice. 
 
 "It is not want of will," he began again; " but rather 
 that at this moment other matters 
 
 Lady Grisel knew well the innate pride of the man with 
 whom she was dealing, and the thought of the real reason 
 flashed across her suddenly, but she was careful not to 
 betray herself. 
 
 " Well, well," she said, "you must take your own way.
 
 30 DITA. 
 
 The harvest has been so bad these two years, Master 
 Malcolm, that I fear there is much poverty abroad." 
 
 "Not so much," he answered, "for the winter is mild, 
 and but few of the sheep have suffered." 
 
 "There is much poverty," she insisted. "And because 
 I feel it so, Minister, I will desire you to spend forty 
 pounds for me not for the very poorest, but on such as 
 your discretion shall judge to be most in need; nor would 
 I confine my alms to the parish only, should there be any 
 beyond its bounds." 
 
 Master Malcolm put out his hand and shook Lady 
 Gnsd's without a word. When she rose to go, she said, 
 softly 
 
 " When will you start, Minister?" 
 
 " To-morrow by daybreak. I will take the Strathluan 
 mail." 
 
 Hnppie was sweeping away the snow from the little 
 path up to the house when Lady Grisel came out. 
 
 "Master Malcolm looks poorly to-day," she said kindly, 
 as she passed the woman, and then iiuppie'.= complaints 
 burst out. 
 
 " He's no ill, my leddy it's no that; but he eats no more 
 than yon puir druckit hen," and she pointed to a misera- 
 ble draggled fowl pecking about in the snow. "IS'cver a 
 morsel of meat has he touched, and I dinna ken when he 
 will take till't again. He's gien awa 'ilka bawbee we had 
 had to a ne'er-do-weel that will spond it a' in whisky and 
 sneeshin, deil take him! and forgie me using siccan a 
 word. Na, na it's no that he is ill." 
 
 "Well, Kerenhappuch, if something should come up 
 from Dunmonaigh, you will say that it was a very fine 
 beef, and that I should be glad of Master Malcolm's opin- 
 ion on it." 
 
 "Ay, thank you, rry leddy." 
 
 "And are you well yourself. Huppie?" 
 
 " Ou ay, my leddy, I'm just in my frail ordinar." 
 
 As Lady Grisel went on her way down the hillside, the 
 kind smile on her face gave place to the look of care that 
 had now become habitual to it. She met Angus on her 
 way, and he turned and walked with her. His mind was 
 full of new schemes and projects; he would spend his 
 mornings over local maps, planning new roads and bridges, 
 choosing tracts of moorland to redeem from the waste,
 
 D1TA. 31 
 
 and he now begun to expound some new theory of drain- 
 age. But Lady Grisel could not give her mind to these 
 things now, as she would have done once; for always be- 
 tween her and her rest was the haunting look of Ewan's 
 blue eyes, and the thought of Assunta's despair. 
 
 Several times, craving for sympathy, she had spoken to 
 Angus about Assuntu, but he heard her with visible im- 
 patience, and with a troubled look, that she attributed 
 to a sensitive horror of the disgrace that had stained his 
 brothers name. To-day she began once more, but he in- 
 terrupted her, irritably 
 
 " Why tell me what I have no wish to hear?" he said, 
 with his cane cutting off the heads of the bracken. She 
 was distressed at his manner, and looking at him tenderly, 
 she said 
 
 " Are yon not well, Angus?" 
 
 " I am" all right," he answered, impatiently; " but I am 
 harassed and worried by all I have to do." 
 
 She said no more. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THERE was a thick fog in London when Master Mal- 
 colm arrived, and it seemed to him that nothing could be 
 more dreary. He put up at a little old-fashioned hotel to 
 which he had been directed by a fellow- traveler, a hotel 
 smelling strongly of beer and bad tobacco. 
 
 He ate a badly-cooked meal placed on a small slate table 
 in the common room, and then asked the careless, whistling 
 waiter how far it was to Loam Street. The man declared 
 it to be at least half an hour's drive in a cab; and when 
 i by Master Malcolm if a cab would be very expen- 
 sive, laugned rudely in answering, and went out to tell 
 his friends the good joke. 
 
 The cab was procured, the Minister being anxious to 
 begin his work at once, though he was very weary from 
 having traveled all through the night. 
 
 It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, and the 
 worst of the yellow fog was over, but the lamps were still 
 lighted, and the damp trickled down all the walls and 
 made the pavement shiny and greasy. 
 
 As they were crossing one of the thoroughfares, the
 
 32 DITA. 
 
 cab-horse fell, and the poor, patient Minister had to turn 
 out into the mud and wet. In answer to his inquiries, lie 
 found that the horse had been out all night and was quite 
 worn out too much so to carry him as far as Loam. 
 Street. The cabman was touched by the kindness with 
 which the Minister spoke to him, and bade him wait 
 where he was, and he would send him a cab, as it was 
 often very difficult to find one in a London fog. 
 
 The Minister waited a long time, and he was chilled 
 and pinched with cold, but he strode vigorously up and 
 down. 
 
 There was a broad sweeping across the road at the 
 corner, and in charge of it stood a little wistful street- 
 sweeper with his broom tinder his arm. The Minister 
 found himself watching the boy. Passengers hurried by 
 so fast that no one paused to give him anything, though 
 he ran backward and forward, keeping a clean, smooth 
 way, and the pinched little face, prematurely old, grew 
 whiter and smaller, and once it seemed to the Minister 
 that it was quivering into tears. As he came up to the 
 crossing, the boy only hung his head he had given up 
 hope. 
 
 " Here, my boy," said Master Malcolm, and he held out 
 to him a real silver shilling. The little face brightened, 
 and glowed with joy: he plied his broom vigorously, and 
 poured a shrill, joyous whistle into the air. 
 
 The cab rattled up, and the boy flew to open the door. 
 The Minister smiled at him, and said softly 
 
 "Never say die, my laddie the Lord will provide." 
 Back went the 'boy to the crossing; and on other rainy 
 days and heaven knows some days will be dark and 
 dreary the words of that man with the sweet smile, 
 would come into his mind "The Lord will provide." 
 
 The cab rattled on, over the stones. It seemed a long 
 and weary time before it stopped and the man opened the 
 door. 
 
 Master Malcolm's heart beat as he rang the bell. He 
 had ro wait some time before it was answered by a very 
 shabby-looking woman, who looked sharply at him as if 
 to inquire his business. 
 
 When asked whether Mrs. Carrol was there (for 
 that was the name poor Assunta had assumed) the land- 
 lady informed him that she was gone had not, in fact,
 
 DITA. 33 
 
 stayed there more than a fortnight-. The woman invited 
 Muster .Malcolm in, ami sitting down opposite to him, 
 suid she .would answer anything he chose to ask, for she 
 had taken a fancy to the poor young lady, and would be 
 only too glad to hear of her weli'are. She had been very 
 ill there, the landlady said delirious in her mind at first, 
 and then -so weak that she could not ?et foot to the ground; 
 and before she was well enough to do so, she had insisted 
 upon going, for she had to pay the doctor's bill, and her 
 lodging, and she could no longer afford such lodgings, 
 " which they are very good, though I says it that 
 shouldn't," said the woman. 
 
 " She kissed me, she did," she continued, rubbing her 
 eyes with the corner of her pocket-handkerchief, "and, 
 thanked me for all the trouble I had been at with the 
 baby on my hands. She was a dear young lady." 
 
 " But can you tell me where she is gone?" said the 
 poor Minister. 
 
 " Yes, I think I could; but I must think. It was Bill 
 as took her box in a barrow, and whether it was 8 or 
 whether it was 3, I am not sure; but a respectable street it 
 was, and the lodging was kept by the first cousin of Mrs. 
 Smith (that's our baker), and she married into the up- 
 noisteiing line, and took a nice house, and lets it cheaper 
 than I can do, bring a widow; and she went there, I am 
 sure, because I know that Bill took her box; but whether 
 it is 8 or 9 I can't say." 
 
 " And the street?" 
 
 "Deal Street; it is a poor neighborhood, but respect- 
 able." 
 
 " Had she any means of making her own livelihood?" 
 asked the Minister, anxiously. 
 
 " She taught Miss Smith, leastways she was to have 
 taught her, French and Italian, for five shillings a- week; 
 but what with her going away, and what with her illness, 
 that beginning were not gone on with, that I know of." 
 
 Master Malcolm thanked the woman for her kindness, 
 an,i went out again into the wet street, for the fog luuJ 
 now changed into a thick, drizzling rain. 
 
 "To Deal Street," he said; and the cabman mounted, 
 wfth much grumbling, into his seat, and tucked his 
 horse-cloth tighter round his knees, 
 t
 
 34 BIT A. 
 
 They tried Xo. 8 first, then K"o. 9; Mrs. Carrol wai 
 not known at either house. 
 
 The cabman advised trying 18 or 19, both fruitlessly; 
 at last, in despair, they tried 28, and this time were so 
 far successful that they found that Mrs. Carrol had been 
 there. 
 
 The Minister shivered as he saw the dirty, poverty- 
 stricken look of the place. The landlady, an aggressive- 
 looking woman, with her black hair twisted into curl- 
 papers, led the way sharply into her private parlor, a 
 small room, with a huge-patterned drab paper, ana two 
 vases of wax-flowers, veiled in coarse yellow muslin. 
 
 She began talking at once. 
 
 " If you're the friends, sir, you ought to look after her 
 bette" that's all 1 can s?y. Here she comes, that weak 
 and ill, as I thought she would, have died on my hands; 
 but when I asked my rent, she up and paid me a week in 
 advance, which, as she had no reference, is customary, 
 and " 
 
 But the Minister cut short her endless flow of talk, ask- 
 ing 
 
 " Can you tell me her present address?" 
 
 "Indeed and I cannot; which it's doubtful whether 
 any one hereabouts can, for no one notices where them 
 goes as have paid up every penny they owes, foi a real 
 lady she was." 
 
 *' Why did she leave you?" asked the Minister, his 
 heart sinking very low. 
 
 " Well," began the woman, twisting up her apron, 
 " ?he was a deal of trouble, and the baby was a handful, 
 just begun with its teething." 
 
 " You sent her away?" 
 
 " No not that exactly; but I put on sixpence for the 
 child, and its fresh milk came to tenpcnce," 
 
 "So it was want of money drove her away," said the 
 Minister; " had she no means of support?" 
 
 'She went out, day after day, after them advertise- 
 ments, but nothing ever came of it, and that is how we 
 come to have such a deal of trouble with the child. One 
 day when she came in she found it alone, and crying, the 
 perverse little viper, which it hadn't been alone ten min- 
 utes; such language as she used, my word, we ain't ac- 
 customed to that style of tiling, not Mary Ann and me,
 
 DITA. ' 35 
 
 But as she had paid her week, \ve could do nothing till 
 the time was up. After that she always dragged that 
 heavy child wherever she went, and at last was brought 
 home by a policeman in a cab, which she had fainted in 
 the street. I don't call that respectable myself." 
 
 The Minister could hardly speak for sorrow and indig- 
 nation he shook the dust off his feet as he crossed the 
 threshold of the woman's house. 
 
 Where should he go next? how should he pursue his in- 
 quiries? He had no resource but to confide to the cabman 
 that he was in search of a lady who could not be found; 
 and he was much astonished by the man putting his finger 
 on the side of his nose, and saying, with a wink 
 
 "Now it's all square, ain't it? you ain't a peeler in dis- 
 guise?" 
 
 " A what?" said the bewildered man. 
 
 " You ain't a detective? for, if you are, darn'd if I'll 
 help you." 
 
 " Oh. no, no! I am a minister of the Church of Scot- 
 land, and in search of a stray lamb of my flock." 
 
 The cabman, smiling at the old-fashioned manners and 
 dress of his employer, threw himself into the search. 
 They went to all the petty tradesmen near, consulted cab- 
 men who might have remembered carrying a lady, and her 
 child and box, somewhere: but all in vain. Assunta was 
 lost in this huge London wilderness. 
 
 At last, weary and disheartened, Master Malcolm re- 
 turned to his hotel. The common room was now full of 
 men, ta-lking and smoking, and he made his way up to his 
 own room. 
 
 He sat thinking gloomily, when an idea suddenly flashed 
 across him. Assunta had promised always to send him 
 her address; that she had delayed writing from Deal Street 
 might be accounted for by the fact that she remained 
 there so short a time; but in all probability a letter was 
 waiting for him now at his own manse, in the very north 
 of Scotland, telling him where she was, perhaps that she 
 had already arrived at utmost need. Master Malcolm sat 
 down and wrote at once to Keren happuch desiring her to 
 forward his letters, should there be any; and bitter were 
 his regrets when he considered that at least six days must 
 elapse before lie could hope for an answer. 
 
 He thought that no time during the whole course of his
 
 36 BIT A. 
 
 life had seemed so long as the next week, for it was seven 
 days before the answer came; he had no occupation but 
 wandering about the streets, or reading the papers. 
 
 He strove hard not to lose time, and whenever lie saw 
 "To Let" printed on the windows, would go in and ask 
 hopelessly for Assunta; and lie would wander in the parks, 
 hoping that her good angel would cause her to bring her 
 child out for change of air; but he always came home 
 disappointed. 
 
 The letter arrived at last. Master Malcolm was right in 
 his conjecture. She had written to him, and as he read 
 her letter, his heart died within him. 
 
 " My only friend," she wrote, "sorrow has broken down 
 my pride; I am changed now. Oh send me money, for I 
 I now not where to turn! Tell Lady Grisel that I accept 
 her offer it is for Ewan's child. I am very ill, so ill that 
 I can scarcely see to write, but they are very kind to me 
 
 and to baby. Send me " the letter broke off abruptly, 
 
 and the direction was written in a strange hand. 
 
 And this was a week ago nay, more ten or eleven 
 days ago. Master Malcolm seized on his hat and rushed 
 down stairs, calling loudly for a cab. 
 
 lie drove off to Whittle Court, bribing the cabman to 
 drive with speed. 
 
 It was a long ride, and the street that they drove down 
 at last was narrow and dirty. Damp clothes hung out of 
 the windows to dry, and dirty children were making mud- 
 pies in the road. 
 
 No. 60 turned out to be a sort of carpet-shop, where 
 rugs and brushes were hung all over the outside; and the 
 Minister had to pick his way through piles of chairs and 
 iron bedsteads. The atmosphere was choked with dust. 
 
 The shop-owner, a fussy little man in a black apron, di- 
 rected him up stairs and to the topmost story he went, 
 where he was received by a clean -looking woman, who 
 at his first inquiry burst into tears. 
 
 " So you have come after her, poor lady, and might 
 have helped her." she sobbed; " and she so ill." 
 
 " Can I see her at once?" 
 
 " Law bless you, sir! see her? She has been gone this 
 week." 
 
 "Gone! where?'
 
 DITA. 37 
 
 " Where them must go who has none to help them," 
 said the woman; " why, she has gone to the workhouse." 
 
 Assunta, the proud Assunta, come to this. Master Mal- 
 colm felt stunned as he hearfl the news; he hurried down 
 stairs, the woman gave him the direction, and he was 
 once more on the road. 
 
 " Poor Assunta! poor child!" he murmured to him- 
 self; " what a piteous fate!" 
 
 Now the cab rattled up to the door, and stopped, and 
 Master Malcolm got out. He asked for the matron, and 
 was received by her in her business room. 
 
 She was a kind-hearted woman, and most anxious to do 
 all in her power to help those under her charge. 
 
 " Let me see," said she, rapidly wetting her thumb, 
 and turning over the pages of her thick book of cases. 
 " A young woman taken in on Thursday the eleventh. 
 Ah! here it is. Mrs. Carrol and child, brought in by Dr. 
 Monk he is our doctor, sir; put in Infirmary No. 14. 
 Ah, sir!" the kind woman stopped and looked at him. 
 
 "Can I see her?" he said, eagerly; "she has friends 
 who have only just heard of her distress." 
 
 "I a.n afraid, sir, her friends are too late." 
 
 " Too late?" 
 
 " No. 14 died at twelve o'clock last night." 
 
 The Minister covered his face with his hands. "Can 
 I see her?" he said, after a moment's pause. 
 
 The matron nodded and led the way. Able-bodied 
 inmates were sweeping the stairs, and she spoke sharply 
 to one or t\vo as she passed. A strong smell of ironing 
 from the laundry below, filled the air. She opened the 
 door of a little room apart and ushered him in. 
 
 Under a coarse white sheet lava rigid, still form. The 
 matron raised its folds, and he looked for the last time on 
 the calm, dead face of Assunta. 
 
 He could not weep over the storm-tossed life, now en- 
 tered into rest; but he asked leave to stay and pray, and 
 the matron left him alone. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN E^gar Street, Solio, was a well-known book-shop 
 kept by Pairdon Brothers. One of two brothers, Andrew 
 Fairdon, attended to the business; the other had gone out
 
 38 DITA. 
 
 to Australia many years ago, and having sent home money 
 to put into the business, honest Andrew had added 
 " Brothers" in large gold letters to the inscription over 
 the door. Lovel Fairdon had almost faded from the re- 
 membrance of his English relatives. The tsvo brothers 
 in former days had been close companions and friends, 
 both intelligent, both ambitious. Lovel's ambition took 
 a practical, money-making turn; Andrew's was quenched 
 by his falling in love, which caused him contentedly to 
 take up his father's trade, and sell books in Edgar Street, 
 Soho. 
 
 The girl whom he married had a little dower of two 
 hundred pounds, very profitable to the business. She 
 was somewhat beneath him in position, far below him in 
 education, the only child of a small tenant-farmer. She 
 had lived all her life among poultry and cows, and was 
 easily attracted by the clever young Londoner, who came 
 down frequently for a country Sunday; and her shy, gen- 
 tle manner, and the fresh sweetness of her beauty, proved 
 to him an .irresistible attraction. 
 
 The shrewder Lovel tried to talk away his brother's 
 fancy, but Andrew's heart had always been better than 
 his head, and he triumphantly brought home his young 
 wife from the green open country to gloomy Soho. 
 
 Nannie pined at first, as was but natural. Andrew 
 was too clever for her; he was always talking of things of 
 which she knew nothing always writing scraps of poetry 
 that she could admire, though she could not understand. 
 Sometimes he would be angry with her for her want of 
 power of criticism; discriminating admiration he called 
 it not blind incense. What he longed for was, that she 
 should praise it line by line, not all in a lump. But as 
 they grew older together, he became satisfied to talk to 
 her, feeling her purring acceptance of his marvelous 
 cleverness and apt quotations just the soothing balm 
 needful for the irritable poetical temperament. Andrew 
 was great at seeing himself in all imaginable attitudes- 
 now as a deep and unfathomable man of letters, but 
 oftener as a misunderstood genius. He mistook his diffi- 
 culty in finding rhymes for the workings of genius, striv- 
 ing in agony to embody its deep thoughts in language. 
 " The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling," was often in 
 his mind, and at such moments he would unbutton his
 
 DITA. 30 
 
 waistcoat, which the expansion of his soul made too 
 tight. 
 
 But with all his absurdities he was a good and amiable 
 man, and few couples loved each other with a more har- 
 monious love than Andrew Fairdon and Nannie his wife. 
 
 Nannie had but one real trouble in the wide world now 
 that she hud outlived her transplantation into the busy 
 hum of the London streets, and that trouble was, that 
 the one only little child God had sent her, had remained 
 but one short week in the world, and had been laid to 
 rest in the green church-yard of her own home. Some 
 portion of her heart had been buried with it she was wont 
 to say, and it was years before the pain softened; not that 
 she rebelled in spirit, but that there was something un- 
 congenial in her life, something undefined even to herself 
 a want of fields, and flowers, and the music of birds, 
 and the healthful hard work of her youth; and this want 
 for one short week was filled up by the sweetness of 
 motherhood, only to leave a darker void behind. So 
 Nannie's pretty face had a sad look, and very early there 
 were threads of silver in her fair hair. Mrs. Fairdon's 
 great delight was to do what good she could. The parish 
 workhouse was not far from the shop, and she had made 
 acquaintance with the busy matron, Mrs. Brown, the 
 consequence was that she was often allowed to visit the 
 old people and the infirmary, and her visits were hailed 
 with delight meaning, as they often did, packets of tea, 
 good home-made cake, and sometimes baskets of flowers. 
 More than one poor friendless waif of society owed to her 
 that most precious of all gifts, a fresh start on coming 
 out of the house. In any out-of-the-way case Mrs. Brown 
 was wont to seek sympathy and even advice from Mrs. 
 Fairdon. 
 
 It had been so when poor Assunta had been brought in 
 almost dying, and reduced to such poverty that she had 
 sold all the warm clothing she had possessed. 
 
 Assunta never again raised her head from the pillow. 
 The baby was a strong, healthy child, and throve well 
 even on workhouse nursing and food. It u?ed to lie con- 
 tentedly cooing for hours by its dying mother, at once the 
 comfort and agony of her heart. That no answer came 
 to her letter seemed to Assunta to mean that Lady Grisel 
 had withdrawn her offer of help, that the Minister shrank
 
 40 DITA. 
 
 from telling her such grievous news, that she was deserted 
 by all. 
 
 One day Mrs. Fairdon (who Tisited her every day) 
 found her in such grief that, melting into tears herself, 
 she implored her to make her indeed her friend and con- 
 fidant; and Assunta told her all her miserable story, only 
 omitting the names. As she dwelt on Ewan's goodness, 
 his beauty, and his love for her, Mrs. Fairdon saw well 
 the blow that the suspicion of his treachery must have 
 been; but she stifled the exclamation of indignation that 
 rose to her lips, fearing to add to Assunta's anguish by 
 confirming- the dread, only half admitted by the unhappy 
 girl, that Ewan had indeed been false. She soothed and 
 petted her; then burst forth the poor mother's terror for 
 her child what would become of her? she was so utterly 
 friendless. 
 
 When Mrs. Fairdon left her bedside and went home a 
 dazzling vision was playing before her eyes. Would An- 
 drew allow her to adopt this child as her own. Once, half 
 in joke, he had told her that if she could find a baby 
 without one single tie in the world, she might have it, 
 and the thought had been with her ever since. 
 
 The bookseller had not finished his work, but he was 
 standing in the tiny back-yard of his house washing his 
 hands at the pump, and singing merrily to himself Autol- 
 ycus's song 
 
 "Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, 
 
 And merrily hent the stile-a; 
 
 .A merry heart goes all the day, 
 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a." 
 
 When he saw Mrs. Fairdon's comely face now full of the 
 keenest anxiety, he went up to her and kissed her, say- 
 ing, "How now, sweet wife?" 
 
 Shakespeare was his mood just now, and he could 
 scarcely speak plain English. 
 
 With eager haste she told him her story, holding him 
 tight by one of the buttons of his coat. She had found 
 the baby at last! Might she have it? As she turned her 
 tender blue eyes up to his, Andrew read in them that in- 
 describable longing of the childless mother, that unsatis- 
 fied emptiness of heart and arms that till this moment 
 he had scarcely realized, and had not noticed for years.
 
 DITA. 41 
 
 "It is such a clear little thing!" she said; "a sweet 
 little winsome thing with golden hair. It would be a joy 
 and comfort to you, Andy, and you conld teach it your 
 fine poetry, and educate it to understand as I never could 
 no, not if I live to a hundred, my dear." 
 
 The man's eyes sparkled there was something very in- 
 viting about the idea of this child to bring up. 
 
 '*' You are sure that nobody will be wanting to claim 
 it?" lie said, jealously, as though it were already his own, 
 " If anybody else wants it, I'll not lift a finger to take it; 
 my right must be undisputed." 
 
 " It has neither father nor kinsfolk to own it, and the 
 poor young mother is dying; she is an Italian." 
 
 "An Italian! hum!" 
 
 " But she has lived all her life in Scotland," cried Mrs. 
 Fairdon, " and speaks English as well as yourself." 
 
 " It might be called Juliet," muttered Andrew, and his 
 wife caught at the words. 
 
 ''Then I may? I can tell her that the child shall be 
 ours?" 
 
 "Yes; but, my dear" he was surprised to find his 
 soft-hearted wife sobbing aloud on his breast; he went on 
 kindly " my dear, I will leave all to you: we must not 
 have it if it is claimed by others; make sure of this first." 
 
 "I will I will, thank you, Andy how can I thank 
 you?" 
 
 Before half her thanks were over, she had gone back to 
 tell the news to poor Assunta. 
 
 Andrew, meanwhile, unmindful of the cold, drew a 
 rush-bottomed chair from the kitchen to the yard, and 
 sitting down, smiled as he lit his pipe and thought of the 
 golden- haired child playing about round his knee its 
 dear little voice making the old shop resound with the 
 noise; and he planned a swing between two linen-posts, 
 and wondered whether in the midst of his piles of books 
 were any fitted for very little children. 
 
 When Mrs. Fairdon reached the workhouse, Assunta 
 was almost past speaking. The people lying in their rows 
 of beds ranged against the buff-plastered Avails were all 
 silent, for they knew that one soul from among them was 
 passing away. 
 
 When Mrs. Fairdon knelt down and took the dying 
 girl's hand in hers, and swore to be a mother to her child,
 
 4S DITA. 
 
 the look that dime over her face was of indescribable joy 
 and thankfulness; she held her hand tightly in hers, and 
 never took her eyes from Nannie's face, till the end came 
 about twelve o'clock. 
 
 "When Xannie came home, Andrew was quite grieved 
 that she had not been able to bring the baby back with 
 her; he longed to see it now that it was to be his, and was 
 almost cross to his gentle wife. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 VERY early on tlpe following morning, Mrs. Fairdon 
 was at the workhouse as early us she could get away from 
 her household cares at home. 
 
 It was visiting day, and the friends of the patients were 
 in the infirmary. The nurse, who was very busy, just 
 told her that No. 14's baby had been taken to the old 
 people's ward to be out of the way, and that one old 
 woman had been told off to take care of it. She hurried 
 away to the large ward, and found that also to be full of 
 visitors. Eager as she was, she found time to stop at one 
 bed with a cheeifiil " Good-morning, Mrs. Frank," know- 
 ing that that poor old woman had lost every friend she 
 possessed in the world, and always spent visiting days in 
 softly crying to herself. 
 
 The "good-morning" in that kind voice seemed espe- 
 cially welcome to-day; and though Mrs. Frank only nodded 
 awkwardly, she muttered, "God bless you, ma'am!" 
 
 As Mrs. Fairdon hurried through the rooms, she sud- 
 denly started and shivered she saw the baby, her own 
 precious baby, in the arms of a stranger. 
 
 The sky through the windows above the beds was gray 
 and dim, for the day was cloudy, but one ray of brilliant 
 white light shone round the rugged face of Master Mal- 
 colm, as he sat on a chair between two white beds, with 
 Assunta's golden-haired child in his arms. He was look- 
 ing down on it tenderly, with deep compassion, and the 
 baby was gazing up into his face with the solemn dignity 
 of infancy. 
 
 Mrs. Fairdon's heart died within her. Had he come to 
 claim it? perhaps to take it away! What should she do? 
 She went swiftly up to the Minister and held out her arms
 
 DITA. 43 
 
 for the child. He rose to his feet, but showed a moment 5 ! 
 reluctance to part with it. 
 
 "Will you not give it me, sir?" she said, piteomly. 
 "It is mine." 
 
 " Yours! 1 tvas told that it was the child of a friend of 
 mine who lias been called away from this world," he said, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 "Oh, may I not have it?" entreated poor Nannie, with 
 tears in her eyes. "The poor mother gave it to me it is 
 mine. I was with her at the last, and I swore to bring up 
 the little one as my own." 
 
 The Minister looked at her earnestly; the stamp of 
 goodness was on her face unmistakably, but still he hesi- 
 tated. "You take upon yourself a great responsibility," 
 he said, " to bring this little lamb to her Heavenly 
 Father's fold." 
 
 "With His help, I am not afraid," said Mrs. Fairdon, 
 reverently. Then the Minister laid the child in her arms, 
 saying-, '-Take her, then, in Goal's name." 
 
 Many important matters had to be settled, and several 
 times Master Malcolm found himself in the back sitting- 
 room of Fairdon's shop, arranging things with him. He 
 could not feel justified in delivering the child wholly into 
 these good people's care until he should have had time to 
 communicate with Lady Grisel, whose name heforebore to 
 mention; neither did the Fairdons seek to know it. The 
 Minister thought that some payment ought to be made to 
 help to meet the expenses of its support; but this Andrew 
 absolutely declined. He was immovable; either the child 
 must remain entirely in the hands of its unwilling rel- 
 atives, or must be delivered over body and soul to him, to 
 bear his name, and to be to him as a real daughter, her 
 kindred resigning every claim. 
 
 Master Malcolm learned from the matron and others 
 how completely he might rely on the excellence and good- 
 ness of the worthy couple; and it was with a lighter heart 
 than he could have believed possible, that he wrote to tell 
 La.ly Grisel that a home, in every way so desirable, had 
 offered itself for the little orphan. 
 
 The answer came at length: the waiting had seemed 
 very long to the anxious Mrs. Fairdon. Lady Grisel was 
 willing to renounce all claim, once and for ever, to the 
 guardianship of the child. She thanked God that so good
 
 44 DITA. 
 
 a home was found, and that now the piteous story of poor 
 Assunta need never be further known; and she said that 
 she never could express in words her gratitiub for all that 
 the Minister had done. 
 
 So Master Malcolm solemnly blessed the child, and 
 went home again to the north, and Mrs. Fairdon took 
 possession of her as her own and brought her home. 
 
 There was quite a little fete made when the baby ar- 
 rived. The bookseller and his assistant, a lad -of nineteen 
 most faithfully attached to his master, decorated the house 
 with holly and ivy, and composed a large "Welcome" iu 
 holly-berries to nail over its new bed. Andrew was most hap- 
 py and fussy over the ordering of the daily cans of new milk 
 and crearn, very full of its new clothes and his plans of 
 education. He insisted on going with his wife to one 
 baby -shop after another, choosing hoods and pelisses, and 
 when Mrs. Fairdon would fain have chosen sober gray, in- 
 sisted on pale blue and satin quillings nothing was too 
 good for the adopted child. 
 
 The evening after its arrival, Andrew came out of the 
 shop armed with an immense Shakespeare. He began at 
 once turning over the leaves. '' Shakespeare has said, 
 ' What's in a name?' my dear wherein he made, to my 
 humble thinking, a grave mistake. A name! why, what 
 \.ere Portia if her name were Jane, or an Ophelia named 
 Martha? wheie were the sorrows of a Danish Prince 
 Thomas, or the despairs of a Moorish William? No, no. 
 such a Portia would only have been a sentimental middle- 
 class female such an Ophelia a whining milkmaid. Do 
 you not see the difference, wife?" 
 
 " Yes, 'indeed,'' answered Nannie, composedly. 
 
 "A name," he went on, "adds to individuality aa 
 much as, or more than, the expression of the face or the 
 cut of the clothes. Why, nature is so strong, that a wom- 
 an who has been named unsuitably, in nine cases out of 
 ten has her name changed. A gentle Margaret will per- 
 force be Meg, Peggie, Minnie, or other such; while a 
 fierce nature will bear the name of Phoebe or Celia as ill 
 as a charger the plowshare." 
 
 " Quite true," said the admiring Nannie. 
 
 "So, wife, it is a most important thing, the name we 
 give our child; remernber.it stamps her with a certain 
 character for life. We will have none of your foolish
 
 DITA. 45 
 
 names; there are enough of black-haired Blanches and 
 flaxen Roses already in the world: her name must be sig- 
 nificant." 
 
 *' Susan was my mother's name," said Mrs. Fairdon, 
 timidly. 
 
 " Susan, yes pretty, rural, and simple an affection- 
 ate name. No, my dear, it is a good name, but it does 
 not reach my idea of what is suitable." 
 
 "She lias been baptized Margaret Griselda." 
 
 "''The very thing," cried Andrew, fretfully. "We 
 could not have thought of finer, nobler names; but for 
 the very reason that they are her names, they must not be 
 her names. Griselda! beautiful! I should have thought 
 of that at once." 
 
 " It seems a pity," said Mrs. Fairdon, going on with 
 her work: in truth she little cared what name it would 
 please her husband to give the child; to her the rose by 
 any name would smell as sweet. 
 
 " Shakespeare," went on Andrew, had a marvelous gift 
 in naming. Does not Juliet bring before your mind the 
 gorgeous southern beauty of the ci ild of Capulet, and 
 Beatrice all wit and brilliance? I had thought of Juliet, 
 but her head is all covered with rings of golden hair. 
 She is very pretty, Nannie. I shall not be away long; I 
 am going to look at her little face." 
 
 Mrs. Fairdon quietly went on sewing: it was pretty to 
 see the entire look of content and happiness on her sweet 
 face. 
 
 Presently Andrew stole back on tiptoe and said, " She 
 moved in her sleep, Nannie, and when I put my ringer iu 
 her little palm, her hand closed on it tightly. She kept 
 me at least live minutes, for I was afraid of wakening her 
 by taking it away. God bless her! now do not speak, 
 but let me think." 
 
 And leaning his head on his hand, Andrew Fairdon 
 remained silent for perhaps a quarter of an hour, turning 
 over the leaves of Shakespeare very slowly. 
 
 Then he rose and said gently, " Perhaps if we have 
 prayers first, I may think afterward of a name, Nannie." 
 
 Mrs. Fairdon rose and folded up her WDrk, and sum- 
 moned the servant-girl. Andrew read a chapter from the 
 Bible, then a few short collects. When the girl was gono 
 he turned to his wife smiling.
 
 46 DITA. 
 
 " I have it, Nannie," he said. te A beautiful name, a 
 rare name, and one, alas I too well suited to the little one." 
 
 " What is it?'' she said, eagerly. 
 
 " Perdita." 
 
 " Is it not heathenish?" she asked. But Andrew gave 
 no heed: he went on, "'No name of all Shakespeare's cre- 
 ations brings sweeter thoughts to the mind; there is not 
 one so full of grace and poetry as Perdita," and he went on 
 murmuring to himself 
 
 " When you speak, sweet, 
 Td have you do it ever: wheu you sing, 
 I'd have you buy and and sell so; so give alms; 
 Pray so: and, for the ordering your affairs, 
 To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you mitrht ever do 
 Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own 
 No other function. Each your doing, 
 So singular in each particular, 
 Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, 
 That all your "acts are queens." 
 
 So it was decided that the little orphan, poor Assunta's 
 golden-haired child, should be called Perdita. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 RIGHT happy are those who in after-life can look back 
 upon a childhood unclouded in its cairn and peace. Little 
 Perdita's life was a.s sweet and happy as are the lives of 
 little lambs and little birds nay, sweeter, for storms, and 
 birds of prey, and many terrors, burden the lives of even 
 the youngest animals; but from all little Perdita, was 
 sheltered, perhaps fenced round by the wings of an angel, 
 whose especial task might be to guard the orphan baby. 
 
 It might seem as if a crowded street in London, a little 
 paved courtyard, into which tlte kitchen door opened, 
 were little like a Paradise; but a child requires so little, 
 it has such a wondrous gift of imagination: a little pillow, 
 stuffed with an extemporized face, will be as precious to 
 it as the finest wax doll; a broken hobby- horse will carry 
 as doughty a knight as the noblest rocking-horse; and 
 chairs will make capital rail way- trains, and broom-sticks 
 save drowning sailors, with a stool for a rock.
 
 PITA. 4? 
 
 Perdita bad one possession that was actual, not an 
 idealized treasure one for which many a rich little child, 
 with beautiful toys, would have longed, this was a little 
 Maltese dog, excessively small, and covered with white, 
 woolly curls. The dog lived with her, ate the portion 
 she gave it of her own bread and milk, and never left her. 
 She washed it, and dressed it in pink and blue bows, and 
 talked to it about everything she had to talk about; and 
 whenever she went out with her adopted father, Fluff ac- 
 companied them. The little one grew and throve wonder- 
 fully. She was very fair, and her hair kept its beautiful 
 golden hue; but her eyes grew darker and darker, and of 
 a deep soft brown, the only features she inherited from 
 her Italian mother. 
 
 Andrew and Nannie loved the very ground she trod on 
 she became the center of their thoughts and plans. He 
 would have spoilt her, without doubt; but Nannie was 
 wise and firm, and always did her best to counteract the 
 spoiling with necessary reproof, which, however, was such 
 a pain to Andrew, that Nannie would feel ruefully that 
 she was punishing her husband far more than the child. 
 Fluff was a great trouble when they walked in the Park. 
 He would wind his long pink ribbon round the legs of the 
 passers-by; he would bark fiercely at dogs that could easily 
 have crunched him, bones and all, into a handful of dust; 
 but Andrew minded nothing for Dita's sake. Dita was 
 the name little Perdita had given herself when she first 
 began to speak. That first sentence was an era in her 
 history. They were sitting in the Park on a bench, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Fairdon, with Perdita between them, when a 
 man came by with three puppies in his arms. The child 
 flew after him, and caught one in her little hands, hold- 
 ing it strained tightly to her flushed cheeks, and looking 
 imploringly at the owner. 
 
 "Dita have it, dada!" 
 
 Of course it was bought, and called Fluff, and Dita 
 never lost her intense attachment to the little animal. 
 Perdita's only playfellow was the young shopman, who 
 devoted every spare moment to her service. He was a 
 strange lad, awkward and ungainly in appearance, with 
 large hands and feet, slouching gait, and wistful eyes. 
 Long ago his master had called him the melancholy 
 Jaqucs, and the name hud stuck to him ever since. He
 
 48 MTA. 
 
 had been left fatherless some years before, and his mother, 
 reduced to extreme poverty, had found it hard to give the 
 boy even the commonest education; but even at ten years 
 old his tasie for reading amounted to a passion. His 
 father had been a village schoolmaster a feckless being, 
 tormented by the boys, ridiculed and teased. He loved 
 learning for learning's sake, and would speak with some 
 pride of the scholastic tastes of his few relations: it ran 
 in the blood, he would say; but, alas! so also did ttie 
 tendency to go down in the world, to get poorer, and to 
 dia young and the widow was left in great difficulties. 
 The br>y struggled against every difficulty, devoured every 
 book in the village library, and hungered for more; his 
 mother managed to make her living by washing, and, 
 wisely seeing that it was impossible to content Jaques by 
 a country trade, sanctioned his going up to London, with 
 a recommendation from the village schoolmaster. Jaques 
 was fortunate enough to please Andrew Fairdon, and he 
 entered upon his duties with an enthusiasm that won his 
 master's heart. Tie was among books precious books; he 
 never ceased working till he made himself acquainted with 
 every shelf, and the books added to the stock were 
 generally bought by him. for Andrew was clever enough 
 to see that Jaques soon knew more of his trade than he 
 did himself. 
 
 Before she could walk alone, Perdita treated him as her 
 slave. His holidays were spent in being her cat, her 
 elephant, or her horse; and one day Mrs. Fairdon had to 
 run out and stop the game Dita had invented, which was 
 filling a doll's can at the pump and pouring it over his 
 face. 
 
 At one time it became impressed on Andrew's mind that 
 he was made for great things, that it was his destination 
 to achieve a great literary success. He had now lived for 
 years in a Shakespearian atmosphere, and that made him 
 determine that the first attempt should be a play, after 
 the manner of Shakespeare. 
 
 Perdita was five years old. and very pretty. She was 
 Andrew's constant companion, sitting all the morning 
 curled up in a corner of the shop, with Fluff or her doll, 
 or trotting by his side out of doors when he was free. 
 
 It was a time of discomfort to Nannie when her husband 
 began his literary labors; he almost deserted the shop,
 
 rA. 40 
 
 leaving the care of it to Jaques during the greater part of 
 the clay, and sat in the parlor passing from one tremen- 
 dous mood to another during the composition of the plot. 
 Perdita was not alarmed she was too much accustomed 
 to his ways: but now and then, if without any reason hut 
 the joy of some inspiration within him, Andrew would 
 leap up, strike the table, and utter a laugh of triumph, 
 Fluff would rush forward in a paroxysm of shrill, excited 
 barking, and then Dita laughed also, and they svould all 
 kiss and go back to their corners. 
 
 Comedy and Tragedy held the author between them as 
 they held the great Garrick of old. Tragedy, perhaps, 
 was the more attractive of the two more sublime; but 
 there was more play of fancy in Comedy more scope for 
 graceful imagery,, in which Andrew considered himself to 
 excel. 
 
 The plot was a considerable difficulty; it seemed to him 
 that if he had but a plot, his pen would flow readily. His 
 genius scorned advice, but was open to insinuated sug- 
 gestions, and one morning he said 
 
 "Nannie, were you to set yourself to invent a story, 
 what would you say?" 
 
 She knew what he wanted. 
 
 "A story of a foundling child would be touching and 
 sweet would it not, dear?" 
 
 "ILi! alone in the world sans father, sans mother, 
 sans sister, sans brother. A soliloquy. There must be A 
 fool, and a king or a duke, and some female confidante 
 two ladies, one rich the duke's daughter." 
 
 "Jaquy," said Dita, sitting on the little three-legged 
 stool in the yard "Jaquy, be a horse!" He went down, 
 on his knees. 
 
 " This child's talk may be the making of my play,' 1 
 murmured Andrew, sitting at the open window biting his 
 pen. 
 
 Di!a had climbed on to her patient horse's back and 
 was thumping him hard. 
 
 " My heroine goes out a-hunting," he noted down; " is 
 bold and somewhat merciless she will need a Petruohio, 
 haply " 
 
 "Now jump! jump! jump!" shouted Dita. "Jump 
 high, and me tumble off!"
 
 60 . DITA. 
 
 And she rolled off round his nec\ on to the ground, 
 and pushing her curls off her little rosy face, she cried 
 
 "Now me dead!" 
 
 Andrew wrote down might and main: the very way to 
 get the fair lady under the roof of the duke, was to have 
 her thrown from her horse while hunting in the foresc, 
 taken up for dead, and carried into the midst of the 
 court. He looked up for more inspiration, but Dita was 
 tired of being dead, and was running about on all fours 
 with Jaques after her, shouting 
 
 "la bunny, and you be a dog and bite me!" and Fluff 
 was half mad with excitement. 
 
 Mrs. Fairdon stood watching at the door, and she did 
 not stop the game to-day, because it was Saturday, and 
 Dita had on a dirty frock on purpose. 
 
 When she went in, Andrew had laid down the paper 
 with a sigh of relief 
 
 " I have got my first act, Nan," he said. " That 
 child is a genius, and has brought me inspiration. I feel 
 now that my poor brain wants rest; let us take a walk 
 and make Jaques go with us." 
 
 "I knew she would be help to you," said Nannie, 
 kissing Dita as she captured her. " Bless the child, 
 I must change everything she has on; and for you, 
 Jaques. brush yourself, aud put on a clean tie, and then 
 we'll go out;" and she carried off the laughing and kick- 
 ing child. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE next day Andrew tried in vain to make Dita play 
 in a Suggestive manner; she would insist that her doll was 
 ill, and watched it with her finger on her lips. So far 
 this was good, for it suggested to Andrew a long illness 
 to his heroine iu the ducal palace; and he determined to 
 write his first act, and trust to the future for the rest of 
 the story. 
 
 He began his soliloquy, and to his delight found it to 
 flow smoothly and easily: a sort of refrain ''Alone, 
 alone; all, all alone" gave a poetic melancholy which 
 charmed him. He wrote for some pages and then began 
 uneasily to fear that soliloquies in " Shakespeare " did not
 
 DITA. 51 
 
 generally last so long. He took down his favorite, and 
 patiently counted every word in one of Hamlet's longest 
 speeches, and on comparing it with the manuscript, found 
 it so much longer than he expected, that he ventured to 
 add yet another page to the expression of his heroine's 
 thoughts. The confidante had just broken in on her 
 meditations with " How, now, fair mistress?" or "Prithee, 
 lady " (he had not quite decided which), when Nannie 
 came running with a letter in her hand. 
 
 ''A letter for you, Andy," she said, "and there is a 
 shilling to pay. It is an Australian letter, and, I fear, 
 contains no good news, for it is not in your brother's writ- 
 ing, and it is sealed with black." 
 
 Andrew's face grew pale as he hurriedly took the letter. 
 
 "Pay the man," he said, giving her the money, and she 
 went. 
 
 Presently little Dita came in from the yard, very de- 
 murely carrying her sick doll; but when she saw Andrew's 
 face she threw it aside, and running up to him put her 
 arms round his neck, and clambered up into his lap. 
 
 "What is it? what is it, daddy?" she cried; but to her 
 surprise he put her gently down, and went up to his 
 room. Dita began to cry, she knew not why, and Nannie 
 came in to comfort her, but she would not let her go up 
 to disturb Andrew; she feared that some very bad news 
 had come, and her heart ached for her husband, for she 
 knew how dearly he had loved his brother. She took 
 Dita on her lap and dried her eyes, and told her stories to 
 allay her own anxiety. 
 
 At last Andrew came down, and his eyes were red as 
 though he had been weeping; he came up to her and pub 
 his hands on her shoulders and said 
 
 "I iiave had some wonderful news, Nannie; this letter 
 is from Level's lawyer." 
 
 " From his lawyer?" she said, wondcringly. 
 
 " Yes; he tells me that my poor .brother is dead." His 
 voice choked, and for a moment he could not go on; 
 then said, '' Oh, Nannie, I am so grieved!" 
 
 Nannie, with tender sympathy, stroked his hand, 
 whiie little Dita kissed and coaxed his leg. round which 
 she had wound her arms. Then, to Nannie's surprise, he 
 suddenly threw himself into a chair, and gave an odd little 
 Jauh.
 
 52 DITA. 
 
 " Something very wonderful has happened, wife. 
 Lovel has left mo everything he possessed. He made 
 liis will 'oeforo he was taken ill with fever, and 1 am his 
 heir." 
 
 "Poor Lovel! he always loved you beyond any one 
 else. So he leaves no widow, which is happy for her, 
 poor thing." 
 
 "He never was married," said Andrew sharply. 
 
 " No, love. I was onlv thinking a widow might have 
 been left." 
 
 " No; I am his sole heir his residuary legatee." 
 
 " You will l)e able to increase the business, Andy, and 
 have more help in the shop." 
 
 "Help in the shop! increase the business! No 
 more business for me; we shall be rich, and live in the 
 country." 
 
 Nannie clasped her hands in delight. 
 
 " In the country! Dita to be brought np in the sweet 
 country air, among daisies and roses and flowers; is it true, 
 Andy?" 
 
 "And cows and chickens and ducks," he added, half 
 laughing, and yet with a gasp. 
 
 " We shall live in some sweet little house with a garden, 
 Andy shall it not have a garden?" 
 
 But Andrew straightened himself in his chair, and 
 pulled up his stock, and said rather pompously 
 
 " No, my dear; in a great house with a park round 
 it. We shall be very rich; we shall have a great many 
 servants, and you will drive out in a carriage of your own, 
 and Dita shall learn to sing, and dance, and play on the 
 piano." 
 
 " And Fluff, daddy?" 
 
 "Fluff shall have a new collar, with silver bells." 
 
 " Airl. Jaqnes a new violin?" 
 
 " The best that can be found." 
 
 "And dolly?" 
 
 "Hush, Dita," said Nannie, rather solemnly, and 
 she put her hand into her husband's; he felt that she was 
 trembling. 
 
 " It frightens me," she said; " we are not born to these 
 things." 
 
 "I will teach you, Nannie,'* said Andrew, majestic-
 
 DITA. 53 
 
 ally; " I feel already as if my career were about to com- 
 mence." 
 
 "But you are so clever and I am so foolish," cried 
 Nannie, sobbing. 
 
 Andrew, kindly patting her shoulder, went on: " We 
 shall have between ten and twelve thousand a-year, and 
 there is a very large sum of ready money, with which my 
 poor brother had intended to buy an estate in the conn try, 
 and settle down as an English squire." 
 
 Nannie raised her head, and dried her eyes. 
 
 " It will be a great change," she said; "but how did 
 poor Lovel ever make such a fortune?" 
 
 " lie has had such good fortune as few have had," he 
 answered; ''and he was very clever; he knew when to 
 buy, and when to sell. The income we shall enjoy 
 comes from the large estates he has bought great sheep- 
 farms; and these are in very trustworthy hands, in which 
 he always meant to leave them when he came home." 
 
 " God help us to manage well!'' said Nannie, reverently. 
 Andrew said "Amen;" but his thoughts were in such a 
 whirl, and he was already building such castles in the 
 air, that he scarcely took in the fervor of her words. 
 
 Dita, longing to tell the news first to some one, had 
 slipped off Nannie's knee, and flown into the shop to 
 Jaques. 
 
 Some one was buying a book, and she had to stand im- 
 patiently waiting till the customer was gone; then she 
 climbed on to the counter, and began her story. 
 
 "Father no more shop we all going away to live with 
 ducks and the daisies." 
 
 Jaques looked bewildered, as well he might. 
 
 "Going away, miss," he repeated. "What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "We rich quite rich, and live with the ducks and 
 daisies; and Fluff have a silver bell, and you have a new 
 fiddle with paint all over it." 
 
 Jaques shook his head, and went on folding up the 
 books that he had sold in neat parcels, and directing them 
 with a pen which he took from behind his ear. She was 
 accustomed to his going on with his business while she 
 talked, and had just begun: "You must come, too, 
 Jaquy," when Andrew came into the shop, and briefly 
 told Jaques what had happened: he was touched by the
 
 &4 D1TA. 
 
 l.-ul's manner: Jaques's eyes filled with tears, and he 
 seized his master's hand, saying earnestly 
 
 "God bless yon. sir, wherever yon go! you have been 
 a good master to me." 
 
 A gentleman came into the shop and asked for a rare 
 edition of " Dante." Andrew did not quite know where 
 it was, but Jaques knew every book on the shelves, and 
 produced the copy required. This was no time for senti- 
 ment this busy time of year the middle of the London 
 Reason. 
 
 Nannie went about her work with her heart so full that 
 now and then the large tears rolled clown her cheeks: she 
 kept telling herself how glad and thankful she ought to 
 feel, and what a joy this new wealth would be; but the 
 responsibility seemed to outweigh the j >y, and her unfit- 
 ness for such responsibility made her dread it beyond 
 'measure. 
 
 When Andrew's last customers were gone, he leant 
 wearily against the -counter, while the ever-active Jaques 
 \vas putting up the shutters. 
 
 " I shall not sell another book, Jaques," he said. 
 
 Jiiqnes's eyes opened wide. 
 
 "Not one; those that remain will form the commence- 
 ment of a library for me." 
 
 " Oh, master, master!" cried Jaques, in an agony; 
 " why did yon let that ' Dante ' go?" 
 
 " I was a fool!" cried Andrew, striking his hand on the 
 table; "but I am bewildered and tired, Jaques, and it is 
 always in my head 
 
 " ' I never heard a passion so confused, 
 So strange, outrageous, and so variable, 
 As the dog Jew did utter in the streets: 
 My ducats O my brother O my ducats!' 
 
 First one, then t'other, I am up and down with joy and 
 grief like buckets in a well. To-morrow, Jaques, we will 
 write up that the shop is closed." 
 
 On the next day a notice to that effect was pasted all 
 over the closed shutters of the shop. 
 
 An old gentleman, or rather a man whom too much 
 study had prematurely aged, was passing by the door and 
 saw the notice. He knew of a treasure within that shop, 
 and trusted that no one from without knew of it but him- 
 self. He had his suspicions of Jaques, who knew Lh
 
 DITA. 55 
 
 Value of a book, Andrew was wont to say, by its very smell. 
 But Jaques had asked as high a price for this treasure (no 
 less than De Bry's Virginia in English) as he dared, trust- 
 ing with a trembling heart that Ins customer would find 
 it beyond his means, and that he might preserve it in the 
 shop. 
 
 The scholar had entered into a daily correspondence on 
 the subject, always coming in about five o'clock, looking 
 lovingly at the precious volume, offering a little more or a 
 little less, while Jaqnes stood respectfully by, with a beat- 
 ing heart, dreading every moment he might offer the sum 
 he himself had named. 
 
 Now on this bright June morning the scholar was pass- 
 ing by, and he saw the shop shut up. The perspiration 
 started out upon his brow an indescribable shiver passed 
 down his back and he precipitately rushed to the door. 
 
 A smile was on Jaques'sface a fiendish grin the scholar 
 termed it afterward as he told him with all courtesy that 
 the coveted treasure was no longer to be sold. 
 
 He gnashed his teeth; he offered sums of money that 
 made Jaques softly go and shut the back door. 
 
 He heard (he story with a bitter spirit that Fairdou 
 had succeeded to a fortune, and was determined to keep his 
 books to commence his own librarv. 
 
 " I will give any one anything they ask in future," he 
 said bitterly to himself, as he thrust his hat upon his 
 head, unwitting that he had brushed it all the wrong way, 
 "and never attempt to bargain again fool, fool that I 
 was!" 
 
 A friend met him and took his quivering arm, and 
 heard with composure the terrible story of his wrongs. 
 
 "Never mind, old boy!" he said, soothingly, ''keep 
 your eye on him; these sort of nouveaux riches constantly 
 c itne to grief, and you will get it for half the price." 
 
 It was sorry comfort, for Andrew Fairdon never came 
 to grief, and the scholar had a thorn rankling in his flesh, 
 as long as he should live on earth. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "I HAVE never told you one condition of our wealth, 
 Nannie," said Mr. Fairdoiv, a few days after UK arrival 
 of the wonderful news " we have to change our name."
 
 56 DITA. 
 
 "Indeed, Andy, it seems that our very skins will be 
 changed!" said his wife. " What new-fangled name 
 shall \ve have to adopt?" 
 
 "Lovel; it is in my poor brother's will. You have 
 heard me speak of Mr. Lovel who lived in Henrietta 
 Street; he was of very high family, though he was 111 
 trade, lie was my brother's godfather: my father had 
 done him a service once, and he was very kind to him 
 afterward. Somewhere about there is a mug which he 
 gave Lovel at his christening Dita might have it to use. 
 How shall you like to be Mrs. Lovel, wife?" 
 
 " I do not know, It does not come natural to a woman 
 of my age to be changing my name, like a new-married 
 girl." 
 
 "There is a great deal to think of, Nannie," said An- 
 drew, striking his brow; "first, for your part, you must 
 have some mourning." 
 
 " I have thought; of that, and can manage very well. 
 I have my black stuff as good new, and Dita can have one 
 like it, made of the same; then with a couple of black 
 and white prints each (I saw some pretty ones in a win- 
 dow this morning) .and a black ribbon to my bonnet, we 
 shall do very well." 
 
 Andrew solemnly seated himself, and drew a long 
 breath. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "you really must endeavor to 
 attune your mind to our change of circumstances. I 
 foresee difficulties, but if you try to please me, you will 
 overcome them in time, and acquire that elegance which 
 is indispensable in the wife of one who will henceforth 
 figure among the landed gentry. To begin with, you 
 may give your black gown all your gowns to Betty; 
 they are useless now." 
 
 " My dear " 
 
 "Have the goodness to listen to me. I, being a man, 
 do not of course know what your dress must be, but I do 
 know that yon should always wear silk and velvet or satin 
 on Sundays; and you must have low gowns for dinner." 
 
 "Never, never!" cried Nannie; "me in a low gown! 
 Oh, Andy, 1 would as soon come down without any gown 
 at all!" 
 
 "But all ladies of fashion do," said Andrew, rather 
 crossly.
 
 EITA, 5? 
 
 "But I am r.ot a lady; do not make me ridiculous. I 
 will wear silk us much as you like of an afternoon, and 
 merino, or something fine and soft, to muddle about in 
 of a morning; but a low gown! no." 
 
 "Well you will displease me very much if you do n<-t 
 make every effort to be iu your right place," said Anu:e\, ; 
 and Nannie's eyesfilled with tears. " And," he continued, 
 " there are several more things of importance to tell yoi 
 one is, that henceforth 1 shall cease to call you by the fa- 
 miliar Nannie, and you likewise must substitute Mr. 
 Lovel or Andrew for Andy: I shall call vouAnne. or 
 Mrs. Lovel." 
 
 ' I shall not know my own name," cried Nannie, pite- 
 ously. 
 
 " Yon are quite unreasonable, and will really vex me, 
 Mrs. Lovel," cried her husband. 
 
 Nannie, notwithstanding all her troubles, could not 
 help smiling at the name. " What are you laughing at?'' 
 he said, sharply. 
 
 "Indeed, deary, I only smiled at my own name; but I 
 will try to do all you wish," said she, humbly, coming up 
 and putting her hands on his; " only you must be patient 
 with me, honey, and not expect poor Nannie to become a 
 grand lady all at once." 
 
 He was restored to-good-humor, and said. " Well, my 
 dear, if you will do your best, I shall have no cause to be 
 ashamed of you." 
 
 The words jarred on Nannie's ear " Ashamed of her!" 
 would it really come to that? If he could admit the 
 possibility of such a feeling in his mind, some mischief 
 was already done. Oh, how in her heart of hearts she 
 hated the possession of Level's large fortune!" 
 
 Nannie was wise, and saw that in the matter of dress 
 she would please her husband by changing at once. So 
 she dressed little Perdita in a fresh white frock, and went 
 with her to a good dressmaker in Bond Street. 
 
 Mr-. Blunt was at home, and they were taken upstairs 
 into a show-room full of bonnets and caps and lace to 
 Di til's delight, 
 
 Mrs- Blunt was attending to a very magnificently 
 
 dressed lady with a pug in her arms; and nodding to Mrs. 
 
 Fairdon, she said, ' Sit down ma'am, and I'll come." As 
 
 .feat lady left the room, Nmjuie could, ijot help hear-
 
 58 DITA. 
 
 ing the dressmaker say in a loud whisper outside tho 
 door, " Mury Anne, why did you show the person in 
 here?" 
 
 Then Mrs. Blunt came back, and sitting down, said 
 
 " Well, and what can I do for you. ma'am?' 5 
 
 Poor Nannie's cheeks had become very red no one 
 could say what it was to her, this being out of her own 
 sphere; her good taste led her to be simple, and she told 
 her story. 
 
 " I have come to ask you to make me some gowns, 
 ma'am," she said. " We have been simple folks, but my 
 husband has inherited a large property, and wishes me to 
 dress becomingly; and I should be very much obliged to 
 you, ma'am, if you would advise me in what way to do 
 so." 
 
 The dressmaker was touched by the total absence of af- 
 fectation, and said, warmly, "Indeed, ma'am, I shall be 
 most happy, and I will do my very best for you and little 
 miss." 
 
 ' Yes," said Nannie, brightening, " I should like her 
 to be very well dressed mostly in white, I think, as we 
 are to live in the country." 
 
 The two women sat down together, and made out a list 
 which rather startled Nannie by its length. To her great 
 relief Mrs. Blunt told her that at her age she need not 
 wear a low gown, and promised her a conplo of suitable 
 ones for the evening, cut square and filled in with soft 
 muslin; and she went away with cordial thanks. 
 
 For the next few weeks Andrew was always coming 
 and going; lie was anxious to find a place which would 
 realize his idea of what, a country gentleman's seat 
 should be. 
 
 It was more difficult than he had imagined. Some were 
 too small, others not grand enough; some were- too 
 modern. His great wish was to have something old, feel- 
 ing as if the dignity of age would shed a borrowed luster 
 over himself. 
 
 Meanwhile Nannie counted every day a respite, and one 
 gained. She persuaded her husband not to bid her don 
 her new clothes till they should leave Edgar Street, and 
 he consented very reluctantly. She was singularly sen- 
 sitive to ridicule, and would have feared to pass her cwu 
 threshold into the familiar street.
 
 JHTA. 59 
 
 This was a sad time for Jaqucs: lie spent all his clays 
 among the books, poring over them, handling them lov- 
 ingly, touching and retouching the catalogue he had made 
 of them some time ago, and adding to it fresh comments 
 for he was aware that his master knew far less of their 
 merits than he did, and had always to resort to Brunet or 
 Lowndes for the information that he carried in his own 
 brain. He must leave them now must go out once more 
 into the world; for nine years he had lived in that shop 
 and he loved every dark corner in it. 
 
 It had been the custom for him always to join the little 
 family at supper; but of late he had asked for his portion, 
 and carried it away to eat by himself. There was a One 
 tact in Jaques, which only Nannie understood. 
 
 One morning Andrew was passing through the shop OR 
 his way out, when Jaques gently stopped him, saying 
 
 " I have heard of a new place, sir, and if you could 
 make it convenient I should be very glad if you would 
 give me a character." 
 
 Fairdon stopped it was on his tongue to say, " What 
 do you mean? I cannot part with you;" then his newly 
 acquired grandness came uppermost; a recollection of ob- 
 sequious upholsterers and bowing tailors, who waited on 
 his pleasure in a very different manner from the straight- 
 forward address of the lad. So he siMd, grandly 
 
 "I shall be most happy, Danby: step into Mr?. Level's 
 sitting-room and bring me a pen and paper." Jaques had 
 not been called Danby for nine years, but he did as he was 
 told, without a word. 
 
 Andrew drew off the gloves which he had taken to 
 wearing, and laying his fine silk umbrella on the counter, 
 Le began to write. He could write but slowly, for he was 
 practicing a large manly hand that should look thoroughly 
 unbusiness-like, and becoming to a landed proprietor. 
 
 Having finished it, he gave it to Jaques with a smile 
 that he considered bland, and left the shop. Jaques 
 looked wistfully after him before he took his hat down 
 from its old familiar peg, and went off with his letter. 
 
 Andrew came home in great glee that evening. He 
 had heard, from the land-agent whom he was employing, 
 of a place which he thought would suit him to perfection 
 a beautiful old place in one of the loveliesgfe counties of 
 England. He could talk of nothing else of its large
 
 60 DITA. 
 
 deer-park and beautiful trees of an old oak-paneled hall 
 and library and of the neighborhood, which was sup- 
 posed to l)e exceptionally good. 
 
 They were sitting late over their supper, still talking 
 over the glories of Salford Abbey, when there came a gen- 
 tle knock at the door, and Jaqaes came in. 
 
 ' You are busy/' he said, and would have withdrawn, 
 but Dita sprang from her seat and ran up to him. 
 
 "Jaquy, you not go away!" she cried "come in 
 come in!" and lifting Flu if off the seat he occupied, she 
 pushed Jaqnes into it, and deposited the little dog ii: his 
 lap. 
 
 But Jaques saw no welcome in his master's eye, and he 
 began hastily, "No, miss, dear no." The bitterness 
 would not be all hid, and he continued, "I have no wel- 
 come here now, but I thought I might take the liberty 
 that is, I thought you would like to know, sir, that I 
 have got the place, and am to go to it on Tuesday week." 
 
 "I hope it is a good place, my lad," said Andrew, ma- 
 jestically, " and as comfortable as you deserve." 
 
 Nannie turned away her head to hide her tears. Pita 
 looked very much puzzled; she again moved Fluff, and in 
 spite of Jaqnes's efforts to the contrary, began to climb 
 up into his lap. 
 
 " Go away go where, Jaquy?" stroking his troubled 
 face with her little hand. 
 
 " It is you who will go away, and will leave Jaques," 
 said the lad. 
 
 "No, no, no, no," said the child; "Jaquy must come 
 with me and Fluff. Daddy, Jaquy must come." 
 
 Jaques put her down and ran away; he would not let 
 them see the tears running down his cheeks. Dita would 
 not be comforted she cried and sobbed till they did not 
 know what to do with her. " I must have Jaquy I must 
 have Jaquy and Fluff." 
 
 Andrew fought hard against his better self to keep up 
 his dignity, and to be firm and inflexible; but Dita's tears 
 and entreaties prevailed, and he promised her that she 
 should not be separated from Jaques. 
 
 " I will make him my private secretary, wife, and he 
 can look after the library and buy books," snid he. 
 
 Nannie slipped out of the room, and found Jaques 
 gobbing iu his little room; his delight and gratitude at
 
 DITA. 61 
 
 hearing the good news were indescribable; he should not 
 have to leave his beloved books, but be able to collect 
 others; and, above all, he should not be parted from ins 
 beloved little lady, and the kind woman who had been 
 like a mother to him. 
 
 When Nannie had comforted him, she went back to 
 Dita, whom she found Bitting on the floor, hugging her 
 dog. . Fluff was coiled up in her lap, unwitting that 
 from his humble position he had become a landed dog. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 AXDREW did not express the wish of his heart in 
 words, which was that Nannie would leave the purchase 
 of the house in his hands, without seeing it, or express- 
 ing any opinion as to its desirability. He knew that she 
 would do all in her power to make him adopt a humbler 
 and more modest style of life, and this he was determined 
 not to do. 
 
 Nannie, however, perceived his wish, as she always did. 
 
 " Andrew, love, never mind me in settling it all. 
 Though you know what I would like best, I am quite 
 ready to think it all beautiful; so just you go your own 
 way, and let it be a surprise to me." 
 
 "I think that is a wise decision," said he; "these 
 things are more in my line than yours." 
 
 "Just tell me," she said, "who the people are that 
 are selling it, dear; and why, if it is such an old place, 
 they don't keep it for themselves?" 
 
 " The people are called Norton," he answered. " Sir 
 John Norton has just died, and the estate becomes the 
 property of his son Sir Edward, who is only a boy. Sir 
 John was so deeply in debt that everything had to be sold, 
 and the place was not entailed, so it went also. The 
 widow and Sir Edward Norton have an income of about 
 1500 a-year; they are to live in her dower house, the 
 Grange, which is about five miles from the park gates." 
 
 " What park gates, love?" 
 
 " The lodge of Salford Abbey." 
 
 " And what have you done about furniture?" 
 
 "I have ordered it all to be bought as it stands; but 
 Lady Norton, of course, has a great many things of her
 
 62 DITA. 
 
 own, and all of these have been moved to the Grange, so 
 we shall have some things to buy." 
 
 " Well, let me know, by-ahd-by, in good time to pack 
 for the flitting,," said Nannie, "and I Avill not trouble 
 you with more questions." 
 
 "The flitting indeed! I must beg. Mrs. Level, that 
 you will not pack anything. The tables and chairs here 
 are not fit for the scullery of Salford Abbey. Everything 
 must begin brand-new. Mr. Smith has undertaken to 
 engage servants for the whole establishment." 
 
 Nannie gave a little gasp. " How many must we have?" 
 
 " Here is the list." 
 
 " A lady's maid! what can I do with a grand lady to 
 wait on me?" 
 
 " Why, let her wait on you, to be sure." 
 
 "Ah, well, she can help me with making Dita's things." 
 
 It was on the point of Andrew's tongue to say " You 
 must never make anything more for JDita;" but he sup- 
 pressed the words, comforting himself by thinking that 
 it would look maternal and interesting; but to poor Nan- 
 nie it seemed that everything tlu>t she said or did was 
 wrong: how should she teach herself? She took away the 
 list to think over and study. 
 
 In the kitchen Dita and Jaques were sitting, the former 
 making her slave tell her stories of the possessions she 
 would soon call her own; of a pony to ride, and swans to 
 feed, cows to see milked, and flowers to pick. They were 
 all living in a world of unreality, and Nannie began to 
 long for the crisis to be over. 
 
 Up to the present time, about once a year, Master Mal- 
 colm had written from Dunmonaigh, asking for news of 
 Assunta's child, whom he always called by the ceremoni- 
 ous name of Margaret Grisekla, unwitting that her adopted 
 parents had changed her name; and Andrew had been very 
 careful always in keeping up the illusion. The fact that 
 any one should know that his little Dita had been taken 
 by'him from the workhouse, was indescribably galling to 
 him in his new circumstances; and when the annual 
 letter arrived, he saw a way of cutting off the inquiries of 
 the Minister, and causing him to lose sight of them alto- 
 gether, as he carefully abstained from answering it, and 
 left a commission with a neighbor to write after lie had 
 quitted Edgar Street, and say that Mr. Fairdon and his
 
 DITA. 63 
 
 family had left the neighborhood that they had assumed 
 another name on inheriting a considerable property, and 
 had left no address. The Minister was thus compelled to 
 give up all intercourse with them, and it seemed as if 
 every tie was cut off between Perdita and her native 
 country. 
 
 At last the great day came: little Dita was wild with 
 excitement and delight, Andrew more pompous than ever, 
 and poor Mrs. Lovel (for she had now fairly adopted her 
 new name) quite shaky and tremulous. No one knew 
 what it cost her to be dressed by the weeping Betty in that 
 black silk gown which looked as if it might stand alone, 
 in the black lace shawl and feathered bonnet; but the 
 dress became her well, and the good taste of the dress- 
 maker having come to her aid, she looked quite as she 
 should do, and was free from superfluous trimmings. 
 
 Dita was all in white, with daisies in her hat. The 
 child had an innate look of noble race; and the difference 
 of dress did not alter her appearance. 
 
 It was settled that Mr. Lovel and Jaques should start 
 first, and that Mrs. Lovel and Dita should follow by a 
 train two hours later; thus Andrew could see that all was 
 ready for their reception. He was very anxious that she 
 should be pleased more anxious than, he cared to show, 
 or even to allow to himself. 
 
 Nannie was met at the London station by a footman, 
 who touched his hat and told her that he had taken their 
 places. She would fain have carried her own bag, but it 
 was civilly taken from her, and sho followed in haste into 
 the station. 
 
 It was a comfort when she, and the child, and Fluff 
 were safe in the train, and the footman had given her the 
 tickets. Dita could not sit still; she went from one win- 
 dow to another, and chattered, and felt certain that every 
 station they passed must be the right one. 
 
 At last the long-expected name was shouted Langford 
 Junction and the footman threw open the door. A 
 small private omnibus with a pretty brown horse was 
 stan il ing outside. 
 
 " From Salford?" asked the man; and on hearing the 
 answer in the aftimative, handed in Mrs. Lovel, and went 
 back for the luggage. The coachman did not wait: the 
 little omnibus was whirled away, and poor Nannie held
 
 64 DITA. 
 
 Dita's hand fast in her nervousness, infecting the sensi- 
 tive child with something like her own sensations. 
 
 Meanwhile, the footman, sorting his luggage, was ac- 
 iosted by a very grand lady, who asked him, condescend- 
 ingly, what was waiting to take her to Salford Abbey. 
 She told him that she was the new housekeeper, and was 
 expected to arrive by this train. Going out of the sta- 
 tion, Eobert was astonished and dismayed by finding that 
 the omnibus was gone and a brougham waiting; he saw 
 the mistake he had made, perceiving that the brougham 
 must have come for the lady, and the omnibus for the 
 housekeeper. However, it was too late to remedy the mis- 
 take, and Mrs. Poole got into the brougham and started 
 on her drive. 
 
 Andrew and Jaques were waiting at the window watch- 
 ing for the travelers to come: when the omnibus came 
 into view they were astonished that it should have started 
 first. A footman came and told Andrew that Mrs. Poole 
 had arrived, and had brought Miss Lovel with her: they 
 had been shown into the housekeeper's room. 
 
 Andrew's heart misgave him, and bidding Jaques fol- 
 low, he went down stairs, and found Nannie very much 
 bewildered, not knowing where she was. The servants 
 who were present did not know which way to look, but 
 Nannie tranquilly took Dita's hand, aud followed her hus- 
 band up stairs; but she knew iu her heart that it was an 
 unfortunate beginning. 
 
 Salford Abbey retained much of its monastic character. 
 It was a large, low house, built round a square court filled 
 with grass, and having in the center a stone well. The 
 passages round this court had been cloisters, and their 
 beautiful tracery had been kept in very good order, and 
 vas greatly admired. Glass windows closed the arches 
 now, and glass doors opened on to the grass. The en- 
 trance into the front of the house was by a low door cov- 
 ered thickly with ivy: it darkened the window which gave 
 light to the long, narrow, stone lobby into which it opened, 
 so that the first effect on entering was one of darkness and 
 gloom. This lobby ended in a low arch, before which 
 hung a fine tapestry portiere, and from thence you emerged 
 into what had formerly been the refectory, and was now a 
 large hall the full height of the house. This hall was the 
 great beauty of Salford. It was paneled with black
 
 DITA. 65 
 
 and decorated with old armor and banners; over the chim- 
 ney-piece was a fine trophy of arms, and the straight- 
 backed oak chairs were all covered with heraldic shields. 
 Andrew Lovel had indeed achieved his wish to become 
 possessor of an old feudal place. On one side of the hall 
 was a row of low square windows which looked into the 
 cloisiers, and formerly opened into them, but were now 
 filled with glass; each of these windows had a seat ot most 
 inviting character. A great oak table in the center of the 
 hall was covered with flowers, and fine pots of pyramidal 
 azaleas stood in the corners. 
 
 The hall was lighted by a great window in the east wall, 
 filled with armorial bearings in stained glass. 
 
 Doors from the hall led to the more modern part of the 
 house to the drawing-rooms, and the dining-room 
 which was paneled with oak like the hall. 
 
 Xannie looked round and felt her heart sink, as it had 
 never sunk before; in her happiest dreams she had thought 
 of bright sunny rooms, clean crackling chintzes, lace anti- 
 maccassars, and glittering chandeliers; but how unlike 
 this was to what she had exj-c-cted! A weight seemed to 
 have fallen upon her; those dreadful black walls, this 
 great resounding place it oppressed her; she felt as if she 
 never could be her own self there. It was better when 
 the housemaid came to take her up to her own room. 
 She left Dita with her husband, and followed the kmu- 
 looking Ann. 
 
 The staircase was of oak also, and very slippery, and 
 Nannie had to hold fast by the banisters. Her room was 
 in front of the house, looking over an expanse of green 
 park with fine trees. It was very grand, she felt, but she 
 found that one of the little rooms opening into it was to 
 be Dita's, and this was so dainty and pretty, all white 
 dimity and rosebuds, that she could think no more of the 
 gloom of the four-post bed with its canopy of yellow silk. 
 
 Ann was lingering about with a pained look on a most 
 comely face, when it suddenly struck Mrs. Lovel what she 
 was longing to say, but could not get out. 
 
 She put her hand on the woman's shoulder, and said, 
 "Xever mind; I do not at all wonder at your taking me 
 for the housekeeper you will know me now." 
 
 She could not help her jes filling with tears. Ann wag 
 much touched.
 
 66 DITA. 
 
 "Ob, ma'am, if I could only tell you how sorry I am." 
 "You need not mind," said Nannie, smiling an April 
 smile; "you see I have been in a bumble position in life, 
 and now tbat I am no longer young enough to change in 
 everything, God has seen fit to send us great wealth so I 
 cannot hope to be like my husband, who is, as one may 
 say, born to it; but don't fret any more, and do your duty 
 by me, as I will try to do mine by you." Ann went away, 
 her mistress's friend for life. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE next morning was brilliantly fine, the dew spark- 
 ling in the sun, When Mrs. Lovel rose, she threw open 
 her windows, and stood enchanted by the beauty of the 
 sweet, fresh country. The park was very undulating, the 
 road crossed it for about half a mile, and then lost itself 
 in woods. Near the house stood some large tree?, at the 
 entrance of a shrubbery, and under them the turf was of 
 that thick velvety texture which no turf that is not very 
 old will ever attain. 
 
 Nannie went in to call Dita; the child was tired with 
 her journey, and still slept very soundly, with her round 
 arms clasped over her head. Nannie woke her with many 
 kisses, and she sat up rubbing her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, mammie, how pretty you look!" she cried; and 
 Nannie found some pleasure in her pink dressing-gown, 
 as the child admired it so much. 
 
 When she was dressed and had flown to the window with 
 a cry of delight, Nannie felt a feeling of happiness that 
 she had not known for a long time. It was delightful to 
 be once more in the beautiful country. 
 
 When breakfast was over, Andrew said that the agent, 
 Mr. Smith, was corning to see him; and he advised Mrs. 
 Lovel to enter into a thorough examination of the house 
 from head to foot. So Nannie's first day in her new home 
 was a busy and pleasant one. 
 
 She summoned the housekeeper, who accompanied her 
 on her rounds; and they opened every door and every cup- 
 board, examined wardrobes and chests of drawers, looked 
 into the condition of the stores, and were thoroughly 
 busy.
 
 DITA. 67 
 
 After luncheon, which was a terrible ordeal to Mrs. 
 Lovel, Andrew took them out, and they visited the beauti- 
 ful old-fashioned garden, with its yew-hedges and flower- 
 beds, inlaid in green turf. They would have enjoyed this 
 but for the gardener, who insisted on taking them over 
 the whole place, and into every greenhouse and hothouse, 
 gathering a splendid nosegay for Mrs. Lovel, and present- 
 ing it to her with an air as if all he surveyed was his 
 own. 
 
 The man did not look happy; in his heart he was very 
 sad, for every one in the place had loved the Nortons, and 
 the change was bitter. Nannie felt this instinctively, 
 and shrank more into herself. 
 
 When she was tired with her unwonted exertions, she 
 went home with Andrew, and Dita and Jaques and Fluff 
 continued their explorations. They went across the park, 
 and looked down into the lovely little trout-stream, so 
 clear and swift, and followed it into the woods, where 
 the silence was only broken by a chorus of birds and in- 
 sects; and the smells of the bracken and wild-flowers 
 almost intoxicated the little town-bred child. 
 
 As time passed on a trouble came on Nannie, of which 
 she had never dreamt in her experience; this was that 
 most devouring of troubles ennui: she had nothing to 
 do. After breakfast the cook would come for orders, and 
 stay for perhaps ten minutes; then she took Dita out for 
 a walk; but she was unused to walking, and got easily 
 tired, and by eleven o'clock was glad to leave the child 
 with her maid, and go home. Her own sitting-room was 
 very pretty and sunny, and furnished with pleasant books; 
 but she had no habit of reading, and her eyes were not 
 so good as 'they used to be, and she wearied of her books. 
 Andrew had bought her a fine piece of worsted-work, but 
 she felt as if it would never be finished, and hated tne 
 regular pattern. She had no 'other resources. Oh for 
 one morning of hearty scrubbing and washing up! She 
 used to sing gayly at her work^ with an eye on Dita's 
 perilous amusements in the yard all the time. Oil to see 
 Andrew once more in his black apron, struggling with 
 difficult rhymes! His poetical irritability then was noth- 
 ing to iy?r: very different from the constant finding fault 
 now, wnich only served to make her shy and awkward. 
 
 In these days Nannie's soft hair turned very gray, and
 
 68 DITJL. ' . 
 
 her voice, from its old cheery sweetness, acquired a weak- 
 ness in tone, and she spoke low, as those do who often cry 
 by themselves in secret. 
 
 One of the most painful of the ordeals through which 
 Mrs. Lovel had to puss was the visits of the neighboring 
 families; for Andrew was so anxious that she should please 
 them that it made her painfully nervous. 
 
 One day, about six months after they had been settled 
 at Salford, a large party arrived, consisting of a neighbor- 
 ing landowner's wife, Mrs. Lee Aston, and her daughter, 
 and a party of guests who were staying with them, who 
 had wished to see Salford Abbey. 
 
 Nannie's heart sank within her when she saw how many 
 there were. They were shown into the drawing-room, 
 and her nervousness was so great that she could get out 
 nothing but monosyllables. 
 
 Andrew was strolling about in the garden in a studied 
 country gentleman's dress, and she received them alone. 
 
 The Lee Astons came expecting to be amused, and 
 Andrew, when he came in, satisfied their fullest expecta- 
 tions. It Beemed to Nannie that they were drawing him 
 out, for he had never appeared to so little advantage. He 
 took them round the old rooms and the cloister, pomp- 
 ously telling them the history of the place, which they 
 knew far better than he did. 
 
 One of the party was a tall grave man, who seemed as if 
 he did not enter into the joking and laughter of the 
 younger people: he left Andrew to go round with his 
 guests, and stayed behind with Mrs. Lovel. 
 
 "Have you met my sister-in-law yet, Mrs. Lovel?" he 
 said. 
 
 "I do not know," she answered, "for I do not know 
 your name." 
 
 He smiled. "I am Mr. Norton," he said; "Lady 
 Norton is my sister-in-law, and I am the guardian to the 
 boy." 
 
 " It seems very hard that this place should have left its 
 rightful owner," said Nannie. He looked at her sharply, 
 and then said kindly, "I am very glad that it has fallen 
 into your hands. I wanted to ask a great favor of your 
 husband, and that is, to allow my nephew to fish in the 
 trout-stream. He is fond of fishing, and being home from 
 Eton for the holidays, it will be a great resource to him."
 
 DHA. , 69 
 
 "I am sure Andr Mr. Lovel will be honored, delighted 
 I mean poor young gentleman." 
 
 " Lady Norton would cull on you, I know, but she nat- 
 urally shrinks from returning here under such different 
 circumstances. There are a great many of the poor people 
 in whom she is much interested, and about whom it would 
 be the greatest comfort to her to talk to you. I wonder if 
 I might ask you to call upon her?" 
 
 "If she would allow me if she would not think it a 
 liberty I should be very glad." 
 
 The door opened and Dita bounded in, followed by her 
 little dog. On seeing the stranger she stopped, and 
 assumed a demure pace. It would be difficult to imagine 
 a prettier sight than this child, with her great rare dark 
 eyes and the floating cloud of golden hair, which made her 
 like a fairy child. 
 
 Mr. Norton held out his hand, and she went up to him 
 with a natural grace all her own. 
 
 " Your little girl, Mrs. Lovel?" he said, inquiringly. 
 
 "Yes, our little daughter," answered Nannie, stroking 
 down the wild hair lovingly. 
 
 Mr. Norton felt surprised that anything so refined and 
 fairy-like should have been born of humble parents; but 
 he s'aid no more, and the rest of the party returning, they 
 took their leave. 
 
 They were driving through the woods when Miss Lee 
 Aston cried out 
 
 "Oh, look, mamma, there is an odd figure!" 
 
 Against a tall shadowy birch-tree stood Jaques with 
 his violin in his hand waiting till the carriage should have 
 passed, before he resumed the music his soul loved. 
 Jaque's large hands and feet, his uncouth face, which 
 looked rough-hewn and not finished off, caused an irre- 
 sistible laugh. He heard, and even in his gentle soul 
 arose a feeling of bitterness; but he comforted himself by 
 the wildest and most fantastic maneuver on his pet violin. 
 
 One day Dita came running into her mother's room 
 with her face full of the excitement of news. 
 
 "Mammie, there's a 'itthe boy fishing may I speak to 
 him? oh, mammie, may I?" 
 
 Mrs. Lovel looked at her flushed, eager little face, and 
 seeing how much it would delight her, consented: the boy 
 could be no other than Edward Norton. Jaques wag
 
 70 , , DITA. 
 
 away in London transacting business for Andrew^ ind 
 Dita was without playmates. Away she danced with 
 Fluff at her heels, far outstripping the sober pace of her 
 maid. 
 
 The boy sitting on the edge of the stream in the wood 
 looked up at her with a furious frown as she danced up to 
 him; she was so taken aback that her poor little face fell 
 piteonsly: he saw it, for he turned round and said - 
 
 "Never mind, you've frightened him away, and he 
 won't come back: what do you want?" 
 
 . But Dita was quite subdued, she only crept a little 
 nearer and hung her head. 
 
 " Well, out with it, little un." 
 
 Dita's courage came back as fast as it was gone, and she 
 sat down by him, and lot a piece of string she held in her 
 hand go into the water. 
 
 " I fish," she said. 
 
 " You are a funny little thing," said the boy, who was 
 about twelve years old, and very handsome. "What is 
 your name?" 
 
 " Dita," she said. " I caught a fish," and she drew 
 out a dead leaf. 
 
 "Would you like to see my fish?" said the boy; and 
 opening his basket he showed to her wondering eyes the 
 glittering silvery back of a pretty trout; but alas! the sight 
 proved too exciting for the inquisitive nature of Fluff; he 
 darted forward, and would have thrust his nose into the 
 basket, when a sharp push from the boy thrust him back. 
 Fluff was a clumsy spoilt pet; he rolled over, gave a little 
 squeak, and subsided into the trout-stream. 
 
 "Oh, Fluff!" shrieked Dita. 
 
 " Be quiet," said the boy; "he will swim all right," 
 and he stood for a moment watching; then he saw to his 
 consternation that Fluff's superabundant coat was pulling 
 him down, that the hair covered his bead-like eyes, and 
 that he was fighting with his paws above his head instead 
 of below him. He stretched out a branch, but Fluff took 
 no notice. Dita stood motionless with her little hands 
 clasped together in despair. There was no time to lose, 
 and the boy jumped into the water, and waded after the 
 poor pet, catching him up just in time to save his life. 
 
 He carried him out, and Dita received Fluff wringing
 
 n 
 
 wet as he was into her lap and covered him with kisses and 
 tears. 
 
 "You must run home," said the boy, standing dripping 
 beside her; "and change your things, or you, will catch 
 cold " 
 
 "Come home too," said Dita, rising and pulling his 
 hand; but the boy drew it away roughly, and said with 
 bitterness 
 
 "Not I it is your home now, not mine." 
 
 " Shall you be here to-morrow, boy?" said Dita. 
 
 " Yes, I will come and see whether you have caught 
 cold." 
 
 Dita held up her face to be kissed, and then trotted 
 away with Fluff in her arms, meeting her terrified maid on 
 her way. 
 
 Just as they reached the door, Mr. Lovel came out and 
 met them. His consternation was great on seeing the 
 dripping condition of the child; her frock, everything in 
 a deplorable condition, and he severely scolded the maid 
 for losing sight of her charge, while Dita flew away to tell 
 her story to " mammie." The little adventure bore im- 
 portant fruits. Dita must no longer run wild; her edu- 
 cation must begin. For one more happy unshackled 
 mouth the child was free, getting into innumerable scrapes, 
 and always spending a thoroughly happy part of the day 
 with Edward Xorton, who initiated her into all sorts of 
 enchanting amusements, taught her to climb trees and to 
 wade in the water, to know the names of the trees and 
 flowers, to fish for hours with a crooked pin, to build moss- 
 houses, etc. The country-bred boy found the greatest 
 amusement in teaching this sweet little Cockney all the 
 commonest knowledge of country life. Then the holidays 
 came to an end, and Edward went off to his work, and 
 Dita was caught up like a wild colt from the grass to be 
 tamed and broken-in to harness. A governess arrived 
 a parcel of lesson-books, a piano and some globes; and one 
 snug little room with windows opening into the cloister 
 was turned into a schoolroom. 
 
 The old life in Edgar Street, Soho, had completely 
 passed away so completely that no one but the Lovels 
 and Jaques knew that Dita was not their child. This was 
 Andrew's strong wish, and Nannie was not experienced 
 enough to see that it might )ad *> embarrassment in
 
 72 DITA. 
 
 the future. When Dita was about twelve years old, she 
 told her the outline of her parents' history, suppressing 
 their names; and she was glad to have done so, as at 
 that age the revelation was nothing compared to what 
 it might have been in the future. It was curious to see 
 the hereditary peculiarities developing themselves in 
 the girl's character; the enthusiasm and strong powers of 
 loving and disliking of her mother's race the chivalrous 
 loyalty from her father. There was danger that she might 
 become too romantic, too exalte; but her faithful Jaqnes 
 proved the best educator she could have. He directed her 
 enthusiasm aright; he fed her imagination with truth, at 
 once encouraging and restraining it; hours together she 
 spent with him reading the books he chose for her. In 
 vain the conventional governess appealed to Mrs. Lovel 
 against this; she would not listen. She saw that there 
 was a necessary craving in Dita's existence for the great 
 and chivalrous and beautiful things, and the wonderful 
 tact and sympathy with which nature had endowed the 
 uncouth Jaques taught this also to him: this want must 
 be fed, or Dita would look round her for what she wanted, 
 and in her nearest and dearest would learn and mark its 
 absence. Her character developed slowly: she was gener- 
 ous and unselfish, full of sweetness and high religious tone; 
 and though the time came (and Jaques alone knew that it 
 must come) when she awoke to the fact that the parents 
 whom she loved so very dearly were not such as she was, 
 never by word or gesture, never even by admitting it to 
 herself, did she betray it. She loved them perhaps all the 
 more that the feeling roused up a feeling of protection of 
 them from the whole world. 
 
 Dita grew and shot up; her long golden hair was woven 
 into plaits, and she wore a pinafore. Each time that Ed- 
 ward Norton came home from school, he saw less of her, 
 and pronounced her quite spoilt, and no fun: finally he 
 never saw her at all, and she passed on through the last 
 stages of her schoolroom life. 
 
 A still greater change had come over her gentle mother. 
 As year passed after year it took away a little more life, 
 a little more energy. She was fading, very, very slowly 
 imperceptibly to all but Jaques, who through life had been 
 her confidant, and who loved her dearly. He saw the refine- 
 ment of ill-health stealing over her; he did not mistake the
 
 DITA. ?3 
 
 transparency of her hands for the delicacy produced by the 
 life of a fine lady; and that she was always lying on the 
 sofa more and more, told its own tale to him. Andrew 
 was either too absorbed or would not understand. Nan- 
 nie was fading early while still in the prime of life: she 
 was not clever, she was not strong, and the transplanting 
 had wounded the tender little fibers, without which the 
 life of the strongest plant grows faint. 
 
 Jaques lived with his mother in a pretty cottage just he- 
 hind the garden; they lived humbly but very happily. 
 Under his care the Salford library was becoming a rare 
 and valuable one, and it flattered Andrew's vanity so much 
 that learned men should write to him and ask for the 
 favor of seeing his books, that in this one particular he 
 permitted himself extravagance, and Jaques reveled in 
 the works his carte-Han die enabled him to procure. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "YES, she's a stunner!" pronounced Mr. John Lee 
 Aston, commonly called Jack, the second son of the Lee 
 Aston family. 
 
 A voice of a different caliber answered him coldly, 
 "Whatever Miss Lovel may be, there is no standing the 
 father." 
 
 "Money covers a multitude of sins," said Jack, laugh- 
 ing; "but there is no trace of the parvenue about the 
 fair Perdita she is the prettiest creature I ever saw; and 
 as for manners, I have never seen her equal." 
 
 "She was a very pretty child," answered Sir Edward 
 Norton. "But I have been abroad so long that I have 
 only a slight recollection of her features; and only a strong 
 recollection of that ass, her father, peppering me in the 
 legs when your governor asked him to shoot in your 
 coverts. I suppose he has not killed any one since?" 
 
 "He has never handled a gun since, poor old boy. I 
 shall never forget his face when you tumbled down; it 
 took half the nonsense out of him at a blow, and they say 
 he is much improved." 
 
 "Well, then, my misfortune has proved good fortune 
 for others, for he used to carry his gun like a walking- 
 stick. I insured my life before I accepted your invitation
 
 74 DITA. 
 
 to stay here for this ball, as I thought you would want me 
 to walk through the turnips to-morrow." 
 
 "I wish your mother would have come." 
 
 " She is very happy at the Grange with my uncle; and 
 she drives over nearly every day to see Mrs. Lovel it is 
 the most wonderful infatuation." 
 
 " Is she not a great invalid?" 
 
 " That is what it is: it is partly a sort of charity visit, 
 though I confess my mother is devoted to her." 
 
 "You will see the heiress to-night," said Jack. 
 
 " What! is she coming here?" 
 
 "Yes, it is her first ball." 
 
 " Hum!" Sir Edward gave a sort of growl and lighted 
 a cigar; Jack followed his example, saying as he did so, 
 hesitatingly 
 
 " Ahem a I suppose it would not really stand in a 
 fellow's way?" 
 
 " What?! don't understand." 
 
 "Those sort of parents want of family and birth; it's 
 a confounded nuisance when everything else is so desir- 
 able." 
 
 "Do you wish for the young lady, or her money?" said 
 Norton, coldly. 
 
 " Both," said the other. "I don't know exactly that 
 I should have chosen a daughter of Andrew Lovel as a 
 wife but for the money; but, by Jove! I never would 
 marry money unless I cared very much for the possessor." 
 
 " DoSDt thou marry for munny, but go8 wheer munny is," 
 
 said Norton, blowing a cloud of blue smoke into the air. 
 " Well, you are wiser than I am; the fact of a young lady 
 being possessed of a large fortune makes me fight shy of 
 her acquaintance. I have seen enough of that," he added, 
 bitterly. 
 
 Edward Norton was very proud, and it had reached his 
 ears that people coupled his name with the .heiress's, and 
 planned the return of the old place to the rightful family 
 through this marriage. Even his mother had once im- 
 prudently given a very slight hint to that effect, which 
 had been taken with the rapid swerve of a shying 
 thorough-bred. He was far from pleased at hearing that 
 he was to be under the same roof with this lady for two 
 or three davs.
 
 DITA. 75 
 
 " This is the last visit I mean to pay," he said, decid- 
 edly. "I must go to London and buckle-to. If a fellow 
 has bis own way to m:ike in the world, he must not waste 
 time, Jnit plod along the road to fortune." 
 
 " 1 have the same road before me," said Jack, kicking 
 a pebble out of his way. 
 
 " But you seem inclined to take a short cut, Jack." 
 "It saves a long, dry, dusty grind with one leap." 
 "Well, I wish you good hick. Shall we go in? It 
 must be five o'clock, and I must take off my boots before 
 joining the ladies." 
 
 Edward Norton threw away his cigar and went up 
 stairs. His handsome dark face was overcast and gloomy 
 as he pulled off his- boots and threw them viciously across 
 the room. It was unbearable that the very first thing 
 that happened on returning to his own country, should 
 be the overthrow of his plans for carefully avoiding any 
 intercourse with the inhabitants of his old home. He 
 imagined to himself that the object of Jack Lee Aston's 
 admiration must be a blooming, rosy girl, stout and fair- 
 haired, with all the want of refinement to be expected 
 from one of Andrew's race. It was some years since they 
 had met. The later Eton holidays, and all Oxford vaca- 
 tions, had been spent by Sir Edward with his uncle, Mr. 
 Norton, and abroad with his mother. Lady Norton had 
 encouraged him to be very much with his uncle: she 
 feared lest the haughty and somewhat imperious spirit of 
 her son would be marred for want of a father's authority. 
 In some ways Mr. Norton was the best guardian he could 
 have, but by no means in all. He was a cold man, just 
 and upright, and gained his nephew's strong esteem; but 
 he had almost as strong a share of the hereditary family 
 pride as Sir Edward himself, and involuntarily encour- 
 aged it in the boy. No one guessed how bitterly Edward 
 regretted Salford. Like most imaginative people, he had 
 a passionate love for home. Lady Norton, a kind-hearted 
 but rather weak woman, found herself unable to cope 
 with her son's faults, so she contented herself with draw- 
 ing out and strengthening his merits, and consoled her- 
 self with the thought that these faults were those of a 
 generous-minded but untamed nature, and that rough 
 contact with the world would tone them down. Her one 
 injudicious hint about Dita Lovel had rankled in her
 
 76 DITA. 
 
 mind; he looked upon his mother's friendship for Mrs. 
 Lovel as an infatuation; and so sensitive was he on the 
 subject of the Level's that he was half inclined to think 
 that all were combined in a conspiracy to compel him to 
 marry the heiress. A kind of stiff shyness made him 
 blush as he walked down stairs, and feel furious that he 
 was doing so. There was a great deal of laughing and 
 chattering going on in the dravving-roon. Meta Lee 
 Aston, a yomng lady no longer young, was. seated at the 
 piano with all the younger members of the party round 
 her, they were trying to sing a glee, "Let -the bumper 
 toast go round," and enjoying the mistakes they made. 
 
 Mrs. Lee Aston, Miss Ashbdrn, her elder sister, and 
 Mrs. Arthur, the eldest son's wife, were seated round the 
 tea-table. 
 
 Sir Edward possessed himself of the "Pall Mall," and 
 sank into a large arm-chair by a reading-lamp. 
 
 Tiie singing continued. " Here's a health to all good 
 lasses " in a shrill treble all out of place; and a very un- 
 certain bass began something about a bumper toast. The 
 accompanist took her hands off; and the unlucky man 
 was heard to roar out " lads and lasses fill your glasses " 
 before he could stop his ponderous voice. Being very 
 young, his voice was uncertainly powerful, and burst out 
 like .the notes of an irregularly blown organ. 
 
 Then the door opened, and there was a bustle of fresh 
 arrivals. Lord and Lady Armine, and Miss Grethard, 
 their daughter, and behind them Mr. and Miss Lo'vel. 
 
 There was a great coming forward and shaking of 
 hands, and offers of tea, and then every one subsided into 
 their place the gentlemen with their backs to the fire 
 (for it was September, and the evenings chill), and the 
 ladies taking off their gloves and drinking tea. 
 
 Dita sat close to Mrs. Arthur (as she was always called), 
 a pretty little comfortable woman, whose great wish was 
 that every one should be happy round her, and who 
 thought that her greatest contribution toward the enter- 
 tainment of her mother-in-law's guests, was to take them 
 up to see her four fat children in bed. She was very 
 kind, and in a soft, purring voice put Dita at her ease; 
 for it is formidable, even to the experienced, that arrival 
 m a hot room at tea-time, when every one is at home and 
 amused, and the guest comes in dazzled from the darkness
 
 DITA. . 7? 
 
 outside, and finds it difficult to recognize friends in the 
 glare of light and the tea seems supernaturallj hot; but 
 Mrs. Arthur's soft remarks enabled her to swallow the 
 bread-and-butter she was too shy J;o refuse. 
 
 Sir Edward's eyes, in spite of himself, wandered to 
 Miss Lovel; but she sat with her back to him, and he 
 could only see a large sombrero hat, the shadow of which 
 hid even her hair. He was not acquainted with the 
 Armines, and he did not think it worth while, after the 
 first civil rise from his seat on their entrance, to move 
 from his comfortable chair. 
 
 Sooner than usual, Mrs. Lee Aston rose, and said in 
 her cheery voice, "As dinner is at seven to-night, I am 
 sure you will like to go up and rest a little now; I have 
 ordered the carriages at nine, for Lady Waldon is very 
 anxious that her ball should begin early. Mary, my dear, 
 if you are going up stairs, will you show Miss Lovel her 
 room?" 
 
 Perdita followed Mrs. Arthur up stairs to her com- 
 fortable little room, where she found her maid already 
 unpacking. 
 
 "Do we dress before dinner, or after?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, as you like; a muslin or something slight for 
 dinner for you young ladies, for fluffy ball-gowns get so 
 crushed. I shall dress before;" and the good little woman 
 trotted away. 
 
 When the gong sounded, Andrew came for his daughter, 
 as she had made him promise to do, and she followed him 
 shyly down stairs. , 
 
 Most of the guests were assembled, and Mrs. Lee Aston 
 said, that as dinner was at an irregular time, they would 
 wait for no one, but that they had better go in without 
 ceremony. The result was a little gentle rush, and 
 Perdita found herself taken in by Jack Lee Aston. There 
 was a vacant seat on the other sidp, for one of the un- 
 punctual guests, and this remained empty till the soup 
 was nearly over, when Sir Edward Norton came in; he 
 looked hastily round the table there was no escape, and 
 he sat down by her, and unfolded his napkin. 
 
 "Please go on," said Dita to her right-hand neighbor, 
 who was telling her the names of all the party. 
 
 " How far did I get? the lady in pink silk you know, 
 my sister-in-law."
 
 78 DITA. 
 
 ''Yes, and then Mr. Greville with the bass voice, and 
 then Miss Grethard I know them, of course; and then?" 
 
 "Those two men are Captain Johnstone and Colonel 
 Palmer; then, of course, my mother, Lord Armine, Major 
 Steele, a brother officer of Arthur's, and then my aunt, 
 Miss Ashburn." 
 
 " And next to me?" whispered Dita. 
 
 "Norton., I think you are not acquainted with Miss 
 Lovel? Sir Edward Norton Miss Lovel," said Jack, 
 aloud; Norton bowed very stiffly, and turning to Miss 
 Ashburn, asked her if she had been out driving. 
 
 Miss Ashburn was very deaf with one ear, and Jack 
 felt himself revenged when she produced a long tube from, 
 her pocket, and thrusting one end into her ear where it 
 stuck of itself, she presented the mouthpiece to her neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 Jack could not suppress a little giggle, and Dita pursed 
 up her mouth vigorously, not to smile. 
 
 Sir Edward's question produced a long disconnected 
 answer, and then he set himself to eating and between 
 dishes to examining the menu with so very decided an 
 intention not to speak, that Perdita could not but per- 
 ceive it, though Jack kept her employed the whole time 
 listening to him. 
 
 Fortunately for Sir Edward, dinner was hurried over, 
 and the young ladies went away to dress. The gentlemen 
 amused themselves by knocking about the billiard -balls 
 in the hall, and the elder ladies warmed themselves 
 and drank coffee; little Mrs. Arthur stole away to the 
 nursery. 
 
 At nine o'clock, the carriages were announced, and the 
 young ladies reappeared, their beauty hidden by cloaks 
 and shawls. Mrs. Lee Aston wrapped up Miss Ashburn, 
 first in a Shetland shawl, then io an Indian chuddar, 
 and lastly in a huge fur tippet, and they started. 
 
 Perdita's feet were dancing the whole way, and her eyes 
 sparkling; no excitement in her hitherto tranquil life 
 had ever equaled this going to her first ball.
 
 DITA. 79 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THAT first sound of music on the staircase which an- 
 nounces that dancing has begun, what a thrill of excite- 
 ment it produces in the heart of the young debutante! 
 
 Dita followed Mrs. Lee Aston and her 'flock of ladies 
 into the ball-room. She felt quite bewildered with the 
 brilliancy of the scene, and was only aroused by Mr. 
 Lovel leading her forward and introducing her proudly 
 to their hostess, Lady Waldon; and she saw the face of a 
 very pleasant- looking old lady smiling kindly at her and 
 saying, (< I hope you like dancing, my dear; all young 
 people should like dancing." 
 
 Then she was hurried off by Jack, and whirled into 
 the valse. 
 
 Perdita excited extreme admiration; her kind hostess 
 was literally besieged by gentlemen, all asking to be intro- 
 duced to her, and eager for the privilege of dancing with 
 her. 
 
 "Do you never dance, Sir Edward?" said Mrs. Arthur, 
 in her cooing voice. 
 
 " Very seldom I cannot see the pleasure of skipping 
 about for nothing." 
 
 " Oh dear! but then young people must be amused." 
 
 " It is not a rational amusement." 
 
 " Were you always so rational? What a dreadful boy 
 you must have been!" said Lady Waldon, coining up to 
 them. 
 
 Edward was forced to laugh, and the laugh dissipated 
 a little of his cross humor. " Come," she went on, "I 
 think too well of you not to think that you can be irra- 
 tional sometimes. Why, the Spartans themselves un- 
 bent " 
 
 " Only when the period of decadence commenced," an- 
 swered Sir Edward. "But I am no Spartan, perhaps 
 more of a philosopher " 
 
 " Then you must be driven from your tub! A tub at 
 your age, goodness me! Let me secure you a charming 
 partner to exercise your fascinations upon." 
 
 " No, no, Lady Waldon: conquests are for Alexander"
 
 80 DITA. 
 
 and he pointed to Jack, who was again daucfng with 
 Dita "and philosophy for me " 
 
 "Ah! is not that as good as saying that were you not 
 Diogenes yon would be Alexander? It must need all your 
 philosophy to resist the chance of dancing with anything 
 so lovely." 
 
 " I have scarcely seen Miss Lovel." said he, very coldly. 
 
 "Oh, Diogenes, still in thy tub!" and she laughed and 
 left him, determined on revenge. 
 
 He was still standing where she had left him when La 1; 
 Waldon suddenly came up to him and said 
 
 " Sir Edward, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lovel 
 she is disengaged for this dance." 
 
 He could do nothing but ask her to dance, which he 
 did in the most formal manner. To his astonishment six- 
 refused. He bowed, and stepped back. At that moment 
 the music began, and Major Steele came swiftly through 
 the crowd, with his head in the air, as if seeking some one, 
 and seeing Miss Lovel, asked her to dance, and she went 
 gayly away with him. 
 
 Edward Norton felt exceedingly mortified. She had 
 refused him, and accepted the commonplace little officer 
 at once. It was the Lancers, and Perdita was close to 
 him in the dance. Very much displeased, he watched 
 her, and in spite of himself could not help admitting that 
 she was pretty. 
 
 Edward Norton's taste was very fastidious, and it was 
 gratified by the perfection of Dita's whole appearance. 
 Her dress, made by the very best French dressmaker, had 
 that degree of finish about it which is so rare in England; 
 gloves, shoes, and fan all of one tint. Her beautiful 
 wavy hair was braided in very large soft plaits; on her 
 brow it rippled and curled naturally. Her complexion 
 was brilliantly white, with a wild -rose tinge on the cheeks 
 and lips; but the most remarkable feature was that won- 
 derful pair of dark eyes like the eyes of a gazelle shaded 
 by dark lashes, and full of varying expression. 
 
 Norton's " pretty," was buc hesitatingly pronounced, 
 for he was truthful even to himself, and it seemed to him, 
 in spite of himself, that his eyes had never rested on any- 
 thing more lovely. 
 
 When the dance was orer he went across to where Dita 
 had seated herself, and said, very sternly
 
 DITA. 81 
 
 " May I have the pleasure of this valse, Miss Lovel?" 
 
 "No, thank yon," she said, quietly. 
 
 " Are you already engaged?" 
 
 "No; that is, not yet." 
 
 He stood gloomily beside her for a moment, and then 
 said, " So I am the only person with whom you refuse to 
 dance." 
 
 She opened her eyes very wide, but said nothing. He 
 repeated his words in the shape of a question. "Ami 
 the only person with whom you refuse to dance; and if 
 so, why?" 
 
 " Because you do not really wish to dance with me," 
 said Dita, with spirit. "I saw you did not, and only 
 asked me because you could not help it, Indeed I do not 
 care for dancing so very much that I would dance with you 
 against your will," and she blushed at the length of her 
 explanation. 
 
 "But I do wish you to dance with me, very much," 
 said Sir Edward, haughtily. 
 
 " Merely the spirit of contradiction, "answered Dita, as 
 haughtily. She was a spoilt child, and could not brook 
 his tone of superiority. She sat while that delicious valse 
 went on, tapping her foot on the floor. No one asked her 
 to dance, for seeing Sir Edward by her side they imagined 
 her to be engaged to him, but he did not move. 
 
 "I am sorr tT that you should think such a thing," he 
 said, slowly; ,;y face must be one very easily read." 
 
 He did not ^jrceive that he had betrayed himself; but 
 she did. 
 
 " Yes, very easily read," she said. 
 
 He did not like it at all. He stood by her without 
 speaking, looking at the dancing, and she became more 
 and more impatient. 
 
 At that moment Jack Lee Aston came back from tak- 
 ing a lady down to supper, and, springing toward Dita, he 
 said " You are not dancing, and this is such a perfect 
 valse. May I have the pleasure?" and they plunged into 
 the maze. 
 
 "They are well matched, "si'id Edward Norton to him- 
 self; and he bit his lips and asked Mrs. Arthur whether 
 she would have some supper. 
 
 "Oh, how sorry I am that it is over!" cried Dita, as,
 
 82 DITA. 
 
 inuffled in her white fur cloak, she was put into theonni- 
 bus by her last partner. 
 
 " Good night good night," and they started on their 
 way home. 
 
 " Have you enjoyed it much, my dear?" said Mrs. Lee 
 Aston, kindly. 
 
 "Oli! more than I can possibly say." 
 
 "She is silly and frivolous," thought Sir Edward. 
 " What a fuss to make about a ball!" 
 
 All the elders, excepting Mrs. Lee Aston, had alreadv 
 gone on, and the last carriage contained nothing but 
 young people, and their hostess. 
 
 "It has been a capital dance," said Meta; "the Wai- 
 dons' balls are always good." 
 
 " I don't think they ever gave so good a one before," 
 said Jack; " bv Jove! it's half-past four, and awfully 
 light." 
 
 By degrees the remarks grew fewer and fewer, and at 
 last ceased; most of the party dozed, and there arose a del- 
 icate little ladylike snore from the corner in which Meta 
 reposed. 
 
 There were about five miles to drive, and when they 
 had gone about three, they had to pass a railway bridge, 
 and drive alongside of the line for about ten yards. 
 
 Sir Edward was at the end of the omnibus, very far from 
 sleepy, and looking backward, he saw the train coming; 
 there were the two brilliant red lights of the night express, 
 and as it drew near there arose a shrill whistle from the 
 engine. Jack woke up instantly, saying in a low voice 
 
 " These horses won't stand that." 
 
 Dita sat up ar.d looked at the two men; the pace of the 
 carriage was increasing, the horses first cantering, then 
 galloping hard. 
 
 Mrs. Lee Aston started up in terror, and clutched hold 
 of her daughter and Miss Grethard. 
 
 " Jack, Jack," she said, " why are we going so fast? tell 
 Bolton I will not be driven at this pace. Can't you tell 
 him?" 
 
 "*'Hush, mother," said Jack, "don't be afraid; the 
 horses have been frightened by the train they will stop 
 in a moment." 
 
 Meta began to cry, and Miss Grethard and Mrs. Lee 
 Aston clasped each other; only Perdita said nothing, but
 
 DITA. ' 83 
 
 sat quite still. The pace increased more and more, the 
 omnibus swaying frightfully from side to side. 
 
 Meta gave utterance to a wild scream. Dita leant sud- 
 denly forward and whispered to Sir Edward 
 
 " Would it not be better to open the windows?" 
 
 "Yes, yon are quite right; "and he proceeded to do so 
 in spite of the rush of cold air which came in. 
 
 " There is a goodish piece of straight road up to t?ie 
 home farm," said Jack between his teeth to Sir Edward; 
 "but the corner is bad, if he cannot pull up there." 
 
 The carriage rushed on more and more wildly. Some- 
 tiling dark seemed to flash by them. 
 
 "That fool James has jumped off!" exclaimed Jack. 
 "He must be killed, at this pace." He leaned across 
 Miss Grethard, stretched out of the window, and shouted 
 out 
 
 "Any chance of pulling up, Bolton?" There was no 
 answer, for the man's whole strength was required; but a 
 side view of the horses with their heads well down and the 
 foam flying from their bits, told its own tale. 
 
 Jack drew his head in, and looking at Sir Ed ward, gave 
 an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Perdita saw, 
 and her face grew paler still; she suddenly bent forward 
 and touched Sir Edward's hands, and stooping very close 
 to him, whispered 
 
 "Sir Ed ward." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I did not mean to be cross." 
 
 His answer was to squeeze her little fingers very tight 
 then there was a violent rocking, they were pitched from 
 one side to another a terrific crash, and she knew no 
 more. 
 
 Jack Lee Aston was the first to emerge from the wreck 
 of the omnibus, and being very active and slight, and 
 moreover having had the good luck to be on the upper- 
 most side, he was able to scramble sideways out of the 
 door. With the help of the coachman, who limped very 
 much, but had escaped without serious injury, he succeeded 
 in freeing the horses, who remained quiet, trembling vio- 
 lently. Then they proceeded to extricate the ladies one 
 after the other. Dita was taken out quite insensible and 
 laid on the grass, then Miss Grethard and Meta the latter 
 screaming frightfully.
 
 84 . DITA. 
 
 Mrs. Lee Aston was so unnerved that she entreated to 
 be allowed to die quietly. Edward Norton had scrambled 
 and dragged himself out, and when in the open air, to 
 every one's astonishment, fainted away. Mela's screams 
 gradually subsided, and she sat sobbing at the side of the 
 road . 
 
 Mrs. Lee Aston once on her feet was quite herself 
 again, and she and Mabel Grethard, who waa much 
 shaken and very pale, set to work to try and restore the 
 two who appeared to be most severely hurt. 
 
 The coachman mounted one of the horses, and leading 
 the other, rode off for assistance. 
 
 In about five minutes Perdita opened her eyes; it was 
 a strange scene the sky was just beginning to glow with 
 the first gleams of sunrise, and the grass and road were 
 all brilliant with hoar-frost. They were not really far 
 from home; but the park wall divided them from the 
 park, and there would be nearly a mile to skirt it before 
 they could arrive at the lodge. The inhabitants of the 
 farm were unfortunately only women the farmer had 
 gone for the night to some distant market-town, and the 
 laborers had all gone home to their cottages. 
 
 Perdita found Mabel Grethard and Jack both bending 
 anxiously over her, and she tried to smile and attempt 
 to sit up, but she could not help giving a cry of pain, and 
 fell back again. 
 
 " Where are you hurt, dear? can you tell me?" asked 
 Mabel. 
 
 " I am afraid my leg is broken, it feels very odd," said 
 Dita. 
 
 " Oh dear! dear! what a time they are in coming!" 
 sobbed Meta. 
 
 Mrs. Lee Aston was kneeling by Edward Norton, put- 
 ting eau-de-Cologne to his brow, and chafing his hands; 
 but there wis not the slightest sign of returning con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 It seemed ages before the carriage arrived with Mr. Lee 
 Aston, Arthur, and poor Andrew, all in the keenest anx- 
 iety. Perdita was lifted in, and the ladies followed her. 
 
 Arthur and Jack together appropriated the largest 
 blankets in the farm, and extemporized a sort of litter, 
 on which they placed the inanimate form of Sir Edward 
 Norton. Several men had arrived by this time from the
 
 DITA. 85 
 
 house and the stables, and they started home with (heir 
 burden as fast as they could go. Before they set out, the 
 footman, who had jumped off, made his appearance in a 
 most deplorable condition; his life bad been saved only 
 by a miracle: lie had thrown himself on the top of a 
 hedge, which had broken the fall: his face and hands 
 were torn and scratched, his clothes almost in rags, and 
 covered with blood; but there seemed to be no serious 
 injury. 
 
 Another messenger was sent off for the doctor, who ar- 
 rived very quickly, but not before the principal sufferers 
 had been taken up into their rooms, 
 
 He pronounced Perdita's leg to be broken a simple 
 fracture, of no very great consequence. She went through 
 the setting with heroism, holding Mr. Lee Aston's hand 
 the while. Over Edward Xorton he would not pronounce 
 at once. The arm was very badly broken and wrenched; 
 he had had one elbow out of the window when the car- 
 riage upset, and the injury was a very bad one. But the 
 long insensibility might mean internal injury; he could 
 not say at once. He prepared to stay with him until his 
 return to consciousness; but before anything else, made 
 Jack swallow brandy-and-water freely. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI I. 
 
 BROKEN legs and arms take a long time to get well, es- 
 pecially when accompanied by such a shaking as the two 
 invalids had undergone. It was quite three weeks before 
 they were allowed to come down stairs, and even then 
 they were both kept upon sofas, and forbidden to move 
 more than was absolutely necessary. 
 
 The autumn had changed info winter cold, bright, 
 and frosty and they pined to be allowed to go out, and 
 grew tired of always reading. 
 
 In the beginning of her illness, Mrs. Lovel was able to 
 come for a short time to see Perdita; but after staying a 
 few days, she felt obliged to return home, fora recurrence 
 of the palpitation of the heart, to which she was so sub- 
 ject, made her nervous lest she also should be laid up 
 there. There was a change coming over Andrew now; he 
 looked far older, and lost much of the self-confidence for
 
 86 DITA. 
 
 which he used to be so conspicuous. The truth wa?, 
 that his eyes were at last opening to the fact that Nannie 
 was ill, very ill; that the doctors looked grave after seeing 
 her, and gave him their opinion in unmeaning phrases. 
 
 In the absence of Perdita they were thrown more to- 
 gether than they had been for many years. One day 
 Andrew even called his wife Nannie again, and the color 
 flushed into her face, and the tears into her eyes, with 
 joy. He came and sat down on the sofa beside her, and 
 she leant her head on his shoulder. 
 
 "You know it now, honey, do you not?" she said, 
 softly. 
 
 "Know what?" 
 
 " That I never can be well." 
 
 "That is nonsense, my dear," he said, hurriedly. " We 
 will go to some German baths in the early summer; they 
 will make you as strong as ever." 
 
 "Maybe," said Nannie, sighing it seemed to her 
 dreadful to go away from home on a long journey 
 " maybe; but it seems to me that I would rather die here 
 quietly than away in foreign places." 
 
 "You are weak, nnd it makes you low," he said, 
 eagerly "what Dr. Grant calls unconquerable nervous 
 depression; nothing like Gorman waters for that. We'll 
 have you as strong as ever, sweetheart." 
 
 "Andrew, do you mind the little back-yard, where 
 Dita used to play?" 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 "And the swing you made of my mother's old rocking- 
 chair, and the child's beautiful hair that you loved so, 
 and I would so lief have cut off? I am glad I let it grow." 
 
 Andrew shaded his eyes with his hand: why would she 
 talk of all these things now? 
 
 "And your play, Andrew, will it ever be finished? I 
 fear me, never, though it was grand enough then, when 
 we were but humble. You never read Shakespeare now, 
 Andrew?" 
 
 "I have no time now," said he, in a stifled voice. 
 "No," she said, thoughtfully, "no time. Riches 
 bring troubles and cares and weariness more than joys." 
 "Not to me," lie said. 
 "You do not know it yet," she laid, softly; "not yet
 
 DITA. ' 87 
 
 But we were happier then; I was a better wife then than 
 I have been since." 
 
 "Oh, Nannie, Nannie!" 
 
 "It is a long time ago," she went on. "I remember, 
 years ago, that my father went over to Alderney and 
 brought me home for a dairy pet a young heifer from 
 there. Oh, she was a pretty creature was Daisy! her coat 
 was like satin, and her eyes for all the world like our 
 Dita's; but she did not live. The food was very rich, she 
 was kept like a princess, and housed against storm and 
 rain; but she grew thinner and thinner, and pined away. 
 She missed the old scenes she loved; the friends of her 
 youth; the poor shed in which she had lived. Some could 
 bear it, but she could not, nor could I." 
 
 "Nannie, wife, you do not think of me. What should 
 I do, were you to go?" 
 
 " You will have Dita, honey, and she is a more fit com- 
 panion for you than poor humble Nannie." 
 
 " Ah! she is not of us she too will fly away. Nannie, 
 wait a little time for me; let us go together." 
 
 She stroked his cheek gently with her hand, deling the 
 hot tears running down. "All in God's good time, 
 honey," she said, softly. 
 
 It was a brilliant October day, keen, fresh, and invig- 
 orating, and all the Lee Aston party were out excepting 
 the two invalids. 
 
 It seemed to Sir Edward a wayward fate that he should 
 thus be forced into daily companionship with the very 
 young lady he had been most auxious'to avoid, but it was 
 inevitable. 
 
 On the -first day of Perdita's reappearance down stairs, 
 Jack had tried his chance with her, and failed. The 
 events of that unfortunate night had increased his admira- 
 tion for Miss Lovel to genuine lore, and he took away with 
 him on a fishing expedition in Norway a sharper pain in 
 his honest heart than his friend at all suspected. 
 
 Meanwhile the boasted philosophy of Edward Norton 
 was in danger; he could not help passing hours in the 
 day with Perdita; he had tried being wheeled into the 
 billiard-room, but a great deal of shooting was going on, 
 and the men were constantly out, and as he did not at all 
 relish solitude, he returned to the drawing-room, where 
 be and Perdita were placed on opposite sides of a window,
 
 88 EITA. 
 
 and enjoyed many a heaity laugh over the absurdity ot 
 the position, especially when a visitor was announced 
 whonn neither could rise to receive for Norton was even 
 less able to move than Dita, the doctors pronouncing that 
 to keep his shoulder motionless was of the utmost impor- 
 tance. 
 
 On one occasion, all the party being out, each took up 
 a book, and for a time only the ticking of the clock broke 
 the silence. At last Sir Edward, who had furtively been 
 watching Dita for some minutes, began 
 
 " Miss Level." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is your hook amusing?" 
 
 "No;" and she stifled a yawn. 
 
 " Then do put it down and talk, I am so bored," 
 
 " So am I, but I was too polite to say so." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Lovel what are you read- 
 ing?" 
 
 " 'The Widow's Bequest." 
 
 "Trash, is it not?" 
 
 " I suppose it is; but I have read so few novels that, 
 generally speaking, even trash amuses me." 
 
 " It must be very nice to be so easily amused," said Sir 
 Edward, languidly. 
 
 "I have a piece of gossip in my pocket," said Dita, 
 eagerly, "that I am sure will interest you. Mrs. Lee 
 Aston had a letter from Lady Armine." 
 
 " A marriage?" 
 
 " Quite right; Mabel Grethard is engaged to be mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " Who is the happy man? Lucky for him that he did 
 not hear the eldritch yell that she uttered in the carriage." 
 
 "No, no, no!" cried Dita, laughing, "that was Meta; 
 and I do not at all wonder at her being frightened." 
 
 " Yes, I apologize; of course it was. Miss Grethard 
 was very quiet and useful also." 
 
 " And Meta's shriek was very pardonable." 
 
 " But it was on terrdfirmd she shrieked Jack told me 
 so," he continued. 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 " You were insensible, Miss Lovel, so you cannot 
 know." 
 
 "So were you insensible," she said, gayly.
 
 DITA. * 89 
 
 " WeH, Jack had all his wits about him, and he thought 
 she had fainted; and when he went to lift her up, she 
 uttered so sudden a scream that he fell backward. But 
 to return to your news, who is the lucky man?" 
 
 " His name is Macmonach Angus Macrnonach and 
 he is a very rich Scotch laird, with a fine old castle called 
 Dnnmonaigh, in a most beautiful part of the country." 
 
 "Highly satisfactory: any drawbacks?" 
 
 " He is not as young as she might have wished, Lady 
 Armine says," said Dita. " I think him a very good age; 
 I don't like very young people he is forty- five." 
 
 "And she?" 
 
 " Eighteen; it is certainly a great difference." 
 
 " He has beeii a long time making up his mind," said 
 Sir Edward. 
 
 " You are determined not to take my piece of news 
 nicely," said Dita, laughing; "but it is deeply interest- 
 ing to me. Though I have seen so little of her, Mabel is 
 the only girl-friend I have she is so good and merry and 
 charming, and she is very pretty." 
 
 " Keally, do you think so?" 
 
 "Yes, I admire her lovely brown hair, and her eyes; 
 and she was vory kind to me," said Dita, eagerly. 
 
 "Is anybody ever unkind to you?" said Sir Edward, 
 impulsively. 
 
 " Oh yes. you were." 
 
 " 1! What can you mean?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Perdita, blushing rosy red with con- 
 fusion; "I did not mean to say it." 
 
 " I know what you mean," said he; then he suddenly 
 bit his lips and stopped. 
 
 " You must have taken a great dislike to poor little 
 me," said Dita, with a very little touch of pathos in her 
 voice. 
 
 " Dislike! Miss Lovel, would to heaven that " 
 
 Again he stopped himself. Perdita went on hurriedly 
 
 " You once did a very kind thing for me, for which I 
 feel grateful now." 
 
 " I am so glad," he answered, recovering himself. 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " You saved my little dog from a watery grave." 
 
 " Oh, I had quite forgotten, it; it was one of those little
 
 90 
 
 beasts made of wadding, was it not? I remember how it 
 kicked." 
 
 " I think it would have broken my heart to have lost 
 Fluff then," said Dita. "It was bad enough when I was 
 older." 
 
 "When did it die?" 
 
 " About six years ago, when I was twelve years old." 
 
 " Old enough to be more stoical." 
 
 " I was very far fr6m being stoical; I cried more in two 
 days than I ever cried in my whole life, before or since." 
 
 "Is it stuffed?" 
 
 " Oh, yes; Jaques had it stuffed, and it is in my bed- 
 room at home." 
 
 '' Happy Fluff to be so mourned. What a very pretty 
 little girl you were at the time of Fluff's adventure!" 
 
 "\'es, I must have been quite a little darling! I have 
 seen my picture, with such a cloud of hair." 
 
 ' You were not nearly so nice afterward. I remember 
 you asking me what was the principal river in Japan, and 
 being quite scandalized when I did not know; and then 
 your hair was done up, and you never would climb, or 
 fish, or paddle, and had that straight-backed Miss Grimes 
 always with you." 
 
 ''Poor Miss Grimes, who always prided herself on her 
 ladylike deportment; I fear I gave her a great deal of 
 trouble." 
 
 " By- the- bye, what has become of your faithful follower, 
 the big man with the red hair?" 
 
 " Jaques? Oh, he is all right; he lives with his mother 
 and looks after the books. He plays the violin divinely: 
 have you ever heard him?" 
 
 " No, never. Is he as great a curiosity as ever?" 
 
 " Oh, no, he only looks a very quiet and rather bent 
 student; and as he has grown such a large red beard, you 
 would hardly know him." 
 
 " And are you still as fond of him as you used to be?" 
 
 "I should think so! I love him, dear old Jaques. He 
 taught me far more than Miss Grimes did, and he is my 
 mother's most devoted friend!" 
 
 " I hope she is better now?" asked Sir Edward. 
 
 " She is always much about the same," answered Dita, 
 sadly. " Poor dear mother!" 
 
 " My mother is very fond of her," said he,
 
 ! A.. 91 
 
 "Yes, she is the greatest comfort to poor mammie; 1 
 do not know what she would do without her daily v 
 and it is so very kind of her not to mind coming to Sal- 
 ford Abbey." 
 
 They were on dangerous ground, and Dita caught 
 herself up quickly. She feared that she must have 
 hurt his feelings, for he said nothing for some minutes, 
 then 
 
 "I suppose you will go to London this spring?" 
 
 " No, we are going to Badfeld for the baths. Dr. Grant 
 thinks that they will do my mother good." 
 
 " What a nuisance! I mean for you." 
 
 " Oh, no; I shall enjoy the fun of it: it w.ill be quite 
 new to me." 
 
 They went on talking till the walking-party came in 
 and tea was ordered. Every one was full of Mabel Gret- 
 hard's marriage. Arthur had once met Angus Macmo- 
 nach when shooting in the north of Scotland, and had 
 been invited to pass a night at Dunmonaigh. He said 
 that Lady Armine's admiration was by no means exag- 
 gerated; and described the position of the grand old house, 
 with the heather-chid hills protecting it from behind, and 
 the deep, clear loch in front. 
 
 "Miss Grethard will be a strangely modern element in 
 that romantic old place," he said, " with her Paris boots 
 and gloves. I am glad Macmonach is to be married; it 
 would have been sad for that good old family to have died 
 out." 
 
 " What sort of a man is he?" asked Mrs. Arthur. 
 
 " He is a very queer, quiet fellow. It is a curious case 
 of defeated ambition. The man is exceedingly clever, 
 but he is manque." 
 
 "How sad!'' said Mrs. Lee Aston, sealing a letter. 
 
 " In what way do you mean?" asked Perdita. 
 
 "It is difficult to say why. He tried elaborate farming, 
 and was defeated by the impossibility of cultivation in 
 that grand mountain country, that ran away with money, 
 destroyed the peat that is absolutely essential for fuel, 
 and frightened the game. Then he tried Parliament he 
 made some able speeches in his first session. He was a 
 Conservative, of course; and at the last election a loud- 
 talking Radical went down to Dunmonaigh, and defeated 
 him on his own ground an unheard-of catastrophe; bu>
 
 93 DITA. 
 
 they say the family influence has gone rapidly down of 
 late they used to carry all before them." 
 
 " Is he unpopular?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly. He is a very odd man, with a sort of 
 irritability about him. He calls his people by the wrong 
 names, and knows nothing about them or their families." 
 
 "That never answers in Scotland," said Meta. 
 
 " No, indeed, it tries the stanchest loyalty. His mother 
 is a magnificent specimen of the feudal chatelaine" 
 
 " Let me see who was she?" said Mrs. Arthur. 
 
 " A Fitz-James; they have royal blood in their veins. 
 She must have been very handsome, and is now one of the 
 grandest-looking old ladies I ever saw, but so dignified 
 that Mabel's life will be a burden to her at first." 
 
 " Is this Angus the only son?" asked Sir Edward. 
 
 " Yes; there was another, but he died was killed 
 hunting or something, not long after his father's death." 
 "Poor Lady Griselda," said Mrs. Lee Aston, kindly. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE next morning was so fine that every one went out 
 except Mrs. Lee Aston and the invalids; the former had 
 letters to write and retired to her sitting-room, after see- 
 ing that her guests were well supplied with books. Edward 
 Norton, who had passed a sleepless night, was disposed to 
 be melancholy. Perdita, on the contrary, was in brilliant 
 spirits. 
 
 "I am to get upon crutches to-morrow," she said, 
 gayly; "and once upon the crutches, I may as well pack 
 up my goods and chattels, and relieve Mrs. Lee Aston of 
 my most troublesome presence." 
 
 *" I wish I could be tinkered up as easily as you," said 
 Sir Edward, movkig uneasily. 
 
 "But your shoulder is going on all right, is it not?" 
 said Dita, anxiously. 
 
 "I hope so oh!" he became suddenly very pale. 
 
 "What is it? Can I help you?" 
 
 "If I come to you, do you Miink that you could move 
 my bandage? it is displaced there to the right. Oh, thank 
 you; by Jove! it did hurt. As he knelt beside her, she 
 gently put the bandages right.
 
 DITA. 92 
 
 " Go and lie down," she said, " and keep perfectly 
 quiet: you do not look well to-day." 
 
 " Don't 1? Well, I never closed my eyes all night with 
 the pain. I think Griffiths lias tied me up too tight, or 
 something; it seems to get worse every day." And he lay 
 back on his sofa, looking pule and exhausted. 
 
 Presently he began again, " Do you think me a great 
 muff, Miss Lovel? I am a very bad hand at bearing pain." 
 
 " I know that some people are much more sensitive 
 than others, and in consequence actually suffer more." 
 
 " That is quite true. There was a poor fellow whom I 
 knew once who actually died of pain." 
 
 " What a terrible thing!" 
 
 " I think very serious pain would soon put an end to 
 me," he said. 
 
 " No, that could only happen in rare cases. I think 
 people must get used to suffering after a time." 
 
 " I think people ought to be allowed to put their friends 
 out of pain quietly, when it is beyond endurance." 
 
 "It would be a very tempting power," said Dita, half 
 laughing. " Supposing I had put you out of your pain 
 quietly just now, what would your feelings have been?" 
 
 " Perhaps it would have been as well," said Sir Edward, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " More comfortable for you than for me. But seri- 
 ously," she said, "I always think that the natural cling- 
 ing to life which we all have, in spite of pain, trouble, and 
 sickness, is a special gift from God." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said he. "I had always looked 
 upon it as an additional trouble, adding to the horrors 
 of death." 
 
 " That is not my view," said Dita, gravely. " Our 
 business is to live, and to live properly, and to do a certain 
 amount of duty and service during our life. If the 
 service were very, very hard, and we were weary and in 
 pain, our longing for death would be overpowering, and 
 would perhaps unfit us to bear the burden, were it not 
 for that instinctive love of life with which we are en- 
 dowed." 
 
 " Is it love of life, or is it fear of the physical terrors 
 of dying the shrinking of th human soul from the 
 borders of the Unknown Land?" 
 
 "I think," said Perdita, "that they are all part of
 
 94 DITA. 
 
 the instinct I speak of. The holiest man I ever knew," 
 ehe continued reverently, bending her head, "was the 
 bishop who confirmed me. I only saw him once or twice, 
 but no one could be with him without carrying away some 
 good, some wish to be better. And he, this great man, 
 who lived like a saint, had a great dread of death, surely 
 sent to prevent him from yearning to leave the world in 
 which his life was so valuable." 
 
 " And is he dead?" asked Edward, deeply interested. 
 
 " Yes, he is dead. He was spared the knowledge that 
 he was dying: he slept on earth and awoke in heaven." 
 
 Edward sighed. "I believe you are right," he said; 
 "and to take a more practical view, it would be a selfish 
 tiling to wish to die merely for your own comfort that is, 
 should you leave friends to regret you." 
 
 "How does your arm feel now?" asked Dita, changing 
 the subject. 
 
 "It hurts me so much," he answered, "that I think 
 the sooner I can run up to London and have it looked 
 after the better. But do not disturb yourself, Miss 
 Lovel; it is much more comfortable than it was." 
 
 " I hope it has been properly set," said Dita, anxiously. 
 
 " I do not feel sure: when I tell Griffiths of the con- 
 tinuous pain he looks surprised, and that is suspicions; 
 but I have got it into an easy attitude just now." 
 
 " I am so glad," and Perdita took up her book. 
 
 "Oh, you are not going to read? That is too bad!" 
 he cried. 
 
 " We talk so much," said Dita, "that I consider that I 
 ought to read a little sometimes." 
 
 "Not just now," said he, imploringly. "You can 
 read when the people come in." 
 
 Dita laughed. "I am expecting a visitor this morn- 
 ing." she said. 
 
 " Who?" 
 
 " Jaques." 
 
 "Is his real name Jaques?" asked Sir Edward. "And 
 I have often wondered how you came by your wonderful 
 name! 'Were you christened by it?" 
 
 "No," she answered, the color mounting into her 
 cheeks. "My real name is Margaret Margaret Griselda; 
 but my father had a great passion for Shakespeare then, 
 so I was named after that flower-loving heroine."
 
 DITA. 95 
 
 " And the melancholy Jaques?" 
 
 " The same, his real name is James." 
 
 " He is a very queer kind of fellow to be so much at 
 home with all of you," said Sir Edward, curiously. 
 
 Dita laughed. "He was my earliest and dearest play- 
 fellow," she said. " And though you may think him 
 ugly, I think his rough face quite beautiful. You should 
 see him when he is playing the violin, or poring over some 
 new and very old book it is a great triumph of expres- 
 sion and feature." 
 
 " Must I go away when your melancholy Jaques comes?" 
 
 "Oh no, why should you? If he had his violin I 
 would make him play it, but I am afraid there is no chance 
 of that." 
 
 " Who knows? If he is such an enthusiast perhaps he 
 will have it fastened on his back as a troubadour has his 
 guitar, or borne behind him by a beautiful page. Talk 
 of the " 
 
 "Hush," said Dita, for the servant announced "Mr. 
 Danby," and Jaques walked in. 
 
 It was still a matter of difficulty for Jaqnes to get across 
 the room, especially when he saw that Perdita was not 
 alone; and she was relieved when she saw him safely seated, 
 facing her, between the two sofas. 
 
 " You have not brought your violin, I suppose, Jaques?" 
 said Dita, eagerly. 
 
 " No yes; I could fetch it if you wish it, Miss Lovel." 
 
 " Go back five miles! certainly not. I would not dream 
 of it." 
 
 "In the afternoon," he muttered. 
 
 " Not this afternoon, but one day if you would. I want 
 Sir Edward Norton to hear you play so much." 
 
 Jaques raised his eyes, and viewed the other invalid 
 with a rather strange look. 
 
 " He is taking my measure," thought Sir Edward, 
 " and uncommonly close too." And he said aloud, " Miss 
 Lovel has told me so much of the extreme beauty of your 
 playing, tluit I am most anxious to hear you." 
 
 Jaques bowed, and the color flushed into his face, as it 
 always did when Perdita praised him. 
 
 " Are you coming home soon, Miss Dita?" he said pres- 
 ently, "you are so much wanted at home." 
 
 "Is my mother not so well?" cried Dita, anxiously.
 
 96 DITA. 
 
 "Oh no. your mother is just the same neither better 
 nor worse," he said, with a sigh; " but Mr. Lovel is quite 
 lost without you, and he won't give Adams any orders 
 while you are away." 
 
 " Miss Lovel cannot possibly move before the doctors 
 give their permission," said Sir Edward, hastily. 
 
 " Oh no, no, of course not. How are you getting on, 
 Miss Dita? I had hoped that you were nearly well." 
 
 " So I am, and I hope to come home in two or three 
 days at the latest, Jaques," she said. "I know that poor 
 mammie must want me, and I do so long to see her again. 
 Are you going to stay at home just now?" 
 
 "No, I am off to-morrow again to Paris; there is a 
 great sale to take place there, and I have heard of one or 
 two valuable books that I should like to see." 
 
 "It is dreadful to a scholar to lose a book on which he 
 lias set his heart," said Sir Edward, addressing himself to 
 Perdita. " My friend Blackmore was telling me the other 
 day of his having once just missed the chance of De Bry's 
 English Virginians which is extraordinarily rare by the 
 merest fluke." 
 
 "What did you say the name was, sir?" said Jaques, 
 bending forward. 
 
 "Blackmore Mr. John Blackmore." He stopped sur- 
 prised, for Jaques uttered a loud explosive chuckle, and 
 then immediately resumed his former gravity. 
 
 " How was it?" asked Perdita, a little ashamed of the 
 behavior of her friend. 
 
 " He was bargaining for the book at one of those book- 
 seller's shops, and the first day he had to do with the 
 master, who seemed a pliable sort of man enough, so he 
 offered him a low price, but he would not swallow that; 
 so he went away, and returning the next day, he found 
 only the shopman, an awkward kind of lad, but who knew 
 twice as much about the value of the books as did his 
 master. And this creature this Caliban, as he called 
 him kept him dangling day after dr\y, and on the very 
 day on which he had made up his mind to pay the whole 
 price demanded, he coolly informed him that the shop 
 was closed, and that they were going to retire from busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Another loud chuckle from Jaques, but he said noth- 
 ing
 
 DITA. 97 
 
 " It seems to please you that poor Mr. Blackmore 
 should have been disappointed, Mr. Danby," said Sir 
 Edward, coldly. 
 
 " Oh, not at all; no, no, sir," faltered Jaques. 
 
 "When Blackmore told me about it," went on Sir 
 Edward, turning toDita, and smiling, "the tears were in 
 his eyes. He said that he had never got over the bitter- 
 ness of that disappointment, though it happened many 
 years ago; and he finished the story with a not very polite 
 interjection in respect to his enemy." 
 
 " Poor man," said Dita laughing merrily. Encouraged 
 by her example, Jaques gave way to an irrepressible fit of 
 laughter. He struggled, he choked, he tried to stifle it in 
 a huge pocket-handkerchief; it became nervous, and he 
 was obliged to get up, and, hastily saying good-by, leave 
 the room. 
 
 "What an extraordinary creature!" said Sir Ed ward: 
 " what could he find in my story to put him into such an 
 agonizing condition?" 
 
 " I fancy that he must have known something about it 
 all before," said Perdita; "but Jaques is always upset by 
 fa joke, and is one of those unlucky people who cannot 
 control laughter if it gets beyond a certain point." 
 
 "I confess that I did not perceive the joke. I never 
 saw such a person." 
 
 "Aii, you do not know how good he is!" cried Dita. 
 "He is a rough diamond indeed." 
 
 "Unfortunately," said Sir Edward, coldly, "one of 
 the innate faults of my character is an excess of dislike to 
 what is unrefined. I am too fastidious, for merit gives 
 me no pleasure without polish." 
 
 " You speak of this as a fault in a tone that betrays 
 that you are proud of ir,"said Perdita. indignantly. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said he. 
 
 " You have nothing for which to beg my pardon. 
 
 Ah " She fancied suddenly that he was asking her 
 
 pardon, because he meant to include her own relations in 
 the sweeping speech he had made. The color rushed into 
 her face, her nostrils dilated, her eyes flashed, she looked 
 quite beautiful. 
 
 " I understand what you mean," she said, slowly. " I 
 am obliged to you for undeceiving me in the belief that 
 there might have been friendship between us it is at an
 
 98 BITA. 
 
 end; but though it may be wrong to say so, Sir Edward, 
 I have the courage to say that, in some cases at least, the 
 parvenu may be the truer gentleman." 
 
 After this she ought to have left the room, there was 
 no doubt about it; but as the fates would have it, her leg 
 was broken, and his shoulder out of joint and badly set; 
 neither could move, and at least an hour must elapse be- 
 fore any interruption could come. Eacli took up a book, 
 but each saw that the other was not reading, and both 
 were very angry indeed. She had called him, or at least 
 had as good as told him, that he was not so true a gentle- 
 man as old Andrew Lovel; and he had spoken words that, 
 as she understood them, she could not easily forgive. The 
 clock struck twelve then its single stroke announced 
 half-past. 
 
 " They are a long time coming in," said Sir Edward, 
 stiffly. 
 
 No answer. Sir Edward went back to his book. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Lee Aston came in. 
 
 " It is very fortunate that you two can entertain each 
 other," she said, good-humored ly; " for I am obliged to 
 go down to the lodge to see a child there who has burnt 
 her foot, and the others will not be home till luncheon. 
 But I have devised a new plan of amusement for you; I 
 am going to push your sofa nearer to the window, Dita, so 
 that you and Sir Edward can play chess." 
 
 " I am so much interested in my book," said Perdita. 
 
 "But I have finished mine," cried Sir Edward. 
 
 "Very well, I will just put you where you can play if 
 you like. There is that comfortable?" 
 
 " The light hurts my eyes," said Dita, ungraciously. 
 
 "There is that better?" and their good-natured 
 hostess pulled down one of the blinds. 
 
 " Thank you," they both said, and Mrs. Lee Astou bus- 
 tled away. 
 
 They were close together, and neither could move, and 
 yet they had had a deadly quarrel, and it was an hour and 
 a half to luncheon. 
 
 They raised their eyes at the same moment; there was 
 something irresistibly funny in the situation, and in spite 
 of their anger they both laughed. Sir Edward was the 
 first to speak. 
 
 " It was really and truly a thoughtless speech, Miss
 
 DITA. 1 J'J 
 
 Lovel," he said. "I declare that I meant nothing that 
 could offend you. Good heavens! what would you have 
 me mean?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps you did not," she said, slowly. 
 
 "After my apology I expect one confession from you." 
 
 "None," said Perdita, decidedly, 
 
 " Yes, I have earned it; and it is this he is a Caliban, 
 is he not?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Yes, he is a Caliban." 
 
 "Very well, so be it," she said inpatiently. 
 
 " And you are Miranda, and I am Ferdinand, and so 
 we will play chess," he said, beginning to arrange the 
 board. 
 
 "Then," said Perdita, hesitatingly, "you do not mind 
 about what I said." 
 
 "No," said he, superbly; "you were in a passion." 
 
 "I wish I could have walked out of the room," said 
 Dita, vindictively. 
 
 " Yes, but heaven interfered. " 
 
 The game lasted until the whole party came in to 
 luncheon. The extreme pleasure he took in this daily 
 intercourse with Perdita at last opened Sir Edward Nor- 
 ton's eyes lie was deeply, devotedly in love with her. 
 This only was wanting to show him that the obstacles he 
 himself had raised were very slight in reality. A man 
 must be ungenerous who will not owe fortune to the wom- 
 an lie loves and generosity was as strong an element 
 as pride in his composition. It was enough that he loved 
 her, the world might say what it would. Some painful 
 ordeals would have to be faced: he would have to see An- 
 drew in authority in his own hereditary home, he would 
 have to owe fortune and Perdita and Salford all to this 
 man; but all would be nothing if she would consent to be 
 his wife. He now gave himself up to the enjoyment of 
 the present: never had he made himself so charming, never 
 had he been so gay, so almost boyishly light-hearted; and 
 as Perdita shyly received his attentions, his hope became 
 stronger and stronger that she was not indifferent to him. 
 
 " Nannie," said Andrew to his wife one day, "some 
 day we shall lose our little Dita." 
 
 " What makes you say so?'' she asked, startled. 
 
 "I have just returned from Lee Aston, and Perdita
 
 100 DITJL. 
 
 comes home to-morrow, and Sir Ed \vard goes back to the 
 Grange, and he is to go up to London at once to have his 
 arm reset." 
 
 "Well?" said Nannie. 
 
 " When he comes back we shall see him again. 
 
 ' The sweet youth's in lovel' " 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 IT was December, and all the heather-bloom was dead 
 n the hills round Dnnmonaigb, and its brown hue gave 
 a deep russet color to the landscape; here and there a 
 larch's yellowed foliage gleamed like gold, but all the 
 leaves were gono from the hard-wood trees. 
 
 The snow had not yet fallen, nor had there been frost 
 enough to bind the lake with ice. 
 
 The ceremony of receiving the chief and his bride had 
 always been gone through with the same formalities. 
 
 The carriages drove to the further end of the lake, and 
 bride and bridegroom were rowed across to the -castle 
 by twelve of the best men of the clan. 
 
 The marriage had taken place in England, and it .was 
 the 20th of December before Lady Grisel stood waiting 
 for the home-coming. 
 
 Master Malcolm, whose hair was as white as snow, 
 seemed as anxious as the mother herself. What would 
 she be like, this young English bride, who was coming 
 among them? Lady Grisel knew little of her had only 
 seen that she was very young, and fair, and childish. 
 She sat unright by the fire, her hands clasped together. 
 Time had wrought little change in her had brought a 
 little more silver into her hair, more softness into the fine 
 dark eyes; little but that, for her life had been still and 
 monotonous. And it is the storm-tossed rock that is 
 broken, not that which is washed by the slow dash of even 
 waves. 
 
 Still and monotonous! Years ago what a fate would 
 that have seemed to Grisclda Fitz- James! She never 
 knew when her ambition died, nor traced the cause of its 
 decease; but after Ewau's death, her old longing that
 
 DITA. 101 
 
 Angus should make to himself a name and position be- 
 came chastened and subdued, and in his successes and 
 failures her rejoicing and disappointment were only . 
 pathetic she hardly knew herself. 
 
 Angus also was changed, and the wealth he had longed 
 for so eagerly seemed to weigh on his spirits like lead. 
 The mother and son did nothing to rouse each other, 
 and the years slipped by. 
 
 "What o'clock is it now, Minister?" said Lady Grisel, 
 breaking silence. 
 
 ' " Just three they should be here sooner: not yet Lady 
 Grisel," he added; " we shall hear the shouts and the 
 bagpipes as they approach, and it will be time enough 
 then to go to the door." 
 
 "Poor bride! it is cold," said Lady Grisel, shivering. 
 
 "Cold without, but right warm within," said the 
 worthy Minister. 
 
 " It will seem very strange to her; Angus and I have 
 grown rusty together," said the mother, anxiously. "And 
 when I think of a blithe young girl coming to share our 
 quiet life, I fear for her happiness. I hope he will be 
 kind to her," she said, nervously. 
 
 "She will bring sunshine to the old place," said Master 
 Malcolm, with a sigh and a smile. " It will be good for 
 all to have the youth and sweetness of a bonnie lassie 
 among us Angus is far too grave." 
 
 "He is more than grave," she said; "he is gloomy, 
 and easily irritated, and but seldom smiles or laughs 
 poor little bride! but it will be different now, will it not?'' 
 
 " Yes," answered he, smiling. "All cannot have the 
 same spirits as poor Ewan; even now I can fancy I hear 
 his clear ringing laugh and halloo to the dogs on the 
 brae." 
 
 "Natures are different," she said, very low. "But 
 there was a time when Angus also was gay. I have been 
 but a bad companion; my company has sent mirth flying 
 with outspread wings." 
 
 " Yet Angus's gravity has won him the maiden of his 
 heart," said the Minister; "and we hear that she is good, 
 and loving, and pretty." 
 
 "God grant her happiness," said Lady Grisel. 
 " Hark! is that not music?" 
 
 "I think not; we will see," lie opened the door, and
 
 102 DITA. 
 
 Lady Grisel went out on the steps, and shading her eyes 
 with her hand, looked over the loch. 
 
 Nothing was to be seen yet; hnt far away sounded 
 faintly the shrill wild music of the bagpipes. She re- 
 mained standing on the steps, and the water washed al- 
 most up to her feet: it looked very deep and gray, and 
 the castle threw a dark, undefined shadow over it only 
 the scarlet flag reflecting a blood-red stain. 
 
 " The day of our home-coming," said Lady Grisel, 
 dreamily, "was all joy and sunshine; the loch sparkled 
 like diamonds, and the hills glowed with crimson heather 
 and golden gorse. It -was many years ago, Minister, and 
 the days seem to me types of the life at Dunmonaigh then 
 and no'w, and when I look into my own heart, I read that 
 the fault is mine." 
 
 "Do not be afraid, Lady Grisel, said Master Malcolm 
 again. "The bride will bring with her her own store of 
 happiness, and you must arouse yourselves, and be gay 
 for her sake; and by-and-by when she has taken root here, 
 you will hear her singing about the house as all happy 
 lassies do. Come in, it is very cold." 
 
 "No, no listen!" 
 
 Now on the ear swelled the music louder and louder, 
 and the sound of ever-increasing cheering, till round a 
 bend of the loch the little fleet of boats swept swiftly. 
 Lady Grisel strained her eyes, till in the foremost boat 
 she could see Angus with his young bride. Flags and 
 streamers flying from the boats, made the scene brilliant 
 with color, and the pipers played with enthusiasm the 
 welcome of Clan Mouach to their chief and his bride. 
 Onward, with long sweeping strokes, came the foremost 
 boat, and swept up to the steps. The two first of the 
 ir. en leaped out, and crossing their dirks behind the bride 
 co 'ducted her to Lady Grisel, who received her into her 
 an. s. 
 
 " Welcome! welcome!" was all she could say, as she 
 drew them in to the warm fireside. 
 
 Her heart was so full, she could only look at them, and 
 hardly speak. 
 
 Angus's cheek flushed, and his restless eyes more rest- 
 less than usual; he grasped Master Malcolm's hand with a 
 pressure that was more convulsive than affectionate, and 
 he walked up and down the room.
 
 DITA. 103 
 
 Mabel sat by the fire with her warm white furs all round 
 her. She looked a fair sweet specimen of a young En- 
 glish girl; the color came and went in her cheek, and her 
 soft eyes followed every movement of her husband's. 
 
 Lady Grisel's strong emotion puzzled and confused her, 
 and after the first warm kiss she knew not how to act. 
 
 At last the servants announced that the crowd had 
 abandoned their boats, and gathered again; and Lady 
 Grisel led the way to the great door. She passed out first 
 and then presented the bride to the people with a solemn 
 movement, as if she went through some strange old cere- 
 mony. Then the Minister presented to her the keys of 
 the castle, and in the sight of the crowd, she handed them 
 to the new-wedded chatelaine. 
 
 The cheering and music began again, louder and louder, 
 only checked for Angus to utter a few words of thanks. 
 
 Then the servants came out, and some went in, and 
 there was feasting and drinking and dancing in the great 
 stone kitchen, and cheering and shouts of welcome, far 
 into the night. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " PERDITA! come here, Perdita!" Andrew came into 
 the great hall in search of the child. 
 
 " I am here," she said, putting her fair head up from 
 the low seat in the cloister window. "Why so formal, 
 daddy? Mine is a strange case! I have two long dignified 
 names of my own, another softer name by which I am 
 named, and even that is shorn of its first syllable, unless 
 you wish to make use of me, and send mammie a mes- 
 sage per Dita." 
 
 " Saucy child, 1 must run your errands now that you 
 are lame." 
 
 " Ah! I can walk alone now see!" and disdaining her 
 crutches, Perdita put out her arms for balance, and came 
 slowly forward. 
 
 " There, that is enough!" cried Andrew, eagerly push- 
 ing a chair to her. ft Don't be imprudent; sit down and 
 arrange this bouquet," and he threw a great bunch of flow' 
 ers on the table. 
 
 Perdita began to separate thorn, and Andrew sat down
 
 104 DITA. 
 
 by her. " Your mother looks much better, Dita, does she 
 not?" 
 
 " A thousand million times better," she answered, gay- 
 ly. " I am sure Dr. Grant understands her, and every 
 time you quote Shakespeare, daddy, it is like atonic to 
 her." 
 
 " Perdita arranging flowers and not talking Shakespeare, 
 is an anomaly; begin at once, young lady," said Andrew. 
 Dita began 
 
 "Here's flowers for 3-011, 
 Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; 
 The marigold that goes to bed wi' the sun, 
 And with him rises weeping; these are flowers 
 Of middle summer, and I think they are given 
 To men of middle age. You're very welcome." 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Perdita. "Is not that an apt quota- 
 tion.? I have not recited my Perdita speeches since I was 
 a very little child, and had a beautiful long mane. What 
 an orchid, daddy! Do tell Adams to grow a great many 
 more of this kind." 
 
 " Orchids! orchids! where do you find orchids in 
 Shakespeare? All old-fashioned flowers for me." 
 
 " You must introduce orchids in your own plays, then. 
 Of course lie would have introduced them if he had seen 
 such beauties as these; they are more like the flowers of 
 Paradise than of earth," she said, enthusiastically. 
 
 " Yes, especially that monkey-faced specimen," said 
 Mr. Lovel, with supreme contempt. 
 
 l/i ta Jttrtgnea. They have a new one at the Lee 
 Astons'," she said, "which I had never seen before. Mrs. 
 Lee Aston promised to tell me the name, but I forgot it." 
 
 " Were you very happy there?" asked Andrew, rather 
 wistfully. 
 
 "Oh, so very, very happy!" answered Dita. "They 
 were all more kind to me than I could express. Hark! 
 do you hear Jaque's violin?" 
 
 There came to their ears a lovely, far -distant sound, 
 rising and falling, passing through strange cadences, now 
 sweet, now straining, then swelling into those yearning 
 sounds which make the listener feel as if the musician 
 played on his very heart-strings. 
 
 Neither spoke while it lasted, but when the musk
 
 DITA. 105 
 
 broke off abruptly in an nnfinisi-ed passage, they looked 
 at each other in astonishment. 
 
 " I never heard Jaques do that before, what can have 
 happened?" said Perdita. " Dear d.iddy, an you love me, 
 look out of the drawing-room window the sound of the 
 music comes from the shrubbery and tell me whether 
 Jaques lives, or has fallen dead!" 
 
 The sound of the violin was again heard as of a hand 
 dashed across it a curious twanging discord, all out of 
 tune like a breaking heart. Perdita gave a little shiver 
 and turned to her flowers; some of the ferns had been too 
 long out of water and were dead, and she threw them 
 aside. 
 
 Andrew returned from the window, saying, gayly, 
 
 " Jaques's abrupt ending was owing to the arrival of a 
 visitor. You will find it hard to believe, Dita. It was 
 Sir Edward Norton, who has at last made up his mind to 
 come under the roof of Salford Abbey." 
 
 The color flushed into Dita's face, and she turned away 
 her head; but Andrew saw it, and the shy sweet smile on 
 her lips, and he smiled and sighed. 
 
 Five, ten minutes passed and he did not come in, then 
 Andrew went once more to the drawing-room window. 
 
 ''Sir Edward has stopped to have a little conversation 
 with Jaques," he said. ''They are under the oak-tree; 
 he has fastened the reins of his horse to a branch; they 
 are going into the shrubbery." 
 
 '* I think mammie must be down by this time," was 
 Perdita's answer; and, taking the prettiest flowers, she 
 went to Mrs. Lovel's room. 
 
 " 'Ban, 'Ban Ca-Caliban, 
 Has a new master Get a new man. 
 Freedom! heyday 1" 
 
 Quotations are infectious, and Sir Edward muttered 
 these words- to himself as he rode up the road and espied 
 Jaques's uncouth figure playing on the lawn. 
 
 The music broke short with that strange twang, and 
 he also shuddered, and wondered at the jar of the nerves 
 it produced. And lo! Caliban strode across his path, 
 and, hand on rein, entreated for five minutes' conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Sir Edward, much surprised, dismounted very unwill-
 
 106 DITA. 
 
 ingly. His horse was a quiet old animal, fitted to carry 
 a man with one arm in a sling, and he tied him to a tree 
 and signified to Jaques that he was ready to listen to him. 
 It seemed doubly hard just now he was going to meet 
 his fate; to lay all his love, his pride, his poverty at the 
 feet of his fair lady; and the hope that he had won her 
 love made all sacrifice seem as nothing to him. 
 
 What could Jaques have to say to him? His rugged 
 face was as pale as ashes, and his eyes were troubled. 
 
 "We cannot talk here, sir," he said, rather hoarsely. 
 "Would you mind coming a few steps with me into the 
 ihrubbery?" 
 
 " I do not mind standing, Mr. Danby, and we can speak 
 just as well here. I am rather in haste." 
 
 "I will not keep you that is - " 
 
 "You will forgive me, if I ask you not to detain me 
 long. If you could call on me at the Grange, for instance, 
 I should be able to attend to you better." 
 
 "No, now I must speak to you now, sir." 
 
 "Very well," said Sir Edward, impatiently; " I am all 
 attention." 
 
 " For what object have you overcome your horror of 
 entering your old home?" 
 
 " You presume, Mr. Danhy: that is a question you have 
 no right to ask." 
 
 "I have a right!" cried Jaques; "and if you will have 
 patience with me, I will show you that I have a right." 
 
 Sir Edward leaned against the great oak-tree, and 
 looked at Jaques in increased astonishment. 
 
 " I decline to answer your question, Mr. Danby," he 
 
 Jaques raised his eyes and again looked at him with 
 that earnest look that had made Edward Norton feel that 
 he was endeavoring to read him through and through; 
 then he said abruptly 
 
 I cannot talk here, Sir Edward; we are in full view of 
 the windows; for Heaven's sake do what I beg of you 
 follow me!" 
 
 Edward Norton's curiosity was aroused, and, tighten- 
 ing the bridle on the branch of the tree, he followed 
 Jaques, who strode on before him into the wood. 
 
 Danby thrust aside the boughs, and as he did so the 
 remaining dead leaves rustled to the ground, and he
 
 DITA. 107 
 
 poshed his way into a small open space where two paths 
 crossed, and there was a seat; it was well shut in from 
 sight. He threw himself on the seat, and stooping for- 
 ward covered his eyes with one hand, the elbow resting on 
 .his knee, and began to speak at once. 
 
 "Sir Edward," he said, "I take you for a man of 
 honor." 
 
 He did not see the half-mocking bow of assent. 
 
 " I wish to save you from either committing an action 
 that you will always regret, or one that you cannot do 
 without forfeiting that honor." 
 
 " You speak in riddles, Mr. Danby." 
 
 " Sir Edward, I am not clever or even clear-sighted, 
 but I have discerned your love for our Perdita." 
 
 "I desire you to be silent, sir," said Edward Norton, 
 angrily. " These matters concern no one but myself, and 
 I will not permit Miss Lovel's name to be used. You 
 assume too much." 
 
 " Has no one feelings but yourself?" cried Jaques, start- 
 ing up. "She is my adoration; she has been my idol 
 since I first taught her little feet to walk, her sweet 
 voice to lisp my name; for years, years have I loved her 
 you have only known her a few short weeks." 
 
 " This is intolerable," muttered Sir Edward. 
 
 " I did not call you to tell you that!" went on Jaques, 
 excitedly. " I called you to prove your love; to find out 
 whether it has power to break through the traditions of 
 your haughty race. Have you considered well?" he said, 
 in a strange, hard voice. " Perdita is not your equal." 
 
 "Mr. Danby." 
 
 " Hush! I will not detain you; but have patience with 
 me, 1 beseech you." 
 
 Something pathetic in the voice of the strange being 
 before him made Sir Edward put aside his indignation 
 and resolve to listen. 
 
 "You have considered how far beneath you she is in 
 position?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " That the Lovels are of very humble origin: he a book- 
 seller in London, she a petty farmer's daughter, trained 
 to milk the cows." 
 
 "I know."
 
 108 
 
 " You know them to be honest; good, and true, al- 
 though such homely folks." 
 
 "Yes all else is nothing." 
 
 "You know that the world will say that, for the sake 
 of Salford, you have bowed your pride to wed the daughter 
 of a tradesman." 
 
 "I do not care." 
 
 " Your love, then, is strong enough to overcome more 
 obstacles than these?" 
 
 'There are no more " 
 
 "Man! man!" cried Jaques, eagerly, "you are not 
 equal " 
 
 "In everything!" cried Sir Edward; "for she brings 
 such a dower of goodness and innate nobility, that my 
 poor advantages of birth scarcely level the scale." 
 
 " You love her so well that if if " 
 
 " What do you mean?" cried Sir Edward. 
 
 " This, you think to wed the child of honest folks 
 a bride whose birth, though of humble origin, is as honest 
 as your own. This is not so." 
 
 " What do you mean? Speak, or I will wring it from 
 you," and he seized his arm. 
 
 "Perdita is no child of theirs; they took her orphaned 
 from the workhouse, mid she has no name." 
 
 Sir Edward staggered back against the tree as white as 
 death. Jaqnes laughed bitterly. 
 
 "This straw has broken the camel's back," he said. 
 "Yes, it is quite true, she is no fit bride for you, too 
 low of birth, and a thousand times too high for the scorn 
 of your noble family! I have warned you; for if you had 
 pledged your troth, and, hearing the truth, had broken 
 it, by the Heaven above us, I could have murdered 
 you! I have saved your pride or your honor, Sir Edward 
 Norton." 
 
 "I have been grossly deceived." 
 
 " I have undeceived you now. I was right, was T not? 
 The obstacle is too strong." 
 
 "Leave me to think; you will drive me mad! The 
 workhouse! a nameless orphan! Danbv, are you telling 
 me the truth?" 
 
 "As I hope for salvation. You can look in the case- 
 books of the workhouse in King John Street, Soho, and
 
 DITA. 109 
 
 you will find No. 14. The father at least was a gentle- 
 man, the mother an Italian, and " 
 
 "Step, stop! you torture me. Danby, you are right; 
 the obstacle is too strong, Dita, even for you!" A look 
 of agony passed over his face, and he almost broke down; 
 then added suddenly " All this, of course, is quite 
 private between ourselves, and she need never know." 
 
 Jaques was standing watching him fixedly: "I judged 
 rightly," he safd between his teeth; "and it would have 
 broken her heart." 
 
 Sir Edward was turning away, when he suddenly came 
 back. 
 
 " You meant well," he said, hoarsely, " and I am not 
 ungrateful." 
 
 " I do not care for your gratitude," said Jaques, 
 roughly, "I have saved Perdita from what she might 
 have had to bear if the truth had come too late, and proved 
 too hard." 
 
 "And you love her also?" 
 
 " I love her as mortals love the angels, she is the idol 
 of my life!" 
 
 "And I?" 
 
 "Take refuge with your dignity;" and Jaques broke 
 through the trees and was gone. 
 
 Mr. Lovel came into his wife's sitting-room. Perdita 
 sat on a stool by her sofa, her head in her mother's lap, 
 while Nannie played with her yellow hair; her rosy lips 
 smiled with the shy joyousness of a child. 
 
 "After all, Dita, our visitor has not come in," said he, 
 in a disturbed voice. " When he came out'of the shrub- 
 bery he mounted his horse and galloped off like a very 
 madman, nor looked once behind him." 
 
 A little shadow passed over the young girl's brow, a 
 light seemed to have gone from her life, a vague sense of 
 a cloud passing between her and the sun. Who does not 
 know that chill feeling? 
 
 "I fancy Jaques must have said something to him 
 which offended him. I wonder what it could have been!" 
 continued Andrew, uneasily; "and Jaques is playing 
 again so strangely." 
 
 " I will go to him," said Dita, calmly rising; and
 
 110 DITA. 
 
 Andrew, anxious to talk to Nannie, did not seek to stop 
 her. 
 
 The violin was sounding strangely wild, passing from 
 one mad strain to another, fast and loud, with a kind 
 of wail in its merriment that made it weird and un- 
 natural. 
 
 Perdita went out, the colors of earth, trees, and sky 
 seemed dimmed because of the shadow that had com? 
 bet \veen her and the sun. She came up to the musi- 
 cian as he stood playing under the oak and put out 
 her hand, the notes died faintly away. 
 
 " Jaques," she said, drearily " Jaques, he is gone." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Miss Dita, and it is better so." 
 
 She raised her eyes to his, and did not know how faith- 
 fully he read the simple story in their dark depths. One 
 long, deep sigh he gave, then he turned his head aside, 
 and said, without looking at her 
 
 " I told him your real origin his love was not enough, 
 to conquer." 
 
 " I know," she said, softly. He began to play again a 
 little soft cadence, and while the sweetest sounds swelled 
 forth, she went gently away. His hand passed roughly 
 over the instrument, and a string cracked loudly: Jaques 
 put down his violin and sat down on the ground, there 
 was a look in his face of intense suffering, but he set to 
 work patiently to mend the broken string and his broken 
 heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE December that had begun so well grew colder and 
 T, and snow six inches deep lay on the ground on 
 Christmas-day. The birds had nothing to eat; Perdita 
 fed them from her windows, and delighted in their in- 
 creasing tarn en ess. Mrs. Lovel never left the house, and 
 in her warm rooms she managed to remain pretty well. 
 Perdita was no longer lame, but she could not be out quite 
 as much as she used to be, and the life atSalford was very 
 still and quiet. 
 
 There was an unspoken shadow over them all. Perdita 
 had thought her secret all her own, and did not know
 
 DITA. Ill 
 
 that the three who loved her best had seen all, and to each 
 other hud spoken openly. Jaques told Mrs. Lovel what 
 he had done; he told her that he knew the strong pride of 
 Edward Norton's family, it was a proverb in the place; 
 he told her that long ago he had foreseen what would come, 
 and dreaded the effect of the disclosure of Perdita's true 
 birth. 
 
 "It was to save her I did it," faltered Jaques. "He 
 would have broken it off, or if not he, his family would 
 have done it for him, and she would have suffered." He 
 said that an instinct warned him when he saw him riding 
 along, that the time to speak had come. And Nannie 
 could not but acknowledge that he had done well and 
 wisely. 
 
 Perdita was not sad, only she was no longer gay, and 
 now and then looked very wistful; her love for Edward 
 Norton was not admitted or acknowledged even to her- 
 self; so when lie went away, and never came again, she 
 was conscious of a dull aching in lier heart which she 
 scarcely understood. 
 
 On Christmas-day she and her father walked down to 
 the church together. It was a hard frost, and the crisp 
 snow crackled under foot, and the trees, powdered with 
 sparkling hoar-frost, looked like frosted silver; above, the 
 sullen gray sky was heavy with snow yet to come. 
 
 When a young heart is gay and joyous, cold brightens 
 and invigorates; when it is sad, even a little sad, cold 
 gnaws and chills. Perdita hurried through the snow and 
 drew her fur cloak tighter round her. 
 
 It was a little, simple old church, with a square low 
 tower of great antiquity. The congregation were mostly 
 laborers and their families. The clergyman was very old, 
 and during his life no restoration could be made. Dita 
 had placed holly wreaths in the windows, and all the best 
 flowers she could find in the green-houses decked the 
 church; and all eyes were fixed admiringly on her work. 
 
 They came 111 and went straight to the squire's pew, 
 which faced the pulpit; it was an old-fashioned place, and 
 Perdita knelt down covering her face with her slender 
 fingers. Quite in the background came in among the la- 
 borers an unwonted figure. Sir Edward Norton, looking 
 very ill and worn, sat down at the fur end of the church,
 
 112 DITA. 
 
 where he could see the fair outlines of Perdita's face and 
 her waving golden hair above the old oak ]>e\v. He did 
 not move when during the service the congregation rose 
 up and knelt down, hut sat still, leaning forward with his 
 eyes fixed on her as though he would pwnt her image on 
 his brain. 
 
 Then came a hymn the glorious Christmas hymn, 
 which is grand even when sung by school-children in a 
 village church and in the middle of the sacred strain he 
 stole away out. Perdita looked half round, bnt she never 
 ceased singing. A ray of light pierced through the som- 
 ber sky and lighted up her hair till it seemed to shine like 
 a halo. 
 
 A dog-cart was waiting outside, a portmanteau within 
 it, and Edward Norton was driven swiftly away to the 
 station. 
 
 "Dita," said her father gently, as they walked home, 
 "Do you know who was in church?" 
 
 "Sir Edward Norton," she said quietly. 
 
 "You knew?" 
 
 "I thought so." 
 
 " It was his good -by. Lady Norton came yesterday. 
 She has persuaded him to go abroad he has been ill. 
 He goes to-day." 
 
 "Let us walk faster, dady it is very cold." And 
 they walked quickly on. 
 
 Nannie was able to come into the dining-room that day, 
 and afterward the usual distribution of dinners and gifts 
 took place. By four o'clock all was over, and Dita nestled 
 into her favorite little corner by Mrs. Level's sofa with a 
 book, and Jaques and Andrew went out for a walk. 
 Suddenly the door-bell rang with a loud, vigorous pull, 
 and within five minutes a whole tribe of Lee Astons and 
 Grethards poured into the room all the schoolroom party 
 headed by Meta. They had come, they said, to carry 
 off Perdita, by force if necessary; they were to have 
 charades and tableaux vivants, and every kind of amuse- 
 ment for a house full of children; and Jack had come 
 home and persuaded his mother to send them off to bring 
 the solitary little home-bird into their merry circle. 
 
 Perdita's cheek flushed, and there came to her a longing 
 wish to be one of the children again, merry and happy,
 
 DITA. 113 
 
 and free from care; there came into her mind the refrain 
 of that pathetic song, 
 
 " Make me a child again, just for to-night." 
 
 She was tired of the blank tired of the long day; her 
 youth resented care, she was so young. 
 
 Mrs. Lovel's watchful eye saw and read Dita's face, and 
 she accepted for her eagerly, and would not listen to her 
 assertions that she could not leave them alone on Christ- 
 mas-day. 
 
 She was not to return that night; and in less than a 
 quarter of an hour, Perdita, and a box containing all that 
 she would want, were packed closely into the little omni- 
 bus full of children. It was a gay scene into which Dita 
 came, blinking her large eyes, from the darkness; and she 
 was quickly divested of her warm wraps, coaxed and pet- 
 ted, and made much of, and immensely amused by all 
 the merry games going on among children and elders to- 
 gether. 
 
 She had wondered in the carriage how she should meet 
 Jack; but he came swiftly up, with a warm shake of the 
 hand, and was here, there, and everywhere, with rather 
 boisterous fun. All seemed like a dream, the noise and 
 the warmth and the shouts, as they played earth, air, and 
 water; and for half a moment she shut her eyes, to try 
 and realize it all; but she was summarily roused by a 
 sharp blow from the ball, and a shout of earth, 1, 2, 3, 4, 
 5, 6, 7. 
 
 'Trout, salmon, eagle!" she cried, in an agony of 
 hurry, and then followed a burst of laughter; she was 
 fairly roused, and found herself playing with as much 
 vigor as little Dick, the youngest Grethard, still in knick- 
 erbockers. Then came a pause, and in marched the butler, 
 carrying a magnificent dish of snap-dragon, and the lamps 
 were carried out, and the fun rose to the highest pitch. 
 One of Lady Aniline's children, little Alice, was rather 
 frightened, and Dita held her hand to coax her. Then 
 the salt was thrown on, and the usual effect produced, 
 Jack and the boys adding to the terrors by the most hor- 
 rible grimaces. 
 
 At eight o'clock the little children dispersed to bed, and 
 the elder onts went to dress for dinner, while all the per-
 
 114 DITA. 
 
 formers in the evening's amusement joined in a school- 
 room tea. 
 
 Perdita begged to be allowed to join them she was the 
 merriest among them; once, when the recollection of her 
 troubles flashed across her, she wondered at herself, and 
 fancied that they were all untrue, that her troubles could 
 not b.e real only a mistake. 
 
 When the charades were over, dancing began. Dita 
 was still afraid to venture, but Mrs. Lee Aston made her 
 sit close beside her, and she enjoyed it almost as much. 
 
 "Not one dance?" asked Jack; "will you not dance 
 even one? What a fatal first ball that was!" 
 
 "Dita gave a little shiver; but she answered gayly, 
 " Not one; my dancing days are over." 
 
 "I wonder what my Mabel isdoing!" said Lady Armine, 
 wistfully; and her thoughts were wandering away to the 
 first of her nestlings who had taken wing. 
 
 Far away in Dunmonaigh, Mabel was standing at her 
 window alone, and the large tears were rolling down her 
 cheeks. Christmas-day, when all families meet together, 
 and the boys are home from school, and life is at its 
 brightest, she stood alone, looking out on the frozen lake, 
 where the moon gleamed over the snow, and each black 
 Scotch fir was shrouded with white. It was very cold, and 
 her heart was full, longing for the father and mother who 
 loved her so fondly, for the noisy brothers and the merry 
 sisters who overflowed her home; all was so dignified, and 
 all seemed so old, she would fain have been silly and 
 childishly merry again. Angus was kind, and Lady Grisel 
 was even too anxious to do all for her she could; but they 
 were so wise and old, and Mabel felt as if she were flut- 
 tering in a cage; and as she looked out, she pressed her 
 forehead against the cold window-pane and sobbed, and 
 kissed the great packet of letters that had arrived that 
 riiorning, the loving blessings from her parents, the pages 
 of schoolroom news from her sisters, and the boyish 
 "Merry Christmases" from all the boys. 
 
 Then she started on hearing her husband's voice, and 
 carefully wiped her eyes and put the letters away. He 
 had thought them silly in the morning, and she would 
 rather he did not speak of them again; so she smoothed 
 her soft hair, and stole down stairs, for fear that Angus 
 should come and seek her.
 
 DITA. 115 
 
 The dancing at the Lee Astons' went on till past mid- 
 night; then all was over, and Perdita went up to bed. 
 What a strange long day if, seamed! and then she -started 
 and gave a little moan, for the pain came back to her 
 heart with a sudden pang, and she knew that it hud but 
 slept for a time, and that it lived and was very keen. 
 Her little simple prayer went up for distant friends, for 
 Edward and for Mabel, and when she fell asleep her 
 pillow was wet with tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 N the spring came Nannie was not well enough to 
 leave Salford, so the journey to the German baths was 
 postponed till the autumn, with which arrangement they 
 were all well pleased. 
 
 The fine sunny summer brought back some strength to 
 the invalid; she was able to be constantly out of doors, 
 and the quiet and peace made her enjoy it much. 
 
 The Armines and Lee Astons, and all the gayer neigh- 
 bors, were gone to London , but Perdita was almost glad, 
 as it left her free to devote herself to Mrs. Lovel, whom 
 she watched with clinging tenderness. 
 
 At last, when the middle of July was reached the doctor 
 would hear of no further delay. A courier was engaged, 
 and the whole party started on their journey. 
 
 Badfeld lay, as do most of such towns, in a valley, 
 mountains rising hopelessly on every side. The railway 
 ran through the midst of the valley, which was perhaps a 
 mile wide, and the low ground was swampy and wet. 
 The town was built on a lower slope of the hills: a huge 
 square hotel, with windows enough for a manufactory, 
 stood in a large jrarden, and there were innumerable steep 
 little walks through the low fir-woods on the mountain- 
 side. 
 
 The little party arrived very tired after a hot dusty 
 journey one Thursday evening, and found the courier 
 (who had preceded them by an earlier train) in despair. 
 There were no rooms to be had except one small bedroom 
 on the fifth floor. 
 
 They looked at each other in dismay. The hotel-
 
 116 DITA. 
 
 keeper could give them no hope, though their rooms had 
 been ordered weeks before: more and more people were 
 arriving daily, and he was at his wits' end where to put 
 them. 
 
 *=f A large family came yesterday," he said, "and I 
 know not how long she stays. If she go, these ladies shall 
 
 immediately occupy their apartments; if not " and he 
 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 A carrying-chair was brought, and Mrs. Lovel was car- 
 ried up stairs to the one room, while Mr. Lovel and the 
 courier sallied forth on an expedition to all the other 
 hotels and lodging-houses in the town, to see if any rooms 
 could be hud. 
 
 They returned in triumph; they found that though the 
 Schweitzerhof (of which every village in German Switzer- 
 land possesses one) was quite full, it had belonging to it 
 a ti'ly little chalet, a dependance containing five rooms. It 
 was now occupied by a German princess with her two 
 daughters, but they were going to leave on the following 
 morning, and Andrew had joyfully secured it all. 
 
 For this one night Perdita must sleep with her mother 
 nml the maid, and two beds were rolled in from the pas- 
 sage; and Andrew could find a room for himself in the 
 Badhof, a little inn some wav off in the town. 
 
 It was a great relief to think that the present state of 
 things was not to continue, and they were in better 
 spirits than they had ventured to think possible an hour 
 before. 
 
 Nannie bad her dinner brought up to her room; and 
 Perdita and her father went down to the table d'hote 
 room. 
 
 It was all new to both of them, and they were much 
 amused by the crowd of people seated in groups round 
 little talies eating and talking ceaselessly. The courier 
 mars-haled them to a table which they were to share 
 \\uth two ladies and three very magnificent German offi- 
 cers, who rose at their approach and bowed profoundly. 
 
 Suddenly Perdita uttered an exclamation of pleasure. 
 
 "Oh father, how delightful! a familiar face." 
 
 And there at a round table in a corner of the great room, 
 Andrew saw Lady Armine with three of her children, and 
 a lady whom Dita knew to be the governess. They had 
 just finished their supper and were leaving the room.
 
 DITA. 117 
 
 Dita would fain have run after them, but did not dare 
 in that crowd; but she was in high spirits at having al- 
 ready found companions for their time at Badfeld. 
 
 Mildred Grethard was the next sister to Mabel;' she 
 was eighteen years old, and lately come out; and now that 
 the eldest daughter was married, she was her mother's 
 constant companion. The next girl, Mary, was suffering 
 from a weakness of the spine, and it was for her sake that 
 they were there. 
 
 She and the little boy, Dick, were the only ones still in 
 the schoolroom, he not being yet old enough to go to 
 school. 
 
 The next morning was spent by the Lovels in moving 
 and settling in the chalet, which rejoiced in the name of 
 Bellevue. It was a nice little house, a pretense Swiss cot- 
 tage, with a large veranda, into which all the long French 
 windows opened. It was fixed, as it were, into the side 
 of the mountain, so that there was a sweet smell of fir- 
 wood round about it. In front, great crimson oleanders 
 grew in tubs, and were in full flower. 
 
 It took Mrs. Lovel's fancy at once; she had never ex- 
 pected to be so much pleased with anything out of Eng- 
 land. Whether it was the smallness of it that gave her 
 the impression that she had realized the real dream of 
 her life a beautiful little rural cottage or whether it 
 was only the rest and repose after the crowded and noisy 
 hotels they had been in, but she seemed to be thoroughly 
 settled and happy there at once, to Andrew's great joy. 
 
 They had brought all sorts of pillows and air-cushions 
 with them, and Nannie was carried out to a sofa under 
 the veranda, where she could lie among the oleanders, and 
 see through the trees all the gayly-dressed people walking 
 in the garden or listening to the never-ceasing band. 
 
 There was a spare room kept in the chalet for Jaques, 
 in case he shrfhld join them later. 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Lovel and Dita found out the 
 rooms which Lady Armine inhabited, and went to call on 
 her. A waiter carried their cards in to No. 95, but before 
 the answer came, Mildred came running out to beg them 
 to come in. The girls were quite enchanted to see Per- 
 dita. 
 
 Whether Lady Armine was as enclmnted to see Andrew 
 was not quite so certain, but she nad a great respect
 
 118 DITA. 
 
 for him, and a most cordial liking for his wife, and she 
 greeted both father and daughter with warm kindness. 
 
 Perdita was pressed to spend as much time as she couM 
 spare with the girls, and it was insisted on that she should 
 share their German master, and come and play whenever 
 she liked upon the piano, which they had secured by a 
 rare piece of good fortune. 
 
 Then Lady Armine put on her bonnet and went across 
 the garden with Andrew to see Mrs. Lovel, and the three 
 girls sat down to have a chat together. 
 
 " And how are you, Mary?" said Perdita; "how many 
 baths have you had?" 
 
 " Only three, and they are very pleasant. They are 
 beautiful white baths, and the water is blue, and as clear 
 as crystal." 
 
 " And the woman next door," shouted Dick, who could 
 never control his voice, *"' sings all the time at the top of 
 her voice a sort of howl without any air in it; and Mary 
 says it is exactly like the banshee." 
 
 " Not so loud, Dick, please; but it is quite true, it is a 
 most horrible sound, for it never goes with the band; and 
 with the constant rush of water into the baths, it has a 
 most eerie effect." 
 
 "Jones told Miss Benton," pursued Dick, "that the 
 woman's maid's name is Streichhoch, pronounced like a 
 hiccough." 
 
 " My dear iTick!" 
 
 "And Streichhoch told Jones that her lady (that's the 
 Banshee) is always afraid of having a fit in her bath, and 
 if she stops singing for one moment she is to run in with 
 a jug of cold water." 
 
 " I should have thought that there was water enough 
 already," said Dita, laughing. " What is this singing 
 lady like on terra firrnd?" 
 
 "She is beautiful," said Dick, gravely. 
 
 " She has golden hair, and the pinkest cheeks, and the 
 blackest eyebrows conceivable," said Mildred, " and she 
 is Dick's ideal of female beauty." 
 
 "Are there any more funny people here?" asked 
 Perdita. 
 
 " There is an Italian lady who sits with her legs 
 crossed, smoking cigarettes, whom we often watch. And, 
 by the bye, a friend of yours has been here; she passed
 
 DITA. 119 
 
 through Badfeld last week, on her way to the Italian 
 lakes." 
 
 " Who is that?" 
 
 " Lady Norton; she has a Miss Gray with her, a niece 
 whom she is very fond of, and they are going to meet Sir 
 Edwai'd at Como. They mean to linger there until it is 
 cool enough for traveling home. He has been climbing 
 all the worst mountains in Switzerland." 
 
 " He is fond of Alpine climbing," said Dita, her heart 
 beating quickly. 
 
 " Yes; and Lady Norton says that even the guides are 
 astonished at his powers." 
 
 " Have you seen the eagle?" interrupted Dick. 
 
 " No; what eagle?" 
 
 "It comes from the mountains," answered Mildred; 
 "and has been seen several times in the valley." 
 
 "Such a fine fellow!" cried Dick; "immense! and Sir 
 Edward told Lady Norton that he saw him " 
 
 "No, Dick, not that eagle an eagle." 
 
 " Swoop down and carry off a very fat little marmot in 
 its mouth its claws, I mean. I believe they feel about 
 and pick out the fattest." 
 
 " Then they certainly will not catch you," said Per- 
 dita, making a dash at the little blue knickerbockers, 
 which skillfully wriggled out of reach. 
 
 " Jack comes to-morrow," shouted Dick, apropos de 
 fiottes. 
 
 " Mr. Lee Aston, you most impertinent little monkey !" 
 cried Mildred. 
 
 "Jack I always call him Jack," said Dick. "It will 
 be great fun when he comes." 
 
 "What can he becoming here for?" said Dita, won- 
 deringly. 
 
 " He is very rheumatic, and has a bone in his back," 
 said Dick. 
 
 "My dear boy!" 
 
 " He told me so himself; he said it was a dreadful 
 bone a whole yard long," and Dick's face looked quite in 
 earnest. 
 
 "I do not know why he is coming," said Mildred, her 
 protty cheeks more pink than usual. 
 
 " We saw a great deal of him in London, and when we
 
 120 DITA. 
 
 came abroad he went to Dnnmonaigh to see Mabel and 
 Angus, and he promised to come out here and tell us all 
 about them afterward." 
 
 A pleasant idea came into Perdita's mind, and smiling 
 herself, she caught a corresponding smile on Mary's face. 
 
 " I am very glad he is coming," she said, gayly. 
 
 " He said the waters would melt the bone if they were 
 hot enough," said Dick. " I asked him if it would hurt, 
 and he said awfully." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said Dita, laughing. 
 
 " You have heard of his new fortune, have you not?" 
 said Mary. 
 
 "No, but I shall be delighted at any good fortune 
 coming to any of those dear people." 
 
 "His old aunt, Miss Ash burn, has made him her heir, 
 and now gives him a very good allowance; is it not nice?" 
 
 " I am so glad! I always thought that she was a kind 
 old lady, and very fond of Jack Lee Aston." 
 
 " They are all delighted," said Mildred. " For though 
 he is quite clever enough to make his own way, of course 
 it would have been slow work." 
 
 " Jack will be able to tell us about Mabel's big dog," 
 said Dick, finding his friend's prospects a very dull topic 
 of conversation. 
 
 " Has Mabel a big dog?" said Perdita. 
 
 " Yes, almost as big as a little pony. Lady Grisel got 
 it for her because she wanted one; she gets her everything 
 she wants." 
 
 " That is very nice for her." 
 
 "She's not nice now," said Dick, discontentedly; "she 
 always used to be so jolly, but she's quite spoilt; and 
 when mamma and Milly and I went there, they kept 
 telling me to run away just as if I was one of the babies." 
 
 "Oh, Dick, Dick, nonsense!" cried Mildred. 
 
 " It's not nonsense," cried he, indignantly; "and she 
 never laughs and plays now as we used " 
 
 "Tell me, is not Dunmonaigh quite beautiful?" asked 
 Perdita, anxious to stop Dick's confidences. 
 
 "Yes, lovely! quite beautiful!" said Mary, hastily; 
 " Mamma and Mildred were there for nearly a fortnight 
 before they went to London." 
 
 "Arid Mabel was quite well and flourishing, I hope?"
 
 DITA. 12 L 
 
 "Yes, she was well," said Mildred; and she walked to 
 the piano to hide that her eyes had filled with tears. She 
 could still feel the clasp of her sister's arms tight round 
 her neck, and hear her passionate cry of " Oh, how can 
 I let yon go, mother! how can I let you leave me!" when 
 poor Mabel's little attempts at concealment all broke 
 down, and they saw too plainly that she was not happy. 
 
 " Quick, quick, Milly, Miss Lovel!" shouted Dick, 
 rushing to the window. 
 
 " What is it?" asked Perdita, running after him. 
 
 " Look! there is the Banshee going to the fountain 
 do look!" 
 
 Across the gravel-walk swept a magnificently-dressed 
 lady, in a cloud of white muslin and Mali nee lace, with 
 masses of golden hair, and the black eyebrows Mildred had 
 described. 
 
 " A most substantial Banshee," said Perdita, laughing, 
 for the lady was not ethereal. 
 
 " I know all about her," said Dick, eagerly. " She is 
 very grand outside, and dreadfully stingy; she only 
 gives " 
 
 "Dick," said Mary, shaking her head, "you know 
 you ought not to listen to silly gossip." 
 
 "Dick, Dick, always Dick!" cried the incorrigible boy; 
 " well, I won't say a word, but next time I see her, I'll 
 sing 
 
 ' Here a penny, there a penny, everywhere a penny.'" 
 
 Dick had been with his sister to see "The Happy Land," 
 and had adopted its songs; now he was dancing all about 
 the room singing 
 
 " With a little penny here, and a little penny there f 
 Here a penny, there a penny, everywhere a penny!" 
 
 and in the midst of his song, Miss Bentou came in and 
 carried him off for a walk 
 
 Perdita looked at her watch, and finding that time had 
 passed quicker than she could have believed possible, hur- 
 ried back to the chalet. 
 
 She found Lady Armine still sitting with Mrs. Lovel, 
 and the former told her that she had been making all 
 sorts of arrangements for her to spend a great deal of timo
 
 122 DITA. 
 
 with Mildred and Mary, and that she thought that to- 
 gether they ought to enjoy Badfeld very much. Lady 
 Armine made an appointment to call on Mrs. Lovel the 
 next day about one o'clock, when poor Xannie \vas always 
 d >\vn and at her best; and then she went away, leaving a 
 general impression of kindnesa and warmth behind her 
 that was veiy pleasant. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IN Dunmonaigh Castle was one very quaint and charm* 
 ing room which had been carefully prepared by Lady 
 Grisel for Mabel's use. It was square, and had two re- 
 cesses in round turrets at one end, their narrow windows 
 looking over the loveliest views of the country round 
 the south windows over the loch, the western ones toward 
 beautiful Benichon and its range of purple hills. 
 
 The walls were hung with pale-green silk, old oriental 
 plates upon them, and great oriental china jars were in 
 the corners, full of pot-pourri, which gave out an old- 
 fashioned aromatic smell. 
 
 Lady Grisel herself was wont always to occupy a high- 
 backed chair, but she had supplied Mabel's rooms with 
 luxurious furniture, all covered with the same fine old 
 silk, of which there had been rolls lying by in the huge 
 lumber-rooms up stairs. 
 
 In this room Lady Grisel and Mabel were alone one 
 evening Angus had gone to Edinburgh on business, and 
 would not return that night. Lady Grisel had ordered 
 one of the old boxes to be brought down from the lum- 
 ber-room to amuse Mabel; they were full of treasures 
 forgotten and thrown aside, but well worth a rummage. 
 
 They watted till the lights should be brought; and 
 Mabel sat in the turret with her elbow on the window- 
 sill, and her eyes on the loch, so still and dark in the 
 waning light. 
 
 Lady Grisel sat half leaning back in her stiff chair, 
 with her hands lightly clasped over the bunch of keys in 
 her lap. 
 
 " Mabel," she said, gently, " shall we ring for the cau- 
 dles to be lighted r
 
 DITA. 2 
 
 "Not yet; it is so pleasant in this half light." 
 
 " You are too young to love the gloaming, child," said 
 Lady Grisel, sadly. " When I was your age, I could not 
 bear that hour always daylight and brilliant lamplight for 
 me." 
 
 " There is a little young moon," said Mabel; "and it 
 looks so pretty on the deep water." 
 
 A sound in her daughter-in-law's yoice made Lady 
 Grisel rise and approach her. 
 
 " Mabel! crying agai-n; my poor child!" 
 
 There was a look almost of despair in Lady Grisel's 
 face, as Mabel rose, and coming to her, sat down on the 
 ground, and burying her face in her lap, gave way to a 
 passion of sobs and tears. 
 
 "Tell me, darling, tell me what ails you? Oh, Mabel, 
 why cannot we make you happy?" 
 
 " It is very wrong; please forgive me." 
 
 "Forgive you, my poor child! it is I that should ask 
 for forgiveness. Why did you ever come from your happy 
 home to this house? Has Angus been unkind to you 
 again?" 
 
 " It is very silly," said Mabel, trying to brush away her 
 tears; " but when I wanted to kiss him and say good-by, 
 he pushed me away and said, ' There, that will do.' He 
 does not love me; he is so hard. Oh! I ought not to say 
 all this." 
 
 - " And you," murmured Lady Grisel, fondly, "you have 
 been so much coaxed and petted all your life, poor wee 
 thing!" 
 
 " Do you think he would have married me if he had 
 not loved me?" said poor Mabel. "Ah! he seems to be 
 made of stone!" 
 
 'My poor child," said his mother, "Angus is not 
 young like you: he has grown accustomed to a cold, calm 
 life. I never have caressed him as you young things do 
 he never could bear caressing even as a child. Do not 
 expect him to come into your ways at once: be patient, 
 and try to win him; and oh, do not let your own warm 
 little heart grow cold !" 
 
 "He speaks so bitterly to me," faltered Mabel. 
 
 "I know I know it too well." 
 
 "Mamma told me to think only of his happiness, and 
 in doing that, I should forget that I am not happy my
 
 124 DITA. 
 
 self: and I have tried oh, believe me, I have tried hard; 
 but I seem to have no power to affect his happiness one 
 way or another. I cannot make him smile by being gay, 
 or sad by crying it is cold, calm indifference, and it 
 wounds me, it hurts me so." 
 
 " I believe, Mabel, that in his heart of hearts, he has 
 warm, strong affections, but, as with all men who are re- 
 served, they are hidden." 
 
 " Why, then, lias he trained his whole life down to a 
 calm, dead, monotonous level day after day the same 
 still smile, except when he is angry? Oh, I cannot get 
 Jock's howls out of my ears since he beat him yesterday! 
 But, to-day, again, the same incessant activity, as though 
 he could not sit down for one moment to think, or dream, 
 or talk to me." 
 
 Lady Grisel passed her hand over her brow, Mabel 
 went on 
 
 "I suppose I shall tone down to it; sometimes I feel 
 already that I begin to fossilize, but not with you." 
 
 She hid her face again: Lady Grisel softly stroked her 
 hair. 
 
 " My child," she said, "I have been thinking of apian 
 winch I want you to consider well: perhaps it would break 
 through Angns's reserve if you were more thrown upon 
 him if I were to leave you." 
 
 Mabel started tip with almost a scream "Oh no, no! 
 do not leave me; what should I do without you? Prom- 
 ise, promise you will not leave me I will not let you move 
 till you promise!" 
 
 Lady Grisel was startled by her vehemence so startled, 
 that she clasped the poor child in her arms, and could 
 only silence her entreaties by making the required, promise. 
 
 " You are foolish, Mabel," she said lovingly. 
 
 "Ah! what could I do without you? You have 
 frightened me so much!" and in truth she looked pale 
 and tremulous. 
 
 Lady Grisel made her lie down on the sofa, and rang 
 for lights, saying, "Now darling, we must have no more 
 sad talks; give me a kiss, and dry your eyes, and I will 
 open this big box I fancy there is some old lace in this 
 one." 
 
 Mabel struggled hard for composure, and succeeded by 
 the time the servants came.
 
 DITA. 125 
 
 There were old silver sconces on the walls, and the wax 
 candles in them shed a pretty soft light over the room. 
 
 Lady Grisel looked at her daughter-in-law: it was 
 strange how this gentle dependent girl had brought out 
 all the unknown depths of tenderness in. her heart. She 
 who had been all her life reserved and dignified, now 
 coaxed and petted Mabel, with an instinctive feeling that, 
 if the warmth of demonstrative love was altogether with- 
 drawn from her, she would pine away like a flower for 
 want of sun. 
 
 Lady Grisel opened the box. There was a bundle first 
 of old brocade, a canary-colored suit with a waistcoat em- 
 broidered in silver; then a gown, the waist some four 
 inches long; of pink satin, innumerable odds and ends; 
 then a magnificent brocaded train, in which the late laird's 
 grandmother had been presented to Prince Charles at 
 Holy rood. 
 
 Mabel grew quite excited and interested over all these 
 treasures. 
 
 Then came a rouge-spot, and an ivory box of mouches, 
 and then an old jewel-case of faded red morocco, which 
 Lady Grisel put into Mabel's lap. In the first tray was a 
 great parure of amethysts, a high comb sparkling with tiny 
 brilliants which adorned the setting. 
 
 " Tkis is beautiful!" exclaimed Mabel. "And so is 
 this great bracelet of the trois ors. What arms our an- 
 cestors must have had!" And she slipped the bracelet off 
 and on her arms. 
 
 "I think the lace is underneath," said Lady Grisel; 
 and raising the tray, Mabel found a parcel of fine old lace. 
 
 " I shall be able to make you as pretty as a queen when 
 you go to Court next year," said Lady Grisel, smiling. 
 " I have some diamonds you have never seen, and they 
 shall all be reset for you." 
 
 "Oh, might I see them?" asked Mabel, eagerly. 
 
 "When you go to bed, you shall come to my room and 
 see them. Now let us see if there is anything in the bot- 
 tom of the box." 
 
 They found a number of miniatures carefully wrapped in 
 paper. Lady Grisel took them up with a sigh. "I did 
 not know that these were here," she said; "I am very 
 glad k) have found them again." 
 
 Mabel poured them into her lap.
 
 126 DITA. 
 
 " Who is this?" she said, holding out one of them a 
 badly- painted portrait of a boy of fourteen. 
 
 "That is my eldest son, poor E\van," said Lady Grisel, 
 softly. "His father did not think it good, and put it 
 away." 
 
 " He must have been very handsome. Who is it this 
 reminds me of so much? I cannot remember." 
 
 " He was very handsome: he was six feet two and a half 
 in height, and he was wonderfully strong." 
 
 " Was he like Angus?" 
 
 " No, not at all; no one could have told that they were 
 brothers. Ewan was a thorough Macmonach." 
 
 "And he was never married," said Mabel, thoughtfully. 
 Lady Grisel looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 "No," she said, "he was never married." 
 
 " Was there not some one whom he wished to marry?' 1 
 asked Mabel. " 1 asked Angus once, but he was very 
 angry." 
 
 " Yes, there was some one." 
 
 "Oh, do tell me about her! I seem to know so little 
 about you all; you do not mind, do you?" she said, 
 timidly. 
 
 "It is a painful story," said Lady Grisel, "but it is 
 right that you should know it. On Ewan's deathbed, 
 this young girl whom he loved (her name was Assunta de* 
 Caroli) appeared and claimed to be his wife. she had her 
 little child with her." 
 
 Mabel looked at Lady Grisel wonderingly. " And was 
 she not his wife?" she said. 
 
 "No," said Lady Grisel, slowly, "or Dunmonaigh 
 would not have belonged to Angus. After the funeral 
 she brought her papers with her, which had been given 
 to her by my son, purporting to be her marriage-lines 
 and the baptismal register of the child. They were 
 opened before witnesses, and proved to be blank papers." 
 
 "Oh, poor, poor girl!" 
 
 " He must have deceived her by a mock marriage," 
 said Lady Grisel, with an effort. "I shall never get over 
 the pain of that discovery." 
 
 " And where is she now?" 
 
 "Child, you forget how young yon are; all this was 
 eighteen years ago, and she died six mouths after Ewan."
 
 DITA. 127 
 
 " She died of a broken heart?" 
 
 " I think so. She refused all help, and at last when 
 actual want was near, her appeal came too late. Master 
 Malcolm sought her out, followed her to London, and 
 found her in a workhouse dead." 
 
 " What a piteous story!" 
 
 "Put back the miniature, Mabel; telling that story, I 
 cannot look at it." 
 
 " What became of the poor little child?" 
 
 " It was adopted by a very good kind couple who had 
 no children of their own, but who loved poor little Mar- 
 garet most dearly. She will, please God, have a happier 
 fate than her mother. They changed their names, and 
 we have quite lost sight of them for many years, put it 
 away, dear." 
 
 Mabel still held it in her hand. "I see now!" she 
 eried, suddenly. 
 What is it?" 
 
 'It is quite an extraordinary likeness." 
 'To whom?" 
 
 ' Perdita Lovel, a friend of mine." 
 ' What a curious name!" said Lady Q-risel. 
 ' Her father is quite a character, and has a mania for 
 Shakespeare. The likeness is quite odd exactly the 
 same brow and short upper lip, and that curl of the lips, 
 half proud, half sweet; but there the likeness ends. Dita 
 is fairer, and her eyes such a dark brown, that, even in 
 spite of her fairness, she has been taken for an Italian. 
 
 Lady Grisel started. " Indeed!" she said. "And what 
 are the parents' names? Perdita is such an unusual 
 name." 
 
 "Lovel: they are quite nouveaux riches; but Dita is 
 not the least like that." 
 
 " I wonder," began Lady Grisel, but checked herself. 
 "Is she a great friend of yours?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes; she is so beautiful and charming. They are at 
 Bad fold now, with mamma and Mildred, and Mary and 
 Dick," she said, with a sigh. 
 
 They put back the miniature in its place, and by the 
 time they had examined the whole contents of the box it 
 was eleven o'clock, and time to go up stairs. 
 
 They went into Lady Grisel's room that she might ful- 
 fill her promise of showing Mabel tne diamonds,
 
 128 DITA. 
 
 "Which is the room in which poor Ewan died?" said 
 Mabel, shuddering. 
 
 "Never mind, child; if you thought of such things, 
 every room in every old house would be haunted by the 
 past. Look here." 
 
 She opened the door of the old japanned cabinet, and 
 drew out the drawers. 
 
 "These are fine stones," she said, putting a riviere 
 into Mabel's hands, " but all these others want resetting;" 
 and she showed her a number of old-fashioned jewels, 
 combs, and long earrings, aud diamond flowers trem- 
 bling on gold wires. 
 
 "And you will really have them set for me?" asked 
 Mabel, with childish pleasure. 
 
 "Yes, we will make designs for them ourselves, if you 
 like. Now go to bed, my child. Good night. God bless 
 and keep you." 
 
 And Mabel went away. 
 
 About hc.lf an hour later came a timid little knock at 
 the door, and Mabel, as white as her white robes, come in. 
 "Oh, may I sleep with you?" said she, entreatingly; " I 
 cannot sleep alone I never have slept alone in all my life. 
 Milly was always there, for I am so silly and frightened: 
 she was much braver." 
 
 "Poor little thing!" said Lady Grisel; "yes, you shall 
 sleep with me." 
 
 " I cannot help fancying mine might be the room where 
 Ewan died," said Mabel, shivering, " and that his wife 
 might come in and upbraid him there." 
 
 Mabel was soon asleep, but Lady Grisel lay long awake, 
 thinking sadly. She felt as a gardener might feel who 
 had some strange exotic intrusted to his care, and no 
 neansof warming and fostering it. She looked down on 
 Mabel's sleeping face, with her soft brown hair tossed 
 round it, and she heard her murmur in her sleep, " Yes, 
 mamma, Milly and I always do." lu her dreams she was 
 a child again. 
 
 " Poor wee thing, she is only a child now a little soft 
 young thing," she said to herself; "how could her mother 
 have sent her away so soon?" 
 
 Far away in Badfeld, Lady Armine was thinking the 
 game thing: that she had been wrong in allowing Mabel
 
 D1TA. 129 
 
 to leave her so soon; and that whatever Lord Armine 
 might urge about the ten children, the expensive eldest 
 son, and the excellence of a match, should not induce her 
 to part with Mildred so soon. But Thomme propose, et 
 Dieu dispose. Jack Lee Aston had arrived at Badfeld, 
 and, after all, Mildred was far older and more developed 
 in mind than her heart's darling Mabel. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 JACK LEE ASTON tapped at one of the windows of the 
 Bellevue chalet, and begged for admittance. Mrs. Lovel 
 was just making preparations to move, and Jack lent a 
 strong arm to help to wheel her out into her customary 
 place in the veranda. 
 
 " You have come very early to-day," she said, smiling. 
 "Dita has not come back from her German lesson at 
 No. 95." 
 
 " I wanted to know whether ) r ou would take tickets for 
 the grand concert to-night iii the Kurhaus of the 
 Sch \veitzerhof." 
 
 " I had not heard of it; is it to be good?" 
 
 "If half a yard of orange-colored programme signifies 
 anything, it will be grand," he answered. "I wish you 
 could go yourself," he said, with kind eagerness. " We 
 can make it quite easy for you we can have your sofa 
 taken there." 
 
 " You are very kind," she said, smiling, and holding 
 out her hand; " but now I care for nothing but rest 
 ;;g peacefully down the river of life." 
 
 "This place will quite set you up again, I hope," he 
 said. She gently shook her head. 
 
 " Have you come about the concert?" said Andrew, 
 corning in. "I have sent my courier to take places for 
 ourselves, so, if you are all going we had better try to sit 
 together. Ho\v hot it is!" he said, wiping his brow. 
 
 .\\vfullyhot. I got a note from Lady Norton this 
 morning, asking me to go over to Como, but I can't stand 
 the heat. If it was not so pleasant here. I would be off 
 home again in no time. Ah! there is Dick, couie with a 
 message, I have no doubt."
 
 130 DITA. 
 
 The breathless little boy ran up. 
 
 " Mamma wants to know whether Mrs. Lovel and Dita 
 are going to the concert?" he panted; "and oh, Jack, 
 there is a snake in the garden such a beauty! and Miss 
 Benton won't let me touch it, though it is as dead as dead, 
 and I want to put it in a bottle with wine, to keep it," 
 ke stopped. 
 
 "I will come and look at it, my boy," said Jack. " So 
 you will not come yourself, Mrs. Lovel? If you only knew 
 how easy it would be." 
 
 "No, no, my dear, thank you all the same for your 
 kind thought. I lie out here quite late these warm nights, 
 and you shall all come and tell me about it afterward." 
 
 "Mamma said I was to tell you that she is coming to 
 see you in half an hour," said Dick. 
 
 "Very well; now I won't keep you from the snake any 
 more." she said, smiling. 
 
 Jack and the child went off to the spot where a poor 
 snake had been killed. It was a yard long, bright green 
 and white, and about the thickness of a good-sized walk- 
 ing-stick. Jack thought him far too much injured for 
 preservation; and they walked on to the hotel to see if 
 the German lesson was not at an end. 
 
 " Do you see that little beast?" said Dick, pointing to a 
 fairy-like little girl about his own age, exquisitely dressed, 
 with a tight little waist and flowing sash. "'Would you 
 believe it, she is the most cruel little wretch going. I 
 have watched her for half an hour together catching one 
 butterfly after another, crunching them all up in her horrid 
 little hands; and one day she caught oneof those great 
 grasshoppers that come bouncing in at night, and she and 
 her French nurse stuck a pin through it, and there was 
 she, rushing about with it wriggling on a card; but I will 
 punish her yet. I got one of mamma's long bonnet-pins 
 and a newspaper yesterday, and ran after her and told her 
 I was going to pin her down for a little time, but she 
 shrieked so frightfully that I was obliged to let her go. 
 There, she sees me!" Dick threw np his arms and shouted 
 " Icli komme !" and the child fled with a shrill shriek. 
 
 At the sound Lady Armine, who had just appeared at 
 the door, hurried toward them. 
 
 " Dick, you are very naughty. I will not hare' that 
 child frightened. Fancy!" she said, turning to Jack, "I
 
 DITA. 131 
 
 had a letter from her mother yesterday, saying that she 
 entreated me to control 'Monsieur monfils,' for that her 
 little girl had had an ' attaque de nerfs' yesterday from 
 something he had said to her. Run in, Dick, and tell 
 your sisters to make haste." 
 
 " Are they going out walking now?" 
 
 " Yes; it is very hot, but they are going through the 
 trees up to that little chalet to sketch; it is sheltered there 
 even at; mid -day." 
 
 "May I go with them?" he said, coaxingly. 
 
 She looked at him a moment, and then smiled. 
 
 " Ought I lee you go with them?" she said. 
 
 " Oh, you have heard from Lord Armine?" he ex- 
 claimed. "I see you have; he forbid me to speak to you 
 till he had written to you himself." 
 
 " Yes, I have heard from him," she said, witli an irre- 
 pressible sigh; " so instead of going with the girls, I want 
 you to come and have a talk with me." 
 
 Jack's face beamed with delight. 
 
 "How kind you are!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "There they are! run and tell them that we will come 
 and see how they get on with their sketches by-and-by. 
 Please, Miss Ben too," she continued, "do not let Mary 
 walk too fast. 1 suppose you have an air-cushion? Yes, 
 Dick, you may carry it. Good-by." 
 
 Then Lady Armine took Jack's arm, and they walked 
 away into the woods. 
 
 Perdita, instead of accompanying the sketching party, 
 brought her books and some work and sat in the veranda 
 with Mrs. Lovel. She looked very pale and thoughtful 
 and slowly drew her needle in and out. 
 
 " My little silent mouse," said Mrs. Lovel, gently, 
 " what are you thinking about?" 
 
 "I w;)s thinking of a very odd letter I have had this 
 morning from Sir Edward Norton. I think it cannot 
 really be meant for me." 
 
 " What an odd thing! let me hear what he says, dear." 
 
 "I will read it to you," said Dita, half-laughing as she 
 unfolded it. *' See, there is the address as clear as it can 
 be ' Bellevne, Schweitzerhof, Badfeld, Suisse;' there is 
 no mistake about that and this is the letter." She 
 read
 
 132 DITA. 
 
 " MT DEAR FRIEITD, Most heartily do I congratulate you on 
 your prospects of wealth and power. I rejoice with all my heart. 
 She is an old trump. I have still the ' 'ammer, 'ammer, ammer,' 
 still the ' 'ard 'iuh road ' we spoke of long ;igo; and when that en- 
 trancing short cut appeared 1 found the leap a real ' bullfinch,' and 
 my pride too sorry a jade to rise to it. I am better mounted now : 
 and a truce to metaphor I have made up my mind to try my luck. 
 My dear old friend, wish me God-speed for ' ily va de ma vie.' 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "E. D. NORTON." 
 
 " My dear, it is perfect Greek to me," said Mrs. Lovel, 
 laughing. " How very funny! He must have been care- 
 less, and put it into the wrong envelope; let me look at 
 it. There must be a letter to you in somebody else's 
 pocket." 
 
 The color flushed into Dita's face. 
 
 "Probably some messsage from Lady Norton," said 
 Mrs. Lovel, quietly. " She said that she had rheumatism 
 in her hand last time I saw her, and it may have made it 
 difficult for her to write." 
 
 " Very likely," said Perdita. 
 
 At about two o'clock, when it was nearly time for lunch * 
 eon, the oleanders were pushed aside, and Jack appeared 
 in the veranda. 
 
 " I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Lovel," he said. 
 "I have a letter for you in my pocket, it came directed 
 to me, and I only saw the first, ' My dear Miss Lovel,' to 
 show me the mistake; and here it is." 
 
 "Ah! then this is for you," said Perdita, producing 
 her letter. 
 
 " Oh, thanks; how stupid of Norton!" and glancing at 
 
 it, he said, "I suppose you read it; it is about a 
 
 horse," and he blushed as vivid a blush as her own; they 
 both laughed awkwardly. 
 
 " We shall meet at the concert to-night," said Jack; and 
 raising his hat he disappeared his light step, his shining 
 blue eyes all showed that his suit was prospering. 
 
 Little did Edward Norton imagine the fate of his two 
 letters as he restlessly rowed about on the beautiful lake 
 of Oomo. The letter to Perdita had taken him hours to 
 write and rewrite; that to Jack had been dashed off in 
 half a moment. He had felt a need of sympathy and 
 knew he should find it there. In his mother he had
 
 DITA. 133 
 
 found none. From the moment of his telling her the 
 true history of Perdita's birth, she and his uncle hail left 
 no stone unturned to drive her from his thoughts. For a 
 time they succeeded; but the first shock of the announce- 
 ment having passed off, his love for the beautiful orphan 
 returned tenfold. He would throw reason to the winds: 
 he would only promise to wait for three months for their 
 Fakes; after that, he would no longer be controlled. The 
 three months expired, and the letter was written. He 
 was reading it over for the last time, when his mother 
 called him; they were waiting for him to go out with 
 them. The letter to Jack lay open still; he folded both, 
 put them in, his mother called again, hastily sealed 
 them, and they went. Lady Norton wisely determined to 
 make the best of it. She was very fond of Perdita, and 
 under other circumstances nothing could have delighted 
 her more; but Mr. Norton went off to England in high 
 dudgeon. 
 
 "Eun up stairs and read your letter, my child," said 
 Mrs. Lovel, tenderly; "luncheon is never punctual:" and 
 Dita flew away. She did not return till Mr. Lovel had 
 come in, and luncheon was ready. 
 
 In the aftereoon Nannie went out for the short drive she 
 was still able to take with her husband; and Perdita, in- 
 stead of joining her young friends, spent the whole after- 
 noon in her own little room. She was not alone again 
 with her mother till about six o'clock, when Andrew always 
 went to the reading-room to look at the papers. Then 
 Dita nestled up to her sofa and said 
 
 ; 'I want you to read the letter, mammie, and the an- 
 fcwer I have written." Siie put both into her hands. 
 
 " You have considered well, and asked for God's help, 
 darling, have you?" 
 
 " I think 1 'have done right," she answered, with u littl 
 sob. 
 
 Mrs. Lovel opened the letter and read it: 
 
 " MY DEAR Miss LOVEL, I hardly venture to address you with- 
 out beginning by saying that, unless circumstances had prevented 
 me, 1 should have written this letter long ago. You must have seen 
 during that most precious time in which we were so much together, 
 that my feelings towaid you had grown far beyond the bounds of 
 warmest friendship; now, though months have passed since I have 
 seeu you, I am more than ever convinced that the happiness of my
 
 134 BIT A. 
 
 life lies in your hands, and entirely depends upon your acceptance 
 or rejection of my suit. Will you be rny wife, and make me the 
 happiest individual on God's earth? Yours most truly, 
 
 "E. D. NORTON. 
 " My address will be, ' post restante, Cadenabbia.' " 
 
 " Before you read my answer, mammie," said Perdita, 
 laying her hand on her own letter, " listen to me. You 
 know that the circumstances to which he alludes are not 
 circumstances at all, but feelings. T have interpreted his 
 letter to Mr. Lee Aston very clearly, and I know his 
 character so well," she said, the tears rising to her eyes. 
 "He is so proud that he will find it difficult to realize 
 that I can be as proud as he is." 
 
 "Child, child! have you refused him?" 
 
 " Yes, mammie;" and Dita hid her face. 
 
 " Darling, do you know what you are doing? Dita, do 
 you love him?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I do love him, mammie, and he loves me 
 loves me so much that he would make what he deems a 
 very great sacrifice for me; but I will never* marry him 
 never, never!" she eried, with increasing vehemence. 
 " No bar-sinister shall ever disgrace his shield." 
 
 " My dear, what do you mean?" 
 
 "Never mind, mammie," she said, smiling drearily. 
 "It is better so; I could not leave you, and you cannot 
 wisli to send me away. Eead my letter, mammie." 
 
 Mrs. Level took it up, sorely troubled. 
 
 " MY DEAR SIR EDWARD, Forgive me, please forgive me the 
 pain I must give you. I cannot be your wife. Try to think of it 
 no more. I feel most deeply that you love me so much that you 
 would sacrifice yourself for me. I do not accept the sacrifice. I 
 will pray for you that you may forget, PEHDITA." 
 
 Mrs. Lovel lay back and shut her eyes; one of her over- 
 whelming attacks of palpitation had come on. Perdita, 
 pale and dry-eyed, attended to her, administering the 
 usual remedies. When she had somewhat recovered she 
 bade Dita sit by her again. 
 
 "Darling, you have made up your mind?" she said, 
 feebly. 
 
 " Yes, quite, quite, mammie," said Perdita, wistfully.
 
 DITA. 135 
 
 ' I have never asked yon before what was my mother's 
 name? and where did you see her first?" 
 
 "I found her, darling, in the workhouse!" 
 
 A sharp shiver passed through the girl's frame. 
 
 "She had become so very poor, and you were so young, 
 she thought it better to go there. Her name was Assunta 
 de' Caroli; she told me that she was the daughter of an 
 Italian, but she spoke English like an Englishwoman;" 
 she stopped breathless. 
 
 "Assunta de' Caroli," repeated Perdita, still with her 
 face hidden; "and was she like a lady?" 
 
 " Yes, dearie a true, well-born lady. She had large 
 brown eyes that shone so wistfully in her white wan face; 
 she was very thin, poor little thing, but I could see she 
 must have been quite beautiful." 
 
 " And," said Dita, hesitatingly, "did she speak of my 
 father? Oh, mammie, do you know his name?" 
 
 " Darling, must you know? His name was Ewau 
 Macmonach." 
 
 '' Macmonach! Mammie, mammie!" 
 
 " Yes, dearest; Angus Macmonach's elder brother." 
 
 " Oh, does any one know?" she said, shivering. 
 
 " No, darling, your father took care that no one should 
 ever know; perhaps that has been a mistake," she said 
 softly to herself. Perdita was sobbing now, and clinging 
 closely to her. 
 
 " She gave you to me for my very own," said Nannie, 
 tearfully " to be all my own; and she smiled and thanked 
 God when she saw you in iny arms. And you have been 
 happy, darling, have you not?" 
 
 " Mother! my life has been one long joy." 
 
 " God bless you, child, for saying that; I will tell As- 
 sunta soon." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE little party of English made their way to the room 
 in which the concert was to be held, about half-past eight. 
 They had to cross part of the garden, for the large room 
 of the Kurhaus was the place chosen for the evening's 
 Amusement.
 
 136 DITA. 
 
 Lady Armine took Dita's arm, and began asking her 
 kindly about Nannie, whom she had thought to be look- 
 ing rather frail during the last two days. 
 
 Jack and Mildred walked together, and the schoolroom 
 party followed. 
 
 The room was half full; the courier had secured two 
 rows of seats, rather in the background, where the music 
 would be best heard. 
 
 There were several children present, and in one of the 
 foremost chairs sat Dick's little foe, Mademoiselle Her- 
 mine. 
 
 Dick saw her at once, but his attention was taken up by 
 a fat little King Charles, that lay by its mistress, panting 
 asthmatically. 
 
 "It is a civil little dog, Milly," he said, in a loud 
 whisper, "but it does not speak English; Tcomm liter," he 
 added, insinuatingly; but as it only curled up its face, 
 and showed its gleaming white teeth, he desisted. 
 
 "It wants to listen to the music. Oh! look, Mary!" 
 he cried; "there is the Banshee in a low gown, with bare 
 arms; is she going to sing?" 
 
 There was a general hush of expectation, for the Ban- 
 shee was a famous pianoforte-player, a professional from 
 the concert-rooms of Vienna. 
 
 Her long sonata bored Dick almost beyond endurance. 
 It was a little better when a long-haired young German 
 tenor sang a plaintive clianson d'amour, it ended grace- 
 fully on the minor D, when to every one's horror Made- 
 moiselle Hcrmine's voice was raised in a piercing shriek 
 on the E flat, and the discord made every well-tuned 
 German oar vibrate with agony. 
 
 The child was carried off by her parents, one on each 
 side, kissing and addressing her as "Ma cherie, mon 
 ange;" "ma is qu'as tu ?" 
 
 Jack bent down to Dick and said severely, " What did 
 you do?" 
 
 "I only just held up this," answered Dick, looking un- 
 naturally innocent; and he showed his mother's long 
 bonnet-pin concealed in his hands. It was of course con- 
 fiscated; and a pale German girl, a beginner from the 
 Vienna Conservatoire, sang Brahm's lovely " Wiegenlied " 
 quite charmingly, and was very much applauded. 
 
 Dita all the time sat listening as if she was in a dream.
 
 DITA. 13? 
 
 The music seemed to soothe and lull the sort of aching 
 feeling the constant excitement of the day had pi'oduced. 
 A few whispered words from Lady Armine had told her 
 that Mildred's fate was now in her own hands that per- 
 mission had been given to Jack to try and win her. 
 
 The thought came flashing across her, did they know 
 that, if she had so willed it, she might have been Jack's 
 wife now? and she was half amused. Would it have been 
 a happy fare? Her heart answered " no/' as distinctly as 
 if she could see Edward Norton's dark earnest eyes actual- 
 ly present, and the constantly varying expression she knew 
 so well. When she thought of the morning's letter, she 
 felt she had gained much; she might love him now, she 
 might tell herself that no one would ever be to her what he 
 had been; she might treasure the knowledge now, locked 
 up and kept as a possession for life. It seemed a little 
 strange to her to see how quickly Jack had been cured; 
 but she felt that Mildred might be well content, for he 
 was strong and good and brave, and possessed a manly 
 humility and resignation to the inevitable. Yes, Mildred 
 would be very happy. 
 
 Mendelssohn's duet from the " Lieder ohne Worte " 
 began that lovely speaking and answering of two sad airs 
 of which so many interpretations have been made. It 
 was beautifully played by the Banshee, so beautifully 
 that the audience encored it, and broke the spell. 
 
 "Oh, is it to be all over again?" said Dick, piteou?ly. 
 Jack charitably supplied him with a piece of string. 'Die 
 last chords were still sounding, when there was a little 
 commotion in the crowd gathered round the door, and 
 Perdita saw the face of Mrs. Level's maid looking anxious- 
 ly in, very pale and disturbed. She jumped up and touched 
 Andrew. 
 
 " Daddy, there is Summers; she looks as if she wanted 
 us. I am afraid that mother is not so well!" 
 
 "Shall I come with you, dear?" said Lady Armine. 
 
 "Oh, no, thanks; it is very likely nothing worse than 
 usual. Please come when the concert is over;" and they 
 went hastily away. 
 
 " What is it, Summers?" asked Perdita, as they reach- 
 ed the Bellevue; for the maid had run on without wait- 
 ing, and met them at the door of Mrs. Level's room. 
 
 " Mrs. Lovel is in a very bad faint, miss," she answer-
 
 138 D1TA. 
 
 ed. "I sent and asked Dr. Schafhans to come in, and 
 ran to fetch you." 
 
 They went in. Nannie was in a death-like fainting fit, 
 and nothing seemed to revive her. 
 
 The doctor shook his head gravely when Perdita looked 
 at him. "It is the beginning of the end," he said to her 
 in German, which Andrew did not understand. Perdita 
 felt as if her heait would break, but she was quite calm, 
 and set herself to do what the doctor told her. 
 
 After about an hour Nannie opened her eyes with a long 
 soft sigh. She was silent, and her eyes wandered from 
 one to another with a wondering, scarcely a conscious ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Her strength is at its lowest ebb," whispered the doc- 
 tor. "You must try to get it up by every means." 
 
 About half-past ten Lady Armine arrived, and offered 
 to stay all night, which they thankfully accepted. The 
 doctor desired that Summers should go to bed, that there 
 might be one quite fresh in the morning. Andrew seemed 
 thoroughly stunned; he said nothing, but sat holding 
 Nannie's hand in his, and looking at her without moving, 
 and they let him stay. 
 
 Every now and then the deadly faintness came back, 
 terrifying the watchers. Perdita felt as if she should not 
 have known how to bear it without Lady Armine's calm 
 experience and active help, who told her what to do, and 
 -who was full of resource. When morning dawned they 
 trusted that the worst was over, for Nannie slept. 
 
 Lady Armine and Perdita urged Andrew to follow their 
 example and go to bed for a few hours, leaving Summers 
 and the doctor both with the patient; and he allowed him- 
 self to be persuaded. 
 
 Perdita did not wake till two o'clock, and she found 
 Lady Armine already back in the Bellevue. Her ladyship 
 would not let her return until she had eaten something, 
 and made Mildred see that she did so. 
 
 Nannie's condition appeared to have changed: there 
 was a pink flush on her cheeks, and a light in her blue 
 eyes, and she seemed to be wandering. It was piteous to 
 see how Andrew seemed in that one night to have become 
 quite an old man, looking helplessly from Perdita to 
 Lady Armine for comfort and encouragement. The doe^-o' 1 
 said that nothing more could be done but to watch foi
 
 DITA. 139 
 
 every change. Her pulse was fast and intermittent, and 
 she was not conscious. 
 
 They sat by her all the day, forestalling with strong 
 restoratives the tendency to fainting. In the evening 
 they were startled by hearing her say, almost in her nat- 
 ural voice, " Andy, are you there?" 
 
 "Yes, wife, I am holding your hand." 
 
 " I have asked mother, honey, and she says we may 
 walk together after church, and take the children after 
 the blackberries: there are so many this year by Good- 
 man's stile. Daisy does nothing but low all day, and I 
 cannot make her happy; she had better go back to the 
 Islands." 
 
 " She is wandering," said Lady Armine, softly. 
 
 "She is living again in the past," said Andrew dream- 
 ily. "Nannie, wife, Daisy died long ago." 
 
 "I remember," she said "I was making a cowslip 
 ball, for the wine was finished, and mother gave me the 
 rest of the flowers, 1 remember Daisy would not touch 
 her food, and I gave her the cowslip ball, and she ate 
 that," and she laughed faintly. 
 
 " Those were bright days, Nannie," murmured Andrew. 
 
 "It is very pretty, Andy," she went on, her eyes wan- 
 dering around. "And it is like you to have filled that 
 jug with wallflowers. I shall get used to town after a bit. 
 Let me put out mother's loaf, nothing so pure as home- 
 make bread in London. 
 
 " You were happy, wife?" 
 
 " Oh yes, I'll be happy after a bit, but it comes strange 
 when you've been used to the country; and you'll put up 
 with me if I am dazed-like at first?" 
 
 " I was not patient enough, Nannie." 
 
 " Never say that, honey. I am not clever I oan't 
 always understand what you say; but you are rarely good 
 to me, and I would not have cried over a hasty word if I 
 had not been so muddled to-day. I am a silly and igno- 
 rant body for you to love, Andy." 
 
 "No, dear, dear, wife." 
 
 Still her fancy went wandering on sometimes she was 
 walking in the lanes with her clever young London lover, 
 sometimes fretting over the blacks that would sully the 
 white curtains she prized. And so for three days it went
 
 140 DITA. 
 
 on, Andrew always sitting by her, and answering as 
 though he shared and followed her thoughts in a very 
 strange way. One day was very sad: she thought she 
 held her little child in her arms, and rocked it, and spoke 
 to it as though it lived, and t-hen held it dead to her 
 breast, and fought that they might not take it away; but 
 after that it was always the same soft babbling of green 
 fields and rural games, and work she repeated simple 
 village hymns one after another. 
 
 And there was nothing to be done; nature had broken 
 down there was only the waiting till the feeble light 
 should flicker out. 
 
 Mildred came one morning to the door of the chalet and 
 knocked very softly. Perdita came out, looking very 
 worn and pale. 
 
 " I have called to say that mamma is coming, and she 
 wishes you to come out for a little while with me, Dita," 
 she said, kissing her affectionately. 
 
 " I will come; mother is very quiet now, and Summers 
 is with her. Thank you, dear Milly, it will do me good." 
 
 She went for her hat, and they walked together up 
 into the wood, and sat down on a bench. It was very 
 hot, but a gentle breeze pluyed among the trees, and 
 brought a sweet scent of syringa on the air. 
 
 A memory of what seemed long ago flushed across Dita, 
 and she looked round at her companion. Mildred's grave 
 sweet face was full of thought. 
 
 " Dear Mildred," said Dita, softly, " is all settled now?" 
 
 "I did not like to disturb you with my happiness," 
 she answered, kissing her. 
 
 " I am so glad, so very glad." said Perdita. " You will 
 be very happy, Milly; and I " 
 
 The words escaped involuntarily, but Mildred did not 
 hear them. 
 
 The two girls wandered on; the wood was alive with 
 insect-life; the birds sang, the grass-hoppers kept up their 
 merry chirp. They stood for a moment over a tiny pond, 
 half choked with its growth of tangled water-lilies: the 
 frogs croaked hoarsely; and great dragon-flies whirred 
 past, their steel-like bodies gleaming in the sun. 
 
 Then Perdita turned from this world of light and love, 
 and went back to the monotonous pain of watching that 
 life, so dearly loved, wane slow'
 
 DITA. 141 
 
 Night came, and Nannie's voice ceased, and she be- 
 came very still. 
 
 Lady Armine, very tired, had gone home to rest, leav- 
 ing Perdita and Andrew that night-watch. For the last 
 two nights Andrew had refused to leave his wife. 
 
 Eleven o'clock struck twelve and she still seemed to 
 sleep. The lamp was burning very low, and Dita went 
 softly to trim it. 
 
 There was a slight movement; Nannie's white hand, 
 groping outside the sheets till it met Andrew's, and there 
 rested. Presently she spoke, and her faint whisper sounded 
 clearly "Andy, some one told me that there were crim- 
 son oleanders on the shores of the lake of Gennesaret, 
 where the Saviour is waiting to heal the sick. The son 
 is setting, and he bids me go to Him walking on the 
 water; it is so blue, and it seems as if 1 must sink; but 
 He is calling me, and I must go." 
 
 "Nannie wife!" cried Andrew, " wait for me! a little 
 while!" 
 
 " I cannot wait," she said, slowly; " I see Him on the 
 shore, and voices are bidding me come. Good-by, koney 
 good-by!" 
 
 Perdita and Andrew bent over her in terror. She mur- 
 mured something about the beautiful crimson flowers 
 then suddenly a light came into her eyes, as of a flash of 
 returning consciousness. Her voice was very feeble now. 
 
 "Andrew, sweetheart, I am going fast." 
 
 " Nannie, darling Nannie, have pity! do not go." 
 
 '' Kiss me, Dita, darling! Go leave me with him 
 now." 
 
 Solemnly Perdita bent down, and gave a long still kiss, 
 then she stole away. 
 
 "Open the window, Andy," gasped the dying woman. 
 " Give me light and air!" 
 
 He rose to his feet, and drew up the wooden blinds; a 
 pale light, half from the moor., half from the first tinge 
 of daylight, stole into the room, 
 
 " Andy," she said, her words coming slowly, <( it is hard 
 to part."" 
 
 "I cannot let you go," he moaned. 
 
 "Nothing but death could part us two, Andy." She 
 put her feeble hand on his bowed neck, "hold me in
 
 142 DITA. 
 
 your arms there, closely, closer still; raise me. We are 
 together still. Look out there, when all is over, you will 
 see the sun rise up again, and the world go on as if I was 
 with you with you still." 
 
 ''And I, Nannie! I?" 
 
 " Come soon." 
 
 The pale light flooded into the room, the night-lamp 
 flickered up and went out suddenly, and there was perfect 
 silence. 
 
 Perdita had awakened Summers, and they had sent for 
 the doctor, for her heart told her that the end was near; 
 and when they heard no sound, they waited a while, and 
 then went in. 
 
 All was dim, and the doctor hastily stepped back and 
 brought a light; Nannie was lying with her sweet face 
 looking toward the window, and Andrew with his arms 
 still round her, as he had laid her down, and his head was 
 buried on the pillow. 
 
 He rose up when they spoke to him, with a smile on 
 his face, and let Perdita take his hand. 
 
 " She has gone before," he said, "but only for a little 
 while." And she led him away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THEY were dreary, miserable days that followed. Lady 
 Arrnine was very anxious to get back to England, for her 
 husband kept writing to press for her return, and Mary's 
 term of eighteen baths was accomplished; but she would 
 not leave Perdita till all the arrangements were over, and 
 news had come that the sad, unattended funeral had taken 
 place at Sal ford. 
 
 Mr. Lovel was in no condition to travel quickly, and 
 Dr. Schafhaus strongly urged that he should not be dis- 
 turbed in. any way until he had somewhat recovered from 
 the stupor into which he seemed to have sunk. It was 
 Jack who made every arrangement, *-to whom Perdita 
 appealed for help as she would have clone to a brother. 
 
 Jaques was traveling in Spain, and it seemed probable 
 that the letters were following him from place to place. 
 
 Lady Armine was consoled in leaving Perdita by her
 
 DITA. . 143 
 
 assurance that he would come to Badfeld the very moment 
 he heard of what had happened. 
 
 Dita drove down to the station to see them off, and on 
 the way she could hardly suppress her tears. They had 
 nearly half an hour to wait in the new, highly-varnished 
 mile cV attente, and she felb as if every moment were a 
 reprieve. Lady Armine made her promise to write often, 
 and to let them know her plans, and how poor Andrew 
 went on; and the three girls kissed and embraced each 
 other warmly. 
 
 The little tinkling bell began at last, and the large 
 German train rolled into the station. 
 
 "I have never thanked you, I have not known how to 
 thank you," said Perdita, as Lady Armine pressed her in 
 her arms. 
 
 "God bless you, my dear child. Good-by." 
 
 They were hurried off to take their places, and she 
 could no longer see Jack waving his hat out of the window. 
 Then she went sadly back to the chalet. 
 
 Andrew was always sitting in the veranda among the 
 oleanders. Perdita used to light his little carved pipe 
 and give it to him, but it always went out and he laid it 
 down. She was frightened at his apathy, and longed 
 eagerly for Jaques to come. 
 
 Then about the end of August the weather changed. 
 One night Perdita was awakened by the roar of the wind 
 which came rushing through the valley: it was so Avild and 
 loud that she rose up and stole into Andrew's room to seo 
 if he also was awake. No, he was sleeping heavily with- 
 out movement; and she went back to her room and with 
 some difficulty succeeded in closing the shutters firmly. 
 
 The next morning the valley was full of clouds which 
 lay in white solid masses along the sides of the hills, and 
 the trees were bending almost double in the storm. All 
 the gay ly- dressed people disappeared from garden and 
 balconies, the band sounded faintly from within the Kur- 
 hans, and the shattered flowers of the oleanders strewed 
 the walks. 
 
 Andrew was driven indoors, and sat bending over his 
 desk, vainly trying to write letters. 
 
 For two days the wind blew and the valley was thick 
 with clouds, then it went down suddenly, and a thick 
 pelting rain began to fall incessantly. They were chilled
 
 DITA. 
 
 with the damp; and Budfeld was so completely a snmmef 
 place, that there were no means of warming the rooms. 
 
 Ac last Andrew, to Dita's great delight, said that he 
 wished to go home. The very fact of his expressing a 
 wish was something gained. Jaques had not been heard 
 of, but Dita knew that he often traveled without leaving 
 his address, and though distressed she was not surprised. 
 She made every arrangement; and on one day, still more 
 wet and dreary than usual, they bade adieu to Badfeld, 
 and started on their long journey to Bale. 
 
 Dita felt her spirits rise as they emerged from the valley 
 into the open country, gradually, as they left the mountains 
 behind them, getting into finer weather. They did nob 
 reach Bale till night, and Andrew was so tired and worn 
 out that Dita was afraid to push on their journey as she 
 had intended, and devised with the courier a route by 
 which they would best shorten the travel i.ig for each day. 
 The first day to Troyes, the second to Sens, the third to 
 Paris. 
 
 They reached Troyes late on Saturday night, and An- 
 drew went at once to bed. Dita hoped that by resting 
 there on Sunday he would be able to go ou Monday, but 
 she was disappointed. The next morning he was unable 
 to rise from his bed, and suffered from violent pains in 
 the head and limbs. The hotel was but an old-fashioned 
 inn, the up-stairs rooms opening into an open-air gallery 
 on wooden pillars which ran all round the little square 
 court-yard. The rooms were quiet and clean, but very few 
 travelers seemed to pass through Troyes: and Dita felt it 
 would be terribly lonely if Andrew's indisposition increas- 
 ed to a severe illness. 
 
 She sent for the doctor, who had nothing to recommend 
 but a soothing ptisa ne and patience. And she could only 
 sit by Andrew, bathing his brow, and soothing him, and 
 feeling very helpless and disconsolate. 
 
 On the Saturday afternoon, two days after the Levels had 
 left Badfeld, Sir Edward Norton arrived there with Lady 
 Norton and Miss Grey. They had Ivard from Jack Lee 
 Aston of poor Nannie's death, and Lady Norton had com 
 to Badfeld full of kind intentions toward Perdita; and 
 they were all disappointed to find that they had gone. Dr. 
 Schafhaus told them that he thought they would go very 
 slowly home, for that Mr. Lovel was in a very low, weak
 
 DITA. 145 
 
 state. And in hope of overtaking them, they pursued 
 their journey to Bale. 
 
 Sir Edward found out privately from the hotel manager 
 that theLovels had gone on to Troves; and as his mother 
 and cousin wished to see the sights of Bale he professed an 
 extreme desire to visit the old churches at Troves and 
 went off by himself, and promising to rejoin them at Paris 
 or at Pontainebleaiij which they had also wished to in- 
 clude in their tour. 
 
 He traveled all Monday afternoon, and arrived at the 
 hotel, walking from the station with a porter to carry his 
 portmanteau. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as 
 lie came into the little court-yard, he found all the serv- 
 ants of the inn sitting round a table eating a savory potage 
 aux croutons. 
 
 He began by asking for a room, and was taken into the 
 open galfery up stairs by the fussy landlady, who never 
 ceased talking. She showed him a large room with a 
 slippery waxed floor, where he deposited his luggage. 
 
 " Yes, there were some English here," the landlady in- 
 formed him; "an old gentleman who was ill, and his 
 daughter. They had arrived on the Saturday, and were 
 to have proceeded on Monday, but he was not well enough 
 to go." 
 
 Sir Edward sent away his hostess. It was too late to 
 disturb the Lovels that night, being nearly ten o'clock; so 
 he lit a cigar and sat out on the gallery looking down into 
 the court. The servants had finished their supper and 
 withdrawn; the moon shone down from a clear purple sky, 
 tin-owing the old wooden staircase and balconies into strong 
 and picturesque relief. In the court below a white cat 
 glided across, her velvet paws making not the slightest 
 sound; far away in the street, a workman going home 
 sang a gay little song to his lady-love. Sir Edward leant 
 his head on his hand, and felt the profound silence as an 
 infinite rest. 
 
 Presently one of the doors opened, and lie saw some one 
 come out and advance slowly toward him. An instinct 
 told him who it was before he even saw the slender figure, 
 the fair head drooping with sad dejection. 
 
 He rose to his feet and to?sed away his cigar. Dita 
 started when she saw him and would have passed on, but 
 he moved a step forward.
 
 146 DITA. 
 
 "It is I, Miss Lovel; do you not know me-?*' 
 
 She drew back a step, putting her hand to her brow, and 
 then held it out to him tremblingly. 
 
 "You, you here!" The impulse was almost irresist- 
 ible to rush forward to try to comfort her, to pour out his 
 story of love, but he controlled himself with an effort. 
 
 "I wish, I do so wish to be of service to you, if only 
 you will let me. I have come to " 
 
 Dita withdrew her hand. 
 
 "No, no, Miss Lovel; dear Dita, do not be afraid I 
 will say nothing about that, I will forget it; think of 
 nothing to distress you. 1 promise, you must let me 
 help you as I would a sister. Oh Dita!" 
 
 For she leant one hand on the balustrade, and covering 
 her face with the other, could not restrain her tears. With 
 a rigid resolve to be fraternal paternal even he made 
 her sit down on his chair, and half sitting on the balus- 
 trade himself, waited until she had dried her eyes. 
 
 " It is such a relief to see you," she said- 
 
 "Ah, you have no one with you! poor Dita!" 
 
 The courier left us this morning," said Dita, raising 
 her eyes and trying to smile. "He would have Missed 
 an engagement he had made for a very long journey if I 
 had kept him any longer, and of course I could not de- 
 tain him against his will." 
 
 "The brute! He was bound to stay. I will see that 
 he does not escape for such a breach of engagement. 
 Have you no one else?" 
 
 " Only our maid Summers: she is a great comfort, but 
 she cannot speak a word of French. I cannot tell you 
 tho relief of seeing some one whom I know." 
 
 "And where is Caliban? What does he live for, but to 
 be of use to you?" 
 
 " His letters have not reached him I suppose, for I 
 have not heard a word from him. I wished he had come 
 abroad with us." 
 
 " Tell me about your father, is he really very ill?" 
 
 " I don't understand his condition. Oh, if I only had 
 Dr. Grant here for five minutes! The doctor here says 
 that he must on no account move at least for three 
 weeks." 
 
 " I will see about that to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, thank you tbank you for coming!"
 
 DITA. 147 
 
 "I would do anything," he began, but abruptly left 
 ff. 
 
 " Good night," said Dita, rising. " It is very late, and 
 I was going to bed." 
 
 "So soon! could you not wait a little longer?" 
 
 "I was up all last night," said Dita wearily, "and I 
 would talk to you if I could, but I cannot hold up my 
 head." 
 
 "Poor little Dita," he said, in a tone of inexpressible 
 tenderness. "Then go to bed. Tell me, ought any one 
 to sit up with your father to-night?" 
 
 "Summers is there," she said, dreamily. He put her 
 candle into her hand, and saw her go down the gallery to 
 the door of her own room. Then he lit another cigar, and 
 walked out into the moonlit town. 
 
 Dita was so worn out, that she was asleep before her 
 head touched the pillow. 
 
 The next morning she was only roused by her maid, 
 who came in with a cup of coffee; she brought a message 
 from Sir Edward, begging her not to get up, and saying 
 that he had given Mr. Lovel his breakfast, and would see 
 the doctor and receive his orders. Dita turned her head, 
 and witli a delicious feeling of security, was asleep again 
 before her maid had left the room. 
 
 About two o'clock she came down with a guilty feeling 
 that she had been neglecting her duty, and hurried to 
 Mr. Level's room. He was out of bed and sitting propped 
 up by pillows in a large armchair, Edward Xorton beside 
 him, reading aloud an English newspaper. 
 
 There was a more lifelike and less painful expression 
 on the old man's face than it had worn since the death of 
 his wife, and he looked up and actually smiled as Dita 
 came in. 
 
 "You have had a long rest, my love," he said, "and 
 you look the better for it." 
 
 Edward, looking at Dita, thought she must have looked 
 ill indeed if this was better; his heart ached to see how 
 pale and thin she was, and how large her dark eyes had 
 gro\vn during those few weeks. 
 
 " I know something of doctoring, Miss Lovel," said he 
 "gained during the time that I have been knocking 
 about in the world, and I hope you will approve of my
 
 148 DITA. 
 
 change of treatment. I gave your father a beefsteak for 
 breakfast." 
 
 Dita looked horrified. 
 
 "1 think it lias done me good, dear," said Andrew, 
 feebly; " I was so tired of beef- tea." 
 
 "And this afternoon we will get him out a little way," 
 said Sir Edward, cheerily; "I have got a very decent 
 voiinre dc rcmixc, and the air is delicious to-day." 
 
 Dita could see that Andrew was better for the change 
 of treatment, and she resolved to trust Edward implicitly. 
 
 Luncheon came for Andrew; delicate soup made with 
 Summer's best skill; but Sir Edward insisted upon taking 
 him up a wing of chicken from their dinner down stairs, 
 and sending away the omelet. 
 
 He helped him tenderly into the carriage, and propped 
 him up with cushions, bidding the coachman drive very 
 steadily. 
 
 They went to the old cathedral, and Dita and Sir Ed- 
 ward got out to see it, leaving Andrew lying back quietly 
 in the carriage enjoying the sweet fresh air. 
 
 In the evening the doctor called, and was quite aston- 
 ished at the improvement of pulse and general appearance 
 in his patient. Sir Edward insisted on a private interview, 
 and ascertained that what he suspected was true that 
 Andrew was suffering from complete nervous prostration, 
 misunderstood by Dr. Sbafhaus, who had allowed his 
 strength to run down very low, by keeping him on an in- 
 valid diet. 
 
 It seemed very hard to take away this English milord, 
 this layer of golden eggs, from the little old doctor; but 
 he acknowledged, when pressed, that there was no real 
 need to delay going homeward by short stages. Dita 
 could scarcely believe the good tidings. 
 
 Next day came a letter from Lady Norton, from Eon- 
 tainebleau; she had gone there with Miss Grey, and wrote 
 a most alluring account of the delightful rooms they had 
 engaged on the ground-floor, opening on to a pretty gar- 
 den. They had had one drive in the forest, which was 
 enchanting. " If yon have found Mr. Lovel and Dita," 
 wrote Lady Norton, "do persuade them to come here and 
 stay with us for a week or two. I will take great care of 
 Mr. Lovel, and we will try amongst us to make them 
 happy."
 
 DITA. 140 
 
 Edward read this part of bis letter to Dita. She was 
 very much tempted by the idea. Andrew had a great 
 dread of returning borne, and she longed for him Fo be 
 stronger before be should have to pass through that ordeal, 
 lie also caught at the idea; so they moved to Sens, and 
 from thence an hour's journey took them to Fontaine- 
 blean. 
 
 Lndy Norton had engaged rooms as pleasant as her own 
 for their reception, and she was there waiting, with an 
 English tea spread out; and she welcomed Dita with a 
 warm, motherly kiss, and petted her, and looked after 
 her with the greatest care. 
 
 After they had been settled there for about three days, 
 Edward Norton came into their sitting-room. 
 
 " I have come to say good-by, Miss Lovel." 
 
 "Good -by," she faltered. 
 
 "Yes, I am off to London; I did not tell you before. I 
 am going to my chambers. I have my fortune to make." 
 He tried to speak lightly. 
 
 Their hands met in one short grasp. Dita could not 
 speak, but she raised her eyes and saw that his were look- 
 ing down on her full of tears. 
 
 He was gone, and Dita sat down, feeling as if she were 
 alone in the whole wide world. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 " ANGUS is going up to the moors, to-day," said Mabel 
 Maemonach, coming into the turret-room where Lady 
 Grisel was sitting. 
 
 " Is he? Has lie asked any one to go with him?" 
 
 " He has asked Craigenlowe to join him with his new 
 dogs, the keepers have seen a great stag at the foot of 
 Benichon." 
 
 " Then we must amuse ourselves, Mabel. Shall we go 
 up to see some poor people this morning, or make one of 
 the men row us about on the lake?" 
 
 "I am tired," said Mabel, plaintively; "and I want to 
 Avrite a long letter to Mildred; would you mind not going 
 out till this afternoon?" 
 
 "I will go myself up to the farm," answered Lady
 
 150 DITA. 
 
 Grisel, " for I hear that one of the twins is ill; but I shall 
 not be long away, and you will be able to get through 
 your letter without interruption." 
 
 "I have had such a happy letter from Milly," said 
 Mabel, smiling; " she thinks no one in the world like her 
 Jack." 
 
 " You like him very much, do you not?" 
 
 " He was a very nice, merry creature," said Mabel. 
 "Not clever. I don't think him worthy of Mildred; bub 
 then no one can be worthy of her/'' she added, with all 
 the partiality of a sister. 
 
 " I think all you tell me sounds very nice and happy." 
 said Lady Grisel. "Does she tell you any plans yet, and 
 where they are to live?" 
 
 " Yes; she tells me all about it," answered Mabel, be- 
 ginning to arrange her writing materials. " They are to 
 have a little house in London, somewhere in the South 
 Kensington region, that is to be their home; but they 
 are to be a great deal with Miss Ash burn, who, although 
 she is so deaf, is a very dear old lady, and is quite de- 
 lighted, Milly says, that Jack is going to be married." 
 
 " Where does she live?" 
 
 "About twelve miles from the Lee Astons. Mamma 
 and Milly are going there for her to make acquaintance 
 with Miss Ashburn. Thev will be neighbors to Salford 
 Abbey." 
 
 " Who lives at Salford Abbey?" said Lady Grisel, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 " The Lovels, pretty Perdita Lovel whom I have told 
 you about." 
 
 " Ah, poor girl! I wonder how she is getting on since 
 your mother left her! It must have been a wonderful 
 comfort to her having Lady Armine there." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Mabel. "I must think of my 
 wedding present for Mildred," she began. "I cannot 
 make up my mind whether it shall be something very 
 lovely for her house or an ornament. I suppose the house 
 will be of most consequence, as she will be poor at first." 
 
 "Yes; but they will not always be poor, and an orna- 
 ment lasts for ever." 
 
 "I am glad you think so," said Mabel, joyfully; " it is 
 a much more interesting present."
 
 DITA. 151 
 
 Angus came in equipped for deer-stalking. 
 
 " Yon will be sure to send tny letters to the post, 
 Mabel," he said, in his measured tones. 
 
 " Yes, Angus, I shall not forget." 
 
 "Craigenlowe will sleep here to-night, in all probabil- 
 ity, so be prepared. Good-by." 
 
 Lady Grisel and Mabel went out to the door to see them 
 start. Mabel had a childish personal affection for all sorts 
 of animals. She sat down on the steps while Angus was 
 speaking to one of the keepers, and the dogs all came 
 pressing round her, licking her bauds and fawning on her, 
 straining against their coupling. 
 
 " How can you let them lick you?" said Angus; but 
 Mabel scarcely heard, for she had pushed away the dogs 
 and was petting and caressing the thick-maned ponies. 
 
 "Where does Craigenlowe meet you?" asked Lady 
 Grisel, shading her eyes from the sun, and looking away 
 over the hills toward beautiful Benichon. 
 
 "At the burn. Now then." They whistled off the 
 dogs and started. One of Mabel's favorites lingered be- 
 hind, pressing up to her; Angus's whistle summoned him, 
 and as he obeyed the call he was greeted by a sharp lash 
 for loitering. She could not suppress a bitter little sigh as 
 she turned into the house. 
 
 " Good-by, my child," said Lady Grisel, looking in with 
 her out-of-door apparel on. Mabel was sitting at her 
 desk, already intent upon her letter. "I shall not be 
 very long. Good-by." 
 
 Mabel put down her pen and came up to Lady Grisel 
 to be kissed. 
 
 "Give my love to Mildred," she said. "And, Mabel, 
 you shall, if you like, search through all my old jewels to 
 find something lovely for me to give to her." 
 
 "Thank you, you dearest and best of mothers," cried 
 Mabel. She had never called her that before, and Lady 
 Grisel went away with her heart full of loving tenderness 
 toward her. 
 
 Mabel wrote on. The second full sheet was finished, 
 and she had just begun a third, when a servant brought 
 in a little screwcd-up piece of paper. 
 
 " From Dunmonnigh, if you please, ma'am," he said 
 Willie was not to wait for an answer,"
 
 152 DITA. 
 
 Mabel opened it, and a key fell out; she read these 
 lines written inside an old envelope 
 
 "I forgot that I had left a most important letter in my desk, 
 directed to A. Smith, Esq., etc.; it is necessary that it should be 
 sent off to day. Please open my desk and you will find it ready 
 sealed and stamped in the right-hand middle drawer: I send you 
 the key." 
 
 The post did not go till one o'clock, so Mabel, in no 
 hurry, finished and fastened up her letter, and she took 
 up the key and went with it to Angus's room. 
 
 Her husband's sitting-room was very little known to the 
 young wife. Very early in their married life, she had 
 found out that she was not welcome there. AYhenever she 
 went in, he ceased any occupation on which he might be 
 employed, and contrived to make her feel as if she wa. a 
 visitor and an interruption to him; and as he did almost 
 all his morning work there, she saw very little of him, 
 and was too timid to attempt more. 
 
 It was a large, comfortable room, well filled with books, 
 and with useful maps and papers. The bureau, which 
 Angus always kept carefully locked, stood close to the 
 fireplace; for he was of a very chilly nature, and often 
 had fires burning when other people could not have borne 
 them. The room had a northern aspect, and overhung 
 the end of the loch. 
 
 Mabel, with the key in her hand, went up to the bureau, 
 and, sitting down before it, unlocked it. The lid (it was 
 a large, round-topped secretaire) was heavy, but she suc- 
 ceeded in pushing it open. She opened the drawer that 
 Angus had mentioned, but to her surprise, for he was 
 very accurate, the letter was not there, and she proceeded 
 with her search. The drawers were all set round an arch 
 in the center of the bureau, with tiny ivory pillars and a 
 little floor of ebony and ivory diapers. There she saw 
 what was evidently the letter of which she was in search 
 on the little floor, held down by an exceedingly heavy 
 brass paper-weight. She took hold of it eagerly, she was 
 so anxious to execute well this little commission her hus- 
 band had given her. 
 
 Mabel had not calculated on the weight of the brass 
 ornament; it slipped from her hand and fell with violence 
 on to the ivory work. One of the little pillars was pushed
 
 DITA. 153 
 
 back, evidently by the jar given to some strong spring, 
 and under her very hand a secret drawer sprang out. 
 
 Mabel was much startled; the drawer was full of papers, 
 and she was about to shut it hastily when her eye was at- 
 tracted by one word, and she opened and read them. 
 
 Presently the bell of Angus's room pealed violently 
 through the house. The butler, astonished at so unusual 
 a sound, ran hastily to answer it. 
 
 Mabel was standing in front of the desk looking quite 
 awful, as he expressed it afterward, her eyes wide dis- 
 tended and staring, her face blanched to a deadly white- 
 ness. 
 
 " Lady Grisel, send Lady Grisel," she gasped. 
 
 Lady Grisel was just coming home from her walk, 
 when she was met by the man running to meet her with 
 a scared face. She did not wait till his story was over, 
 but rushed into her son's room. 
 
 She found Mabel lying insensible on the ground, and 
 strewn all over her the papers. 
 
 Lady Grisel caught them up in deadly terror: there was 
 no mistaking their meaning; they were Ewan and As- 
 sunta's marriage certificates. 
 
 Before that night telegrams were speeding over the 
 country: to Edinburgh for doctors; to Lady Armine, 
 summoning her to come without a moment's delay. 
 
 All through the night there was running to and fro, 
 and whispering and agonized prayers. Before the first 
 blue light of morning paled the sky. a son was born to 
 Dunmouaigh, and mother and child lay dead. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 LADY GRISEL came slowly into Angus's room; be sat 
 before a table with his face hidden on his arms. She 
 stood for one moment looking down on him unable to 
 speak. He looked up at last with haggard eyes; she held 
 the fatal papers in her hands. 
 
 "Tell me,'' he burst out, "mother, was it that that 
 did it?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Lady Grisel, stonily. " First Assuuta, 
 now MabeJ. "
 
 154 DITA. 
 
 "And what do you mean to do now?" he said, as she 
 sunk down on a chair. 
 
 "Justice!" 
 
 She heard his long-drawn breath, as if he were panting 
 hard. 
 
 " You do not know what the temptation was," he said. 
 "There were no other proofs, no witnesses. Others have 
 survived such things, why not she? And you see I never 
 destroyed them?" 
 
 " Angus, spare me that; the disgrace has killed your 
 wife." 
 
 " Do not speak like that," he said, almost savagely: 
 "you will drive me more mad than I am already." 
 
 " Then spare me your excuses." 
 
 "Mother, you are as hard as stone." 
 
 She made no answer. It was a strange scene in the 
 early morning light: Lady Grisel pale and rigid, with a 
 look of concentrated agony in her face, Angus pacing the 
 room in his mud-spattered shooting- dress, as he had come 
 in the evening before. At last he said, slowly, " What 
 can I do?" 
 
 "Justice!" she repeated. 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 " To Ewan's child.'' 
 
 "Does she still live?" 
 
 " We will move heaven and earth to find her, that you 
 may atone for your sin." 
 
 "And have you thought of me, mother?" he said, 
 clinching his teeth together. " Am I not also your son? 
 Do you know to what you would condemn me?" 
 
 " God help me," she answered, her head sinking on her 
 breast. 
 
 "I will not stay," he cried. "I have incurred the 
 penalty of the law; the law will make me a beggar; the 
 law will brand me as a felon a felon! Do you hear?" 
 
 Her hands wrung together. 
 
 " So I shall go," he said, " that you may not have a 
 felon for your son. You shall never see me more." 
 
 " Angus!" 
 
 " Do not try to stop me, mother," lie cried, "or I shall 
 go quite mad] Mabel! my Mabel! my pretty Mabel! I 
 have a fire raging here," and he pressed his brow; "I can
 
 DITA. 155 
 
 gee nothing bat her eyes upbraiding me. Good God! I 
 must go." 
 
 " You shall, Angus. It will be better so; but not now. 
 You cannot leave her so." 
 
 " Say what you will, mother; that the papers have been 
 found. Save the honor of the old name if you can. I 
 will never come home to disgrace you." 
 
 Lady Griscl thought for one moment, and it seemed to 
 her that it might be best that he should go. She was ter- 
 rified at the wild bloodshot eyes and twitching hands. 
 
 "Angus!" she cried "not to-night. Can you not 
 stay and see her mother?" 
 
 Aery, strange and low, like the cry of some hunted ani- 
 mal, broke from his lips. 
 
 " Her mother!" he cried; " how can I meet her? How 
 have I kept my trust?" 
 
 " Mabel loved you," she said, faintly, hoping to touch 
 some softening chord: "she loved you, Angus." 
 
 " And I have killed her. Let me go." 
 
 He sprang toward the door; then suddenly coming back, 
 lie said, " I will write to you from London. I shall wait 
 there till the child is found, but I will never come home." 
 
 " Will you not look at her once more, Angus? She 
 looks very beautiful; she forgave you and loved you; your 
 name was the last on her lips. Oh, my boy, do not go 
 like this!" 
 
 " I cannot. You are cruel, mother you torture me." 
 
 She clung passionately to him. 
 
 "Angus! you whom I have loved beyond all others in 
 this cruel world! you for whom I would have died, listen 
 to me!'' 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother!" 
 
 "I forgive you! Mabel has forgiven you, Angus 
 make Ewan's child forgive you in his name and his wife's; 
 then down on your knees and pray, and wrestle for a 
 blessing, and in God's own time He will also forgive my 
 son!" 
 
 " I will, God help me; let me go." 
 
 He crossed the hall, drew back the bolts, and went 
 down upon the steps.- She stood watching him as he un- 
 did the boat and stepped into it, her hands clasped in tear- 
 less agony.
 
 156 DITA. 
 
 " One last good-by," she said, stretching out her arms 
 toward him. 
 
 " No, no! I am not worthy f be answered. 
 
 He drew himself from her clinging arms, she saw him 
 bending to the oars, and the little boat speeding across the 
 water. 
 
 Long white streaks shone in the sky, brightening and 
 brightening till they suddenly gleamed down like blades 
 of shining steel athwart the loch, and the sun rose up, 
 cold and white and brilliant. 
 
 Lady Grisel shivered, and the bitter cold of early morn- 
 ing chilled her through and through; she turned and went 
 to Mabel's room and knelt down by her side. 
 
 Mabel was beautiful in death, she had smiled when they 
 laid her baby in her arms, and the smile had rested there; 
 all that might have been of grief and agony could never 
 touch her now; and Lady Grisel kneeling by her, could 
 only utter again and again, "Thank Gol, oh thank God, 
 that He has taken her home!" 
 
 About eleven o'clock that night poor Lady Armine 
 arrived. Lady Grisel met her at the door, and her face 
 told the tale her dry lips could not utter. Too late. The 
 mother's grief at first was overwhelming. She had loved 
 Mabel even more than her other children; there had 
 always been something so clinging, so dependent about 
 the child, that she had been their veriest darling. 
 
 Lady Grisel told the whole story without omitting one 
 fact or making one excuse. It came from her lips as if 
 wrung from her by the torture of the rack, but she told 
 it all. She braced herself to bear the reproaches, the 
 hard words she awaited, and she would have borne them 
 all and thought that little; but instead of that, Lady 
 Armine threw her kind arms round her neck, saying 
 
 "Ah, Grisel, how much we both have suffered!" 
 
 Then came to her the relief of passionate tears. Lady 
 Grisel felt drawn inexpressibly to her, and she poured out 
 to her how dearly she had loved Mabel, how hard she 
 had striven to make her happy; and then all her terror 
 and anguish over Angus came out, and the old story of 
 having misunderstood and thwarted Ewan. 
 
 "I have ruined my sons!" she cried, in the strong self- 
 abasement of a proud nature brought low; and Lady
 
 DITA. 15? 
 
 Armine found her oivn best comfort in trying to sustain 
 her fellow-sufferer. 
 
 Toward the evening of the following day Lord Armine 
 and Mildred arrived; and all had to be goue over again. 
 
 Whon night came they were all worn out, and all went 
 to rest but Lady Grisel. She could not sleep; in vain she 
 closed her eyes and tried to lull her aching thoughts. 
 She could not rest: she wandered among the empty rooms 
 down stairs; she took up the book Mabel was reading, 
 the drawing on which she had been intent only two days 
 ago; she found her long letter to Mildred on her desk, 
 the half- finished designs for the setting of the diamonds, 
 in which she had taken such a childish delight, all just 
 as it had been, and at last tears came to her relief. 
 
 The nest morning she had a long interview with Lord 
 Armine. He strongly advised that no unnecessary mys- 
 tery should be made, that the world should be told that 
 the marriage of Ewan Macmonach had been proved by 
 the finding of the necessary papers, and that Angus, glad 
 to have something to do in the first agony of his bereave- 
 ment, had gone away to look for the lost heir. As soon 
 as the funeral should be over, they must at once take 
 steps to make restitution to Ewan's child. 
 
 Lord Armine went up to the manse to see and talk over 
 matters with the old Minister. 
 
 Master Malcolm was terribly shaken and distressed by 
 all that had happened. He seemed so feeble and old, that 
 at first Lord Armine thought that he would be of no use; 
 but his memory was clear when he had recovered suf- 
 ficiently to collect his thoughts, and he supplied him with 
 dates and names, and the address of the old shop in Edgar 
 Street, Soho. He considered it sufficient ground to work 
 upon. 
 
 The sad day came at last, the funeral of the bride 
 who had come to Dunmonaigh but one year ago. All the 
 people iti the country-side thronged together, and many 
 eyes were wet with tears, and there were wondering mui- 
 murs at the absence of Angus Macmonach. 
 
 Two days after, Lady Grisel allowed herself to be per- 
 suaded to accompany the Armines to London, whither 
 Lord Armine wished to return. Her silver-gray hair had 
 grown as white as snow.
 
 158 DITA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 LA.DY NOBTOX and the Levels lingered on at Fontaine- 
 bleau. The weather was charming with all the fresh 
 sweetness of the air of France, and Andrew daily gained 
 strength. Jaques joined them for a few days, and to 
 talk to him seemed to do the old man real and lasting 
 good. Poor Jaques! always covering strong feelings with 
 uncouth reserve, no one knew how he missed the ever- 
 ready sympathy poor Nannie had always given him. He 
 devoted himself to Andrew with a touching devotion, 
 obeying and forestalling his every wish. It was a great 
 grief to him that he had been unable to obey Perdita's 
 summons to Badfeld; but be had been wandering in 
 Spain in pursuit of old Spanish specimens of bookbind- 
 ing, and his estimate of Bis own importance was so very 
 low that he seldom left his address. Jaques was obliged 
 to return to England after a very few days at Fontaine- 
 bleau, for all Andrew's affairs bad long been under his 
 superintendence, and they required his presence. 
 
 Perdita made friends with Miss Grey, a gentle delicate 
 girl of rather a sentimental low-pitched tone of mind, 
 that suited just now with Perdita's feelings; and they 
 enjoyed long rambles in the forest, and sitting in their 
 little garden in the warm air. 
 
 To every one's surprise, one day Jaques suddenly reap- 
 peared; he looked anxious and distrait, and demanded to 
 see Mr. Lovel alone. The two girls went out into the 
 garden, and Jaques sat down by the old man, who was 
 somewhat tremulous and nervous, at the suddenness of his 
 arrival. 
 
 Jaques with some solemnity unfolded a "Times" which 
 he took from his traveling-bag, and laying it on the table 
 said 
 
 " I believe this advertisement has reference to us." 
 
 Andrew took up the paper, but his hand shook. 
 
 " Read it, Jaques," he said; and Jaques read, while a 
 choking feeling in his throat made his voice sound strange 
 and harsh. 
 
 " Andrew Fairdon, once bookseller iti Edgar Street,
 
 DITA. 159 
 
 Soho, and Anne his wife, are requested to communicate 
 with Messrs. Short, Browning & Short, of Lincoln's Inn. 
 Circumstances relating to the birth of their adopted child 
 will prove, on application to above, greatly to her advan- 
 tage." 
 
 Jaques laid the paper down. Andrew covered his face 
 with his hands. 
 
 " I am to lose the child," he said, in a weak, broken 
 voice. 
 
 " No, nothing can take her love from you," said Jaques. 
 " But this must be inquired into; it will remove all ob- 
 stacles to her marriage." 
 
 " Obstacles!" exclaimed Andrew; " what do you mean? 
 Of course it must be inquired into," he said, rather pet- 
 tishly, " and I must be on the spot to do it. I will go 
 with you to London, Jaques." 
 
 "And leave the ladies here?" 
 
 " Yes; if Lady Norton will have Perdita, I will tell her, 
 but I will not have the child disturbed; do you hear?" 
 
 "No," said Jaques, sadly; "she will know soon enough." 
 
 Accordingly, Mr. Lovel and Jaques set off by them- 
 selves, leaving Perdita greatly wondering and disturbed 
 at their mysterious proceedings. 
 
 About a week passed, then Lady Norton told Perdita 
 that she had heard from Mr. Lovel, and that she was going 
 to take her and Miss Grey to London. 
 
 Perdita was bewildered, but she packed up her things, 
 and with regret they bade adieu to lovely, sunny Fontaiue- 
 bleau, gave their last handful of bread to the oH carp, 
 and started homeward. 
 
 They had to leave Paris very early to catch the tidal 
 train, and it was nearly seven o'clock before, dusty and 
 weary, they reached their destination, Thomas's Hotel, in 
 Berkeley Square. 
 
 Andrew and Jaques were there to receive them. An- 
 drew looked far better and more animated. The necessi- 
 ty for exertion had done him good. He had secured a 
 sitting-room for Perdita, and there, holding her hand, 
 with tears in his eyes, told her that papers had been found, 
 and that the stain that during all these long years had 
 rested on her mother's name was wiped away for ever. 
 
 "They claim you, my child," said Andrew, his voice 
 faltering. " You are no longer all my own."
 
 160 DITA. 
 
 Here he thoroughly broke down; but Dita, kneeling by 
 his side, repeated over and over again that no name, no 
 new relations, could ever make her love her adopted father 
 less. 
 
 "How pleased mammie would have been!" she said, 
 her tears overflowing when she thought of the dear one 
 who had never let her want a mother's tenderest love. 
 
 Andrew told her all he knew that the papers had been 
 found in a secret drawer of a bureau that was originally in 
 Ewan Macmonach's room, and it was generally supposed 
 that he had placed them there for additional safety. 
 
 " Your uncle has behaved most handsomely, Perdita," 
 he said. " His one wish and that of Lady Grisel his 
 mother, is to see you in full possession of your own as soon 
 as possible. To-morrow he is coming here, anxious to 
 have one interview with you before he leaves England. 
 His wife's death has shattered him," said he, feelingly. 
 
 Perdita lay long awake that night, her mind in a whirl 
 of thought. 
 
 The next morning she had scarcely finished breakfast 
 before Angus Macmonach arrived. 
 
 " Your uncle, Perdita," said Andrew, rather pompous- 
 ly. And he left them alone together. 
 
 Angus was dressed in deep mourning, and his face 
 was pale and haggard. 
 
 " You have been told?" he said, abruptly and sitting 
 down in front of Perdita, he pushed the damp hair back 
 from his brow. 
 
 " Yes," she said gently; "and I am very glad. It is 
 untold joy to know that I may honor my father's memory 
 as I do my mother's; bat," slie added, putting out her 
 hand and touching his, " the money is nothing to me. I 
 cannot bear that you should leave Dunmonaigh. I am 
 grieved for you; and you have been so noble, so generous, 
 in thus seeking me out." 
 
 "Hush!" he cried. "Stop! you do not know what 
 you say." There was such a sound of acute pain in his 
 voice that Perdita started: he suddenly bent forward, 
 "Can you keep a secret?" he said, hoarsely. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. He rose and walked thrice up 
 and down, then suddenly flinging himself into a chair he 
 began :
 
 DITA. 161 
 
 ' ' Ewan and I were nearly of an age, and people say that 
 two such brothers are generally inseparable. It was never 
 so with us; the nurses used to say, this child is his father's 
 own, and this his mother's. Fortune plays strange tricks: 
 if I had been the eldest, he the younger son, neither would 
 have suffered as we did. My father never cared for me, 
 my mother idolized me. Ewan would have loved me if I 
 had willed it so; but I saw that I, the cleverer one, with 
 better intellect and stronger powers, was hedged in, crush- 
 ed on every side, for want of that wealth he valued so lit- 
 tle. There are moments (and this is one) in which men 
 speak their thoughts straight out. I knew myself to pos- 
 sess the stronger mind and intellect. I envied his rare 
 beauty, his attractiveness, the influence he possessed over 
 others, which in my hands would have been a tower of 
 strength, and in his was only a means of attaching person- 
 al love. I never tried to curb my jealousy, and it became 
 the strongest passion of my life. 
 
 "Then came a day on which once more my hopes were 
 raised. Do not shrink back! human nature is complex. 
 I swear I did net desire my brother's death, but he was 
 dying, and I did desire the power that would come to me. 
 
 "It was near, in my very hand; and, mark you, I was 
 unjustly used by fortune. I was given faculties that I 
 could never develop, hopes never to be fulfilled, visions 
 never to be grasped. Good heavens! the bitterness of that 
 moment is engraven on my brain! All shattered in a 
 moment, I knew that I was again what I had been before 
 that that woman was my brother's wife, that child his 
 lawful heir." 
 
 "You knew it?" Perdita recoiled from him. 
 
 " Listen; despise me as you will, but hear mo to the 
 end. It was night, my mother was asleep, not a creature 
 stirring in the house, no human being shared the tumult 
 of my soul, no prayer for me was going up to Heaven, and 
 1 had to fight the fight alone with a tempter who called 
 to his aid every jealous thought, every devil that had 
 triumphed in my soul since I had grown to hate my 
 brother. I rose up and paced my room. It was a 
 wonderful moonlit night there was light for my purpose. 
 I crossed the loch; the keys fitted; I took the papers from 
 old Malcolm's care, and filled the packet with blank paper, 
 gealed it with this, my brother's sisuet-ring, and home,"
 
 162 DITA. 
 
 Perdita leant back in her chair, her face covered with 
 her hands. He went on: 
 
 "I never destroyed the papers, remember! I would not 
 have done that." The man's warped nature always dwelt 
 on this as on a merit; his voice became hoarse. " They 
 came with their proofs, and I had to sit there, and see her 
 heart break before my eyes; but I bore it, I had strength 
 then, it is gone now. AncLsince I have seen you, I see 
 again her haunting eyes, appealing first, then wild with 
 a terrible despair. She went away, hide your face; do 
 not look at me, she went away. I wrote to her un- 
 known to all. I sent her a hundred, then two hundred 
 pounds. It never reached her, for before then she was 
 dead; she died of a broken heart. If she had lived I 
 do not know I might have righted her; but she died, 
 leaving a nameless pauper child." 
 
 Perdita sprang from her chair and stood looking at 
 him with dilated eyes and panting breath. He breathed 
 hard, and with a sudden change of voice went on: 
 
 " Years passed, and I suppose that I must have for- 
 gotten her, but I was not happy. Not in all myjife have 
 I been what the world calls happy. I have been haunted 
 by the past; the reasonings of years never laid the specter 
 of remorse, and when I had schooled my life to a calm 
 and even level, now and then would come over me a cold 
 nervous shiver, an agony of fear, and it was long before I 
 was myself again. Years passed, you know the rest." 
 
 Perdita was trembling from head to foot. 
 
 '' I had an idle dream that a young sweet wife would 
 lull these thoughts to rest. I thought, believe me, I thought 
 indeed that my brother's child was dead. I taught my- 
 self to be certain that it was so. I brought her home to 
 Dunmonaigh, my little wife, and then I prayed. I asked 
 God to let me love her, and let her sweet nature soften 
 the cold hardness of my heart. I prayed, but I had not 
 made restitution, and my prayer was denied!" 
 
 Perdita softly laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 " You knew Mabel," he went on; " you knew what she 
 was how sweet, and young, and gay! You can recall her 
 image, with her soft hair and her loving eyes. Who 
 could see her and not love her! And yet I was hard and 
 harsh to her. Too long self-suppressed, I dreaded emo-
 
 DITA. 1G3 
 
 tion. I dared not give rein to any feeling, whether of 
 joy or hope or love. I was cold to her. I did not even 
 love her then, for a barrier seemed to keep ns apart. She 
 did not understand me, and I dreaded lest she should. 
 I prayed then, but my prayer was denied." 
 
 He paused, panting, then went on: 
 
 "Then then, you know, she found those papers; and 
 oh God! the discovery killed her. My mother uttered 
 words that never will leave my memory ' First Assunta, 
 now Mabel.' I was shooting on Benichon, and they bid 
 me come home, and I was too late: not one word not one. 
 My God was a Nemesis. 1 have not known one moment's 
 rest since my wife died." 
 
 Angus covered his face with his hands, and wept with 
 the awful overwhelming grief of a strong man crushed. 
 Perdita, terrified and in sore trouble, knew not what to 
 do, but gently stroked his knee. 
 
 Presently he raised his head, and took her hand in both 
 of his. " I have but one hope in life now," he said, " and 
 that is, that you, in their names and your own, will for- 
 give me." 
 
 "I do I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven; and in 
 my father's and my mother's names I pray to God to for- 
 give you freely." 
 
 He pressed her hand to his lips, then rose up. 
 
 " Good-by," he said "I am going abroad; perhaps I 
 may never return again. You will take care of my 
 mother, will you not?" 
 
 "I will indeed." 
 
 " And try to be to her what she was?" 
 
 " I will try." 
 
 He looked at her very wistfully. " Perdita," he said, 
 "you loved Mabel; you knew her very well; tell me, was 
 she very unhappy?" 
 
 Perdita could not speak, the tears rained down her 
 cheeks. She had only had one little heart-broken note 
 from Mabel; telling her that marriage was a sad and 
 miserable thing. Angus looked at her fixedly. 
 
 "Do not answer me," he said, "only say good-by; I 
 must go." 
 
 Once more he kissed her hand, and left the room. 
 
 Perdita sat down: she was utterly bewildered by all that
 
 164 DITA. 
 
 had passed, and strove to collect her thoughts. Her 
 whole mind being intent on the one subject, she did not 
 hear a rapid foot cross the room, and did not look up till 
 Edward Norton stood before*her. In one moment she was 
 sobbing cm his breast. All, all had passed away this 
 terrible story of guilt and sorrow and bereavement and 
 a new and boundless heaven of joy was opening before 
 her. To her life's end Perdita Maemonaeh faithfully 
 kept the unhappy Augus's secret. 
 
 The next morning Perdita was taken to Lady Armine'i 
 house to see Lady Grisel. 
 
 It was a very sad meeting at first; all the black dress 
 and sad faces brought poor pretty Mabel vividly to Per- 
 dita'smind. In spite of the new bright joy that seemed 
 to transform her, she could not suppress her tears when 
 Lady Grisel took her in her arms and kissed her. Those 
 tears won the lonely woman's heart at once. She had 
 felt as if she could never love another fair young girl as 
 she had loved her daughter-in-law. She felt almost jeal- 
 ous of a youth and beauty that might try to rival Mabel 
 in her love. But she found not a rival but a fellow- 
 mourner who had known Mabel, and whom Mabel had 
 often spoken of as "so beautiful and so charming." 
 
 Then came a new sense of possession, for at once the 
 mother's eye caught the strong resemblance to her hand- 
 some son. The fair brow, the curve of lip and chin all 
 brought Ewan to her mind so much, that it seemed as if 
 she would never weary of tracing every line in Perdita's 
 face. 
 
 Lady Grisel was anxious that the two weddings should 
 be soon before the winter came. They must be very 
 quiet, and take place in London. 
 
 The lawyers demanded at least six weeks to arrange 
 Perdita's elaborate settlements; and when this was to be 
 done, Andrew told his own views for the future. He 
 absolutely refused to return to Salford. He said he could 
 never bear the place without his wife, and he could only 
 be thankful that now his duty need not compel him to go 
 there. He would live in London with Jaques. The 
 estate should be absolutely settled on Perdita and her 
 husband. 
 
 On a cold brilliant day in the first days of November,
 
 DITA. 165 
 
 all signs of mourning were put aside, and Margaret Gris- 
 elda Macmonach and Mildred G ret hard were married. 
 
 There were anxious loving prayers going up to God all 
 day: -smiles for the present, and tears for the past. 
 
 On Mabel's grave Angus had caused a stone of marble, 
 white and pure as driven snow, to be placed, and on it, in 
 small letters, carved 
 
 MABEL MACMONACH, 
 
 Aged 20 years, 
 
 HER INFANT SON. 
 
 " Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: 
 but weep sore for him that goeth away; for h 
 shall return no more, nor see Iris native country." 
 
 THE END.
 
 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray. 
 
 MR. SIGISMUND BRAGGETT was sitting in the little room 
 he called his study, wrapped in a profound not to say a 
 mournful reverie. Now, there was nothing in the 
 present life nor surroundings of Mr. Braggett to account 
 for such a demonstration. He was a publisher and book- 
 seller; a man well to do, with a thriving business in the 
 city, and the prettiest of all pretty villas at Streatham. 
 And he was only just turned forty; had not a gray hair 
 in his head nor a false tooth in his mouth; and had been 
 married but three short months to one of the fairest and 
 most affectionate specimens of English womanhood that 
 ever transformed a bachelor's quarters into Paradise. 
 
 What more could Mr. Sigismnnd Braggett possibly 
 want? Nothing! His trouble lay in the fact that he had 
 got rather more than he wanted. Most of us have our 
 little peccadilloes in this world awkward reminiscences 
 that we would like to bury five fathoms deep, and never 
 hear mentioned again, but that have an uncomfortable 
 habit of cropping up at the most inconvenient moments; 
 and no mortal is more likely to be troubled with them 
 than a middle-aged bachelor who has taken to matrimony. 
 
 Mr. Sigismund Braggett had no idea what he was going 
 in for when he led the blushing Emily Primrose up to the 
 altar and swore to be hers, and hers only, until death 
 should them part. He had no conception a woman's 
 curiosity could be so keen, her tongue so long, and her 
 inventive faculties so correct. He had spent whole days 
 before the fatal moment of marriage in burning letters, 
 erasing initials, destroying locks of hair, and making offer- 
 ings of affection look as if he had purchased them with 
 his own money. But it had been of little avail. Mrs. 
 Braggett had swooped down upon him like a beautiful
 
 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRA.Y. 
 
 bird of prey, and wheedled, coaxed, or kissed him out of 
 half his secrets before he knew what he was about. But 
 he had never told her about Charlotte Cray. And now 
 he almost wished that he had done so, for Charlotte Cray 
 was the cause of his present dejected mood. 
 
 Now, there are ladies and Indies in this world. Some 
 are very shy, and will only permit themselves to be wooed 
 by stealth. Others, again, are the pursuers rather than 
 the pursued, and chase the wounded or the flying even to 
 the very doors of their stronghold, or lie in wait for them 
 like an octopus, stretching out their tentacles on every 
 side in search of victmis. 
 
 And to the latter class Miss Charlotte Cray decidedly 
 belonged. Not a person worth mourning over, you will 
 ir.iturally say. Bat, then, Mr. Sigismund Braggett had 
 not behaved well to her. She was one of the " peccadil- 
 loes." She was an authoress not an author, mind you, 
 which term smacks more of the profession than the sex 
 but an "authoress," with lots of the "ladylike" about 
 the plots of her stories and meter of her rhymes. They 
 had come together in the sweet connection of publisher 
 and writer had met first in a dingy, dusty little office at 
 the back of his house of business, and laid the foundation 
 of their friendship with the average amount of chaffering 
 and prevarication that usually attend such proceedings. 
 
 Mr. Braggett ran a risk in publishing Miss Cray's 
 tales or verses, but he found her useful in so many other 
 ways that he used occasionally to hold forth a sop to 
 Cerberus in the shape of publicity for the sake of keeping 
 her 'in his employ. For Miss Charlotte Cray who was 
 as old as himself, and had arrived at the period of life 
 when women are said to pray "Any, good Lord, any!" 
 was really a clever woman, and could turn her hand 
 to most things required of her, or upon which she had 
 set her mind; and she had most decidedly set her mind 
 upon marrying Mr. Braggett, and lie to serve his own 
 purposes had permitted her to cherish the idea, and this 
 was the Nemesis that was weighing him down in the 
 study at the present moment. He had complimented 
 Miss Cray, and given her present?, and taken her out 
 a-pleasuring, all because she was useful to him, and did 
 odd jobs that no one else would undertake, and for less 
 than any one else would have accepted; and he had known
 
 THE <;F CSAtlLOTTB CRAY. 5 
 
 the while that she was in love with him, and that she be- 
 lieved lie was in love with her. 
 
 He had not thought much of it at the time. He had 
 not then made up his mind to marry Emily Primrose, and 
 considered that what pleased Miss Cray, and harmed no 
 one else, was fair play for all sides. But he had come to 
 see things differently now. He had been married three 
 months, and the first two weeks had been very bitter ones 
 to him. Miss Cray had written him torrents of reproaches 
 during that unhappy period, besides calling day after day 
 at his office to deliver them in person. This and her 
 threats had frightened him out of his life. He had lived 
 in hourly terror lest the clerks should overhear what 
 passed at their interviews, or that his wife should be made 
 acquainted with them. 
 
 He had implored Miss Cray, both by word of mouth 
 and letter, to cease her persecution of him; but all tho 
 reply he received was thjit he was a base and perjured 
 man, and that she should continue to call at his office, 
 and write to him through the penny post, until he had 
 introduced her to his wife. For therein lay the height 
 and depth of his offending. He had been afraid to bring 
 Emily and Miss Cray together, and the latter resented 
 the omission as an insult. It was bad enough to find that 
 Sigismund Braggett, whose hair she wore next her heart, 
 and whose photograph stood as in a shrine upon her bed- 
 room mantelpiece, had married another woman, without 
 giving her even the chance of a refusal, but it was worse 
 still to come to a conclusion that he did not intend her to 
 have a glimpse into the garden of Eden he had created 
 for himself. 
 
 Miss Cray was a lady of vivid imagination and strong 
 aspirations. All was not lost in her ideas, although Mr. 
 Braggett had proved false to the hopes he had raised. 
 Wives did not live for ever; and the chances and changes 
 of this life were so numerous, that stranger things had 
 happened than that Mr. Braggett might think fit to make 
 bett'er use of the second opportunity afforded him than he 
 had done of the first. But if she were not to continue 
 even his friend, it was too hard. But the perjured pub- 
 lisher had continued resolute, notwithstanding all Miss 
 Cray's presecution, and now he had neither seen nor heard 
 from her for a month; and, man-like, he was beginning
 
 6 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 
 
 to wonder what had become of her, and whether she had 
 found anybody to console her for his untruth. Mr. Brag- 
 gett did not wish to comfort Miss Cray himself; but he 
 did aot quite like the notion of her being comforted. 
 
 After all so he soliloquized he had been very cruel to 
 her; for the poor thing was devoted to him. How her 
 eyes used to sparkle and her cheek to flush when she en- 
 tered his office, and how eagerly she would undertake any 
 work for him, however disagreeable to perform! He knew 
 well that she had expected to be Mrs. Braggett, and it must, 
 have been a terrible disappointment to her when he mar- 
 ried Emily Primrose. 
 
 Why had he not asked her out to Violet Villa since? 
 What harm could she do as a visitor there? particularly if 
 lie cautioned her first as to the peculiarity of Mrs. Brag- 
 get t's disposition, and the quickness with which her 
 jealousy was excited. It was close upon Christmas-time, 
 the period when all old friends meet together and patch up, 
 if they cannot entirely forget, everything that has an- 
 noyed them in the past. Mr. Braggett pictured to him- 
 self the poqr old maid sitting solitary in her small rooms 
 at Hammersmith, no longer able to live in the expectation 
 of seeing his manly form at the wicket-gate, about to en- 
 ter and cheer her solitude. The thought smote him as a 
 two-edged swo:-d, and he sat down at once and penned 
 Miss Charlotte a note, in which he inquired after her 
 health, and hoped that they should soon see her at Violet 
 Villa. 
 
 He felt much better after this note was written and 
 dispatched. He came out of the little study and entered 
 the cheerful drawing-room, and sat with his pretty wife by 
 the light of the fire, telling her of the lonely lady to whom 
 be had just proposed to introduce her. 
 
 "An old friend of mine, Emily. A clever, agreeable 
 woman, though rather eccentric. You will be polite to 
 her, I know, for my sake." 
 
 "An old woman, is she?" said Mrs. Braggett, elevating 
 her eyebrows. "And what do you call 'old/ Siggy, I 
 should like to know?" 
 
 "Twice as old as yourself, my dear five-anil- forty at 
 the very least, and not personable-looking, even for that 
 age. Yet I think you will find her a pleasant companion, 
 and I am sure she will be enchanted with you."
 
 THE GHOST OP CHARLOTTE CRAY. 7 
 
 " I don't know that: clever women don't like me, as a 
 rule, though I don't know why." 
 
 " They are jealous of your beauty, my darling; but Miss 
 Cray is above such meanness, and will value you for your 
 own sake." 
 
 " She'd better not let me catch her valuing me for 
 yours, 1 " responded Mrs. Braggett, with a flash of the eye 
 that made her husband ready to regret the dangerous ex- 
 periment he was about to make of bringing together two 
 women who had each, in her own way, a claim upon him, 
 and each the will to maintain it. 
 
 So he dropped the subject of Miss Charlotte Cray, and 
 took to admiring his wife's complexion instead, so that 
 the evening passed harmoniously, and both parties were 
 satisfied. 
 
 For two days Mr. Braggett received no answer from 
 Miss Cray, which rather surprised him. He had quite 
 expected that on the reception of his invitation she would 
 rush down to his office and into his arms, behind the 
 shelter of the ground- glass door that inclosed his chair of 
 authority. For Miss Charlotte had been used on occa- 
 sions to indulge in rapturous demonstrations of the sort, 
 and the remembrance of Mrs. Braggett located in Violet 
 Villa would have been no obstacle whatever to her. She 
 believed she had a prior claim to Mr. Braggett How- 
 ever, nothing of the kind happened, and the perjured 
 publisher was becoming strongly imbued with the idea 
 that he must go out to Hammersmith and see if he could 
 not make his peace with her in person, particularly as he 
 had several odd jobs for Christmastide, which no one 
 could undertake so well as herself, when a letter with a 
 black-edged border was put into his hand. He opened it 
 mechanically, not knowing the writing; but its contents 
 shocked him beyond measure. 
 
 "HONORED SIR, I am sorry to tell you that Miss Cray died at 
 my house ;i week ago, and was buried yesterday. She spoke of you 
 leveral times during her last illness, and if you would like to hear 
 any further particulars, and will call on me at the old address, I 
 shall be most happy to furnish you with them. Yours respectfully, 
 
 " MARY THOMPSON." 
 
 When Mr. Braggett read this news, you might have 
 knocked him over with a feather. It is not always true 
 that a living dog is better than a dead liou. Some people
 
 8 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 
 
 gain considerably in the estimation of their friends by 
 leaving this world, and Miss Charlotte Cray was one of 
 them. Her persecution had ceased for ever, and her 
 amiable weaknesses were alone held in romembrance. 
 Mr. Braggett felt a positive relief in the knowledge that 
 his dead friend and his wife would never now be 
 ^ brought in contact with each other; but at the same 
 time he blamed himself more than was needful, per- 
 haps, for not having seen nor communicated with Miss 
 Cray for so long before her death. He came down to 
 breakfast with a portentously grave face that morning, 
 and imparted the sad intelligence to Mrs. Braggett with 
 the air of an undertaker. Emily wondered, pitied, and 
 sympathized, but the dead lady was no more to her than 
 any other stranger; and she was surprised her husband 
 looked so solemn over it all. Mr. Braggett, however, 
 could not dismiss the subject easily from his mind. It 
 haunted him during the business hours of the morning, 
 and as soon as he could conveniently leave his office, lie 
 posted away to Hammersmith. The little house in which 
 Miss Cray used to live looked just the same, both inside 
 and outside: how strange it seemed that she should have 
 flown away from it for ever! And here was her landlady, 
 Mrs. Thompson, bobbing and courtesy ing to him in the 
 same old black net cap with artificial flowers in it, and 
 the same stuff gown she had worn since he first saw her, 
 with her apron in her hand, it is true, ready to go to her 
 eyes as soon as a reasonable opportunity occurred, but 
 otherwise the same Mrs. Thompson as before. And yet 
 she would never wait upon her again: 
 
 " It was all so sudden, sir," she said, in answer to Mr. 
 Braggett's inquiries, " that there was no time to send for 
 nobody." 
 
 "But Miss Cray had my address." 
 
 "Ah! perhaps so; but she was off her head, poor dear, 
 and couldn't think jf nothing. But she remembered 
 you, sir, to the last; for the very morning she died, sho 
 sprung up in bed and called out, ' Sigismund! Sigismund!' 
 as loud as ever she could, and she never spoke to anybody 
 afterward, not one word." 
 
 "She left no message for me?" 
 
 "None, sir. I asked her the day before she went if I 
 was to say nothing to you for her (knowing you was such
 
 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTi'E CRAY. 9 
 
 friends), and all her answer was, ' I wrote to him. He's 
 got my letter.' So I thought, perhaps, you had heard, 
 sir." 
 
 " Not for some time past. It seems terribly sudden to 
 me, not having heard even of her illness. Where is she 
 buried?" 
 
 " Close by in the churchyard, sir. My little girl will 
 go with you and show you the place, if you'd like to see 
 it." 
 
 Mr. Braggett accepted her offer and left. 
 
 When lie was standing by a heap of clods they called a 
 grave, and had dismissed the child, he drew out Miss 
 Cray's last letter, which he carried in his pocket, and 
 read it over. 
 
 " You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on 
 business " (so it ran), " nor to send letters to your private address, 
 lest it should come to the knowledge of your wife, and create un- 
 pleasantness between you; but I shall call, and I shall write, until I 
 have seen Mrs. Braggett, and, if you don't take care, I will intro- 
 duce myself to her and tell her the reason you have been afraid to 
 do so." 
 
 This letter had made Mr. Braggett terribly angry at 
 the time of reception. He had puffed and fumed, and 
 cursed Miss Charlotte by all his gods for daring to threaten 
 him. But he read it with different feelings now Miss 
 Charlotte was down there, six feet beneath the ground he 
 stood on, and he could feel only compassion for her frenzy, 
 and resentment against himself for having excited it. As 
 he traveled home from Hammersmith to Streatham, he 
 was a very dejected publisher indeed. 
 
 He did not tell Mrs. Braggett the reason of his melan- 
 choly, but it affected him to that degree that he could not 
 go to office on the following day, but stayed at home in- 
 stead, to be petted and waited* upon by his pretty wife, 
 which treatment resulted in a complete cure. The next 
 morning, therefore, he started for London as briskly as 
 ever, and arrived at office before his usual time. A clerk, 
 deputed to receive all messages for his master, followed 
 him behind the ground-glass doors, with a packet of let- 
 ters. 
 
 " Mr. Van Ower was here yesterday, sir. He will let 
 you have the copy before the end of the week, and Messrs. 
 Hanley's foreman called on particular business, and will
 
 10 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 
 
 look in to-day at eleven. And Mr. Ellis came to ask if 
 there was any answer to his letter yet; and Miss Cray 
 called, sir; and that's all." 
 
 " Wlio did you say?'' cried Braggett. 
 
 " Miss Cray, sir. She waited for yon above an hour, 
 but I told her I thought you couldn't mean to come into 
 town at all, so she went." 
 
 "Do you know what you're talking about, Hewetson? 
 You said Miss Cray /" 
 
 " And I meant it, sir Miss Charlotte Cray. Burns 
 spoke to her as well as I." 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Braggett, turning as 
 white as a sheet. "Go at once and send Burns to me." 
 Burns came. 
 
 "Burns, who was the lady that called to see me yester- 
 day?" 
 
 " Miss Cray, sir. She had a very thick veil on, and she 
 looked so pale that I asked her if she had been ill, and 
 she said 'Yes.' She sat in the office for over an hour, 
 hoping you'd come in, but as you didn't, she went away 
 again." 
 
 "Did she lift her veil?" 
 
 " Not whilst I spoke to her, sir." 
 
 " How do you know it was Miss Cray, then?" 
 
 The clerk stared. " Well, sir, we all know her pretty 
 well by this time." 
 
 "Did you ask her name?" 
 
 "No, sir; there was no need to do it.'* 
 
 "You're mistaken, that's all, both you and Hewetson. 
 It couldn't have been Miss Cray! I know for certain 
 that she is is is not in London at present. It must 
 have been a stranger." 
 
 " It was not, indeed, sir, begging your pardon. I could 
 tell Miss Cray anywhere, by her figure and her voice, with- 
 out seeing her face. But I did see her face, and remarked 
 how awfully pale she was just like death, sir!" 
 
 " There! there! that will do! It's of no consequence, 
 and you can go back to your work." 
 
 But any one who had seen Mr. Braggett, when left 
 alone in hia office, would not have said he thought the 
 matter of no consequence. The perspiration broke out 
 upon his forehead, although it was December, and ho
 
 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 11 
 
 rocked himself backward and forward in his chair with 
 agitation. 
 
 At last he rose hurriedly, upset his throne, and dashed 
 through the outer premises in the face of twenty people 
 waiting to speak to him. As soon as he could find his 
 voice, he hailed a hansom, and drove to Hammersmith. 
 Good Mrs. Thompson opening the door to him, thought 
 he looked as if he had just come out of a fever. 
 
 ' ' Lor' bless me, sir! whatever's the matter?" 
 
 " Mrs. Thompson, have you told me the truth aboufc 
 Miss Cray? Is she really dead?" 
 
 "Really dead, sir! Why, I closed her eyes, and put her 
 in the coffin with my own hands! If she ain't dead, I 
 don't know who is! But if you doubt my word, you'd 
 better ask the doctor that gave the certificate for her." 
 
 '' What is the doctor's name?" 
 
 "Dodson; he lives opposite." 
 
 "You must forgive my strange questions, Mrs. Thomp- 
 son, but I have had a terrible dream about my poor friend, 
 and I think I should like to talk to the doctor about her.'' 
 
 "Oh, very good, sir," cried the landlady, much offend- 
 ed. "I'm not afraid of what the doctor will tell you. 
 She had excellent nursing and everything as she could 
 desire, and there's nothing on my conscience on that 
 score, so I'll wish you good morning." And with that 
 Mrs. Thompson slammed the door in Mr. Braggett's face. 
 
 He found Dr. Dodson at home. 
 
 " If I understand you rightly," said the practitioner, 
 looking rather steadfastly in the scared face of his visitor, 
 "you wish, as a friend of the late Miss Cray's, to see a 
 copy of the certificate of her death? Very good, sir; 
 here it is. She died, as you will perceive, on the twenty- 
 fifth of November, of peritonitis. She had, I can assure 
 you, every attention and care, but nothing could have 
 saved her." 
 
 "You are quite sure, then, she is dead?" demanded Mr. 
 Braggett, in a vague manner. 
 
 The doctor looked at him as if he were not quite sure 
 if he were sane. 
 
 "If seeing a patient die, and her corpse coffined and 
 buried, is being sure she is dead, /am in no doubt what- 
 ever about Miss Cray." 
 
 " It is very strange most strange and unaccountable/'
 
 12 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 
 
 murmured poor Mr. Braggetfc, in reply, as he shuffled out 
 of the doctor's passage, and took his way back to the 
 office. 
 
 Here, however, after an interval of rest and a strong 
 brandy and soda, he managed to pull himself together, 
 and to come to the conclusion that the doctor and Mrs. 
 Thompson could not be mistaken, and that, consequently, 
 the clerks must. He did not mention the subject again 
 to them, however; and as the days went on, and nothing 
 more was heard of the mysterious stranger's visit, Mr. 
 Braggett put it altogether out of his mind. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight, however, when he was think- 
 ing of something totally different, young Hewetson re- 
 marked to him, carelessly, 
 
 " Miss Cray was here again yesterday, sir. She walked 
 in just as your cab had left the door." 
 
 All the horror of his first suspicions returned with 
 double force upon the unhappy man's mind. 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense!" he gasped, angrily, as soon as 
 he could speak. " Don't attempt to play any of your 
 tricks on me, young man, or it will be the worse for you, 
 1 can tell you." 
 
 'Tricks, sir," stammered the clerk. "I don't know 
 what yon are alluding to. I am only telling you the truth. 
 You have always desired me to be most particular in let- 
 ting you know the names of the people who call in your 
 absence, and I thought I was only doing my duty in mak- 
 ing a point of ascertaining them " 
 
 "Yes, yes! Hewetson, of course," replied Mr. Brag- 
 gett, passing his handkerchief over his brow, "and you 
 are quite right in following my directions as closely as 
 possible; only in this case you are completely mistaken, 
 and it is the second time you have committed the error." 
 
 "Mistaken!" 
 
 "Yes! as mistaken as it is possible for a man to bo! 
 Miss Cray could not have called at this office yesterday." 
 
 "'But she did, sir." 
 
 "Am I laboring under some horrible nightmare?" ex- 
 claimed the publisher, " or are we playing at cross pur- 
 poses? Can yon mean the Miss Cray I mean?" 
 
 "I am speaking of Miss Charlotte Cray, sir, the author 
 of 'Sweet Gwendoline,' the lady who has undertaken so 
 much of our compilation the last two years, and who haa
 
 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 13 
 
 along nose, and wears her hair in curls. I never knew 
 there was another Miss Cray; but if there are two, that is 
 the one I mean." 
 
 "Still T at/mot believe it. Hewetson, for the Miss Cray 
 who has been associated with our 3rm died on the twenty- 
 fifth of last month." 
 
 "Dial, sir! Is Miss Cray dead? Oh, it can't be! It's 
 some humbugging trick that's been played upon you, for 
 I'd swear she was in this room yesterday afternoon, as 
 full of life as she's ever been since I knew her. She didn't 
 talk much, it's true, for she seemed in a hurry to be off 
 again, but she had got on the same dress and bonnet she 
 was in here last, and she made herself as much at home in 
 the office as she ever did. Besides," continued Hewetson, 
 as tho.igh suddenly remembering something, "she left a 
 note for you, sir." 
 
 ' A note! "Why did you not say so before?" 
 
 " It slipped my memory when you began to doubt my 
 word in that way, sir. But you'll find it in the bronze 
 vase. She told me to tell you she had placed it there." 
 
 Mr. Braggett made a dash at the vase, and found the 
 three-cornered note as he had been told. Yes! it was 
 Charlotte's handwriting, or the facsimile of it, there was 
 no doubt of that; and his hands shook so he could hardly 
 open the paper. It contained these words: 
 
 " You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on 
 business, nor to send letters to your private address, lest it should 
 come to the knowledge of your wife, and create unpleasantness 
 en you; but I ahaR calf, and I flmll write until 1 have seen 
 Mrs. Braggett, and if you don't take care I will introduce myself to 
 her, and tell her the reason 3*011 have been afraid to do so." 
 
 Precisely the same words, in the same writing of the 
 letter he still carried in his breast pocket, and which no 
 mortal eyes but his and hers had ever seen. As the un- 
 happy man sat gazing at the opened note, his whole body 
 shook as if he were attacked by ague. 
 . " It is Miss Cray's handwriting, isn't it, sir?" 
 
 "It looks like it, Hewetson. but it cannot be. I tell 
 you it is an impossibility! Miss Cray died last month, 
 and I have seen not only her grave, but the doctor and 
 nurse who attended her in her last illness. It is folly, 
 then, to suppose either that she called here or wrote that 
 letter."
 
 14 THE GHOST OP CHARLOTTE CRAY. 
 
 " Then who could it have been, sir?" said Hewetson, 
 attacked with a sudden terror in his turn. 
 
 v That is impossible for rne to say; but should the lady 
 eall again, you had better ask her boldly for her name and 
 address." 
 
 " I'd rather you'd depute the office to anybody but me, 
 sir," replied the clerk, as he hastily backed out of the 
 room. 
 
 Mr. Braggett, dying with suspense and conjecture, went 
 tli rough his business as best he could, and hurried home 
 to Violet Villa. 
 
 There he found that his wife had been spending the 
 day with a friend, and only entered the house a few min- 
 utes before himself. 
 
 " Siggy, dear!" she commenced, as soon as he joined 
 her in the drawing-room after dinner; "I really think we 
 should have the fastenings and bolts of this house looked 
 to. Such a funny thing happened while I was out this 
 afternoon. Ellen has just been telling me about it." 
 
 " What sort of a thing, dear?" 
 
 " Well, I left home as early as twelve, you know, and 
 told the servants I shouldn't be back until dinner- time; 
 so they were all enjoying themselves in the kitchen, I 
 suppose, when cook told Ellen she heard a footstep in the 
 drawing-room. Ellen thought at first it must be cook's 
 fancy, because she was sure the front door was fastened; 
 but when they listened, they all heard the noise together, 
 so she ran upstairs, and what on earth do you think she 
 saw?" 
 
 " How can I guess, my dear?" 
 
 " Why, a lady, seated in this very room, as if she was 
 waiting for somebody. She was oldish, Ellen says, and 
 had a very white face, with long curls hanging down each 
 side of it; and she wore a blue bonnet with white feath- 
 ers, and a long black cloak, and " 
 
 "Emily, Emily! Stop! You don't know what you're 
 talking about. That girl is a fool: you must send her 
 away. That is, how could the lady have got in if the 
 door was closed? Good Heavens! you'll all drive me mad 
 between you with your folly!" exclaimed Mr. Braggett, 
 as he threw himself back in his chair, with an exclamation 
 that sounded very like a groan. 
 
 Pretty Mrs. Braggett was offended. What had she said
 
 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 15 
 
 or done that her husband should doubt her \vord? She 
 tossed her iiead in indignation, and remained silent. If 
 Mr. Braggett wanted any further information, he would 
 have to apologize. 
 
 "Forgive me, darling," he said, after a long pause. I 
 don't think I'm very well this evening, but your story 
 seemed to upset me." 
 
 " I don't see why it should upset you," returned Mrs. 
 Braggett. "If strangers are allowed to come prowling 
 about the house in this way, we shall be robbed some day, 
 and then you'll say I should have told you of it." 
 
 " Wouldn't she this person give her name?" 
 
 " Oh! I'd rather say no more about it. You had better 
 ask Ellen." 
 
 " No, Emily! I'd rather hear it from you." 
 
 " Well, don't interrupt me again, then. When Ellen 
 saw the woman seated here, she asked her her name and 
 business at once, but she gave no answer, and only sat 
 and stared at her. And so Ellen, feeling very uncomfort- 
 able, had just turned round to call up cook, when the 
 woman got up, and dashed past her like a flash of light- 
 ning, and they saw nothing more of her!" 
 
 " Which way did she leave the house?" 
 
 " Nobody knows any more than how she came in. The 
 servants declare the hall door was neither opened nor 
 shut but, of course, it must have been. She was a tall 
 gaunt woman, Ellen says, about fifty, and she's sure her 
 hair was dyed. She must have come to steal something, 
 and that's why I say we ought to have the house made 
 more secure. Why, Siggy! Siggy! what's the matter? 
 Here, Ellen! Jane! come quick, some of you! Your 
 master's fainted!" 
 
 And, sure enough, the repeated shocks and horrors of 
 the day had had such an effect upon poor Mr. Braggett, 
 that for a moment he did lose all consciousness of what 
 surrounded him. He was thankful to take advantage of 
 the Christmas holidays, to run over to Paris with his wife, 
 and try to forget, in the many marvels of that city, the 
 awful fear that fastened upon him at the mention of any- 
 thing connected with home. He might be enjoying him- 
 self to the top of his bent; but directly the remembrance 
 of Charlotte Cray crossed his mind, all sense of enjoyment 
 vanished, and he trembled at the mere thought of re-
 
 16 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 
 
 turning to his business, as a child does when sent to bed 
 in the dark. 
 
 He tried to hide the state of his feelings from Mrs. 
 Braggett, but she was too sharp for him. The simple, 
 blushing Ernily Primrose had developed, under the influ- 
 ence of the matrimonial forcing-frame, into a good watch- 
 dog, and nothing escaped her notice. 
 
 Left to her own conjecture, she attributed his frequent 
 moods of dejection to the existence of some other woman, 
 and became jealous accordingly. If Siggy did not love 
 her, why had he married her? She felt certain there was 
 some other horrid creature who had engaged his affections 
 and would not leave him alone, even nosv that he was her 
 own lawful property. And to find out who the "horrid 
 creature " was became Mrs. Emily's constant idea. When 
 she had found out, she meant to give her a piece of her 
 mind, never fear! Meanwhile Mr. Braggett's evident 
 distaste to returning to business only served to increase 
 his wife's suspicions. A clear conscience, she argued, 
 would know no fear. So they were not a happy couple, as 
 they set their faces once more toward England. Mr. 
 Braggett's dread of re-entering his office amounted almost 
 to terror, and Mrs. Braggett, putting this and that to- 
 gether, resolved that she would fathom the mystery, if it 
 lay in feminine finesse to do so. She did not whisper a 
 word of her intentions to dear Siggy, you may be sure of 
 that! She worked after the manner of her amiable sex, 
 like a cat in the dark, or a worm boring through the 
 earth, and appearing on the surface when least expected. 
 
 So poor Mr. Braggett brought her home again, heavy 
 at heart indeed, but quite ignorant that any designs were 
 being made against him. I think he would have given a 
 thousand pounds to be spared the duty of attending office 
 the day after his arrival. But it was necessary, and he 
 went, like a publisher and a Briton. But Mrs. Emily 
 had noted his trepidation and his fears, and laid her plans 
 accordingly. She had never been asked to enter those 
 mysterious precincts, the house of business. Mr. Braggett 
 had not thought it necessary that her blooming loveliness 
 should be made acquainted with its dingy, dusty accesso- 
 ries, but she meant to see them for herself to-da} 7 . So she 
 waited till he had left Violet Villa ten minutes, and then 
 she dressed and followed him bv the next train to London*
 
 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 1* 
 
 Mr. Sigismund Braggett meanwhile had gone on his 
 way, as people go to a dentist, determined to do what was 
 right, but with an indefinite sort of idea that lie might 
 never come out of it alive. He dreaded to hear what 
 might have happened in his absence, and he delayed his 
 arrival at the office for half-an-hour, by walking there in- 
 stead of taking a cab as usual, in order to put off the evil 
 moment. As he entered the place, however, he saw at a 
 glance that his efforts were vain, and that something had 
 occurred. The customary formality and precision of the 
 office were upset, and the clerks, instead of bending over 
 their ledgers, or attending to the demands of business, 
 were all huddled together at one end whispering and ges- 
 ticulating to each other. But as soon as the publisher 
 appeared, a dead silence fell upon the group, and they 
 only stared at him with an air of horrid mystery. 
 
 ' k What is the matter now?" he demanded, angrily, for- 
 like most men when in a fright which they are ashamed 
 to exhibit, Mr. Sigismund Braggett tried to cover his 
 want of courage by bounce. 
 
 The young man called Hewetson advanced toward him, 
 with a face the color of ashes, and pointed toward the 
 ground-glass doors dumbly. 
 
 " What do you mean? Can't you speak? What's come 
 to the lot of you, that you are neglecting my business in 
 this fashion to make fools of yourselves?" 
 
 " If you please, sir, she's in there." 
 
 Mr. Braggett started back as if he'd been shot. But 
 still he tried to have it out. 
 
 "She! Who's she?" 
 
 " Miss Cray, sir." 
 
 "Haven't I told you already that's a lie." 
 
 "Will you judge for yourself, Mr. Braggett?" said a 
 gray-haired man, stepping forward. "I was on the stairs 
 myself just now when Miss Cray passed me, and I have no 
 doubt whatever but that you will find her in your private 
 room, however much the reports that have lately reached 
 you may seem against the probability of such a thing." 
 
 Mr. Braggett's teeth chattered in his head as he ad- 
 vanced to the groand-glass doors, through the panes of 
 one of which there was a little peephole to ascertain if the 
 room were occupied or not. He stooped and looked in. 
 At the table, with her back toward him, was seated the
 
 18 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 
 
 well-known figure of Charlotte Cray. He recognized at 
 once the long black mantle in which she was wont to drape 
 her gaunt figure the blue bonnet, with its dejected-look- 
 ing, uncurled feather the lank curls which rested on her 
 shoulders and the black-leather bag, with a steel clasp, 
 which she always carried in her hand. It was the embodi- 
 ment of Charlotte Cray, he had no doubt of that; but 
 how could he reconcile the fact of her being there with 
 the damp clods he had seen piled upon her grave, with the 
 certificate of death, and the doctor's and the landlady's 
 assertion that they had watched her last moments? 
 
 At last he prepared with desperate energy, to turn the 
 handle of the door. At that moment the attention of the 
 more frivolous of the clerks was directed from his actions 
 by the entrance of an uncommonly pretty woman at the 
 other end of the outer office. Such a lovely creature as 
 this seldom brightened the gloom of their dusty abiding- 
 place. Lilies, roses, and carnations vied with each other 
 in her complexion, whilst the sunniest of locks, and the 
 brightest of blue eyes, lent her face a girlish charm not 
 easily described. What could this fashionably-attired 
 Venus want in their house of business? 
 
 " Is Mr. Braggett here? I am Mrs. Braggett. Please 
 how me in to him immediately." 
 
 They glanced at the ground-glass doors of the inner 
 office. They had already closed behind the manly form of 
 their employer. 
 
 "This way, madam," one said, deferentially, as he es- 
 corted her to the presence of Mr, Braggett. 
 
 Meanwhile, Sigismund had opened the portals of the 
 Temple of Mystery, and with trembling knees entered it. 
 The figure in" the chair did not stir at his approach. He 
 stood at the door irresolute. What should he do or say? 
 
 "Charlotte," he whispered. 
 
 Still she did not move. 
 
 At that moment his wife entered. 
 
 "Oh, Sigismund!" cried Mrs. Emily, reproachfully, "I 
 knew you were keeping something from me, and now I've 
 caught you in the very act. Who is this lady, and what 
 is her name? I shall refuse to leave the room until I 
 know it." 
 
 At the sound of her rival's voice, the woman in the 
 chair rose quickly to her feet and confronted them. Yes!
 
 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY. 19 
 
 there was Charlotte Cray, precisely similar to what she 
 had appeared in life, only with an uncertainty and vague- 
 ness about the lines of the familiar features that made 
 them ghastly. 
 
 She stood there, looking Mrs. Emily full in the face, 
 but only for a moment, for, even as she gazed, the line- 
 aments grew less and less distinct, with the shape of the 
 figure that supported them, until, with a crash, the ap- 
 parition seemed to fall in and disappear, and the place 
 that had known her was filled with empty air. 
 
 " Where is she gone?" exclaimed Mrs. Braggett, in a 
 tone of utter amazement. 
 
 "Where is who gone?" repeated Mr. Braggett, hardly 
 able to articulate from fear. 
 
 " The lady in the chair!'' 
 
 " There was no one there except in your own imagina- 
 tion. It was my great-coat that you mistook for a figure," 
 returned her husband hastily, as he threw the article in 
 question over the back of the arm-chair. 
 
 " But how could that have been?" said his pretty wife, 
 rubbing her eyes. "How could I think a coat had eyes, 
 and hair, and features? I am sure I saw a woman seated 
 there, and that she rose and stared at me. Siggy! tell me 
 it was true. It seems so incomprehensible that I should 
 have been mistaken." 
 
 " You must question your own sense. You see that the 
 room is empty now, except for ourselves, and you know 
 that no one has left it. If you like to search under the 
 table, you can." 
 
 "Ah! now, Siggy, you are laughing at me, because you 
 know that would be folly. But there was certainly some 
 one here only, where can she have disappeared to?" 
 
 "Suppose we discuss the matter at a more convenient 
 season," replied Mr. Braggett, as he drew his wife's arm 
 through his arm. " Hewetson ! you will be able to tell Mr. 
 Hume that he was mistaken. Say, also, that I shall not 
 be back in the office to-day. I am not so strong as I 
 thought I was, and feel quite unequal to business. Tell 
 him to come out to Streatham this evening with my let- 
 ters, and I will talk with him there." 
 
 What passed at that interview was never disclosed; but 
 pretty Mrs. Braggett was much rejoiced, a short time af- 
 terward, by her husband telling her that he had resolved
 
 20 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CKAY. 
 
 to resign his active share of the business, and devote the 
 rest of his life to her and Violet Villa. He would have no 
 more occasion, therefore, to visit the office, and be ex- 
 posed to the temptation of spending four or five hours out 
 of every twelve away from her side. For, though Mrs. 
 Emily had arrived at the conclusion that the momentary 
 glimpse she caught of a lady in Siggy's office must have 
 been a delusion, she was not quite satisfied by his asser- 
 tions that she would never have found a more tangible 
 cause for her jealousy. 
 
 But Sigismnnd Braggett knew more than he chose to tell 
 Mrs. Emily. He knew that what she had witnessed was no 
 delusion, but a reality; and that Charlotte Cray had car- 
 ried out her dying determination to call at his office and 
 his private residence, until she had seen his wife !
 
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