THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

J)ORA.

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D O E A.

JULIA KAYANAGH,

AUTHOR OF

"NATHALIE," "ADELE," "QUEEN MAB," ETC., ETC.

niu$tt|ate<l btj (paston Jfay.

THREE VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE.

NEW YORK:
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DOEA

CHAPTER I.

The autumn wind swept with a long wail
over the broad bay of Dublin, then went and
died, still moaning, and lamenting, amongst
the distant mountains. In its occasional in-
tervals of silence, gusts of rain came and beat
against the window-panes with a pitiful, im-
patient sound, as if claiming to be heard, till
the clamorous wind rose again and drowned
every voice save its own tempestuous roar.
Dusk was gathering in Mrs. Courtenay's bare
parlor, and very chill and cheerless as well as
bare it would have looked on this evening, if
Dora Courtenay had not been standing by the
window with her work hanging loosely in her
hand, and her eyes fastened on the prospect of
sea and mist and cloudy mountains, which was
all that she could see through the slanting rain.

Mrs. Courtenay's parlor was, as we said, a
very bare one. The chairs, the table, the
black hearth, the low ceiling, sadly in need of
whitewash, the dull grey paper on the walls,
gave it a desolate look : but you forgot that
when you saw Dora. No room with a sun-
beam, or a Titian, or a Giorgione in it would
seem cold and desolate to you were it a garret ;
and no room in which this girl appeared could
fail being brightened by her gay young pres-
ence. She was not beautiful, she was not
handsome, she was not even very pretty — but
she was bright, wonderfully bright. If there
were such a thing as brown gold, Dora's hair

might be said to be of that color. If roses
ever bloomed on a maiden's cheek, they were
to be found on hers. If joy ever beamed in
mortal eyes, it surely shone in Dora's. When
you looked at ber you forgot her half-shabby
black dress, her mother's cold parlor — you
forgot even that Dora was young, and had a
charming figure — you forgot all save the shin-
ing hair and the happy eyes, and the genial
smile and the young warm voice which matched
with them so well; and these you remembered
for evermore.

" I can't stand this, you know," suddenly
said Dora, flinging down her work ; " I must
see if Paul is coming."

Mrs. Courtenay, who was gently falling
asleep in her arm-chair, awoke with a start :
but before her remonstrative, " Don't get wet,"
was fairly uttered, the bright head and the
brighter face of Dora had passed through the
parlor door, and the parlor itself looked very
much like a cellar whence a sunbeam has de-
parted.

"She is so quick," said Mrs. Courtenay, -till
amazed and a little plaintive. "I always do
feel for hens who hatch ducks' ej

This remark was directed to her sister-in-
law, Mrs. Luan. Very different of aspect were
these two ladies. Mrs. Courtenay was a charm-
ing lady of sixty. She had the whitest hair,
the mildest blue eyes, the pleasantesl Bmile,
and the softest plump hands a lady of
over had. She was French by birth and Irish

DORA.

by marriage ; and she spoke English with a
pretty French accent, and French with, an
equally pretty English accent ; and was inno-
cent and delightful in either language.

Mrs. Luan, her late husband's sister, was a
square, low-built woman. She had a dull, com-
monplace face, dingy in color, a dull brown eye
with a heavy lid, a low narrow forehead and a
thick indistinct utterance. Nature had been
very niggardly to this lady, and Fortune had
been very stingy to both sisters-in-law. The
little cottage in which they resided was one of
the plainest near Dublin ; their cook and maid-
of-all-work was a diminutive girl of thirteen
called Peggy, their furniture would not have
fetched twenty pounds at an auction. They
dressed very simply, made fires at the latest
extremity, and, when they were alone, never
burned more than one tallow candle.

They were widows, and we dare not say how
slender was their joint income. Mrs. Luan
had a son whom she had penuriously brought
up to his present position of medical student,
and Mrs. Courtenay's step-son Paul was an em-
bryo barrister ; and then there was Dora to
dress and educate. How all this was done,
nor yet how far it was done, was one of the
miracles which mothers daily accomplish,
whilst the world looks on, and takes it all as a
matter of course.

Brightness of intellect was not Mrs. Luan's
gift. She took time to ponder over Mrs.
Courtenay's proposition concerning hens and
ducks' eggs, then she said in her thick, hesi-
tating voice,

" Do you think so ? "

After having uttered this profound and ori-
ginal remark, she seemed startled at her own
daring, and relapsed into sudden silence.

Mrs. Courtenay sighed, turned up her eyes,
expanded her hands, and shook her head hope-
lessly.

" It's no use arguing with her, poor soul,"
she said, half aloud. " She's so — you know."

This speech Mrs. Luan so far understood,
that she made no comment upon it. She took
her intellectual inferiority, as she took her
poverty and her plainness, for granted. So
she remained very quiet in her shady part of
the room, thinking of and brooding over her
life, after her own fashion.

" I should like a light, Mrs. LuaD," said Mrs.
Courtenay.

Mrs. Luan replied calmly,

"Candles are a halfpenny dearer in the
pound this week."

Mrs. Courtenay sighed — nature had given
her a liberal, prodigal heart — but she did not
attempt a remonstrance; she remembered,
however, her youth in a gay French home,
where wax lights were of no account, and
where the saloon mirrors flashed like a sheet
of light in their brilliant glow, and she sighed
again, Mrs. Luan thought, in the mean-
while :

" We burn a candle a night, eight a week,
Sundays included. Four times eight thirty-
two; five pounds of candles, and two over
every month ; that's more than twopence half-
penny a month dearer than last autumn. "We
must light the candle later."

And made happy by this mental calcula-
tion, she sat with her hands folded on her lap,
content to remain thus, spite the increasing
darkness, for the sake of saving an inch of
tallow.

"That child will be quite wet," said Mrs.
Courtenay, plaintively, after another while ;
"you should have told her not to go, Mrs.
Luan."

Mrs. Luan did not answer, she was accus-
tomed to that too. She was House of Com-
mons in this little household, perhaps because,
thanks to her power of management, she held
the strings of the purse. Mrs. Courtenay, her
constitutional sovereign, snubbed and coaxed
her by turns, and blamed her not ill-natured-
ly, but as a matter of course, for everything ;

DORA AND HER BROTHER RAUL.

Dora, her prime minister, tried every now and
then to carry it with a high hand ; and her
son John, and her nephew Paul, twitted and
flouted her like saucy young members, and
were as helpless as any brilliant minority at
the mercy of a stubborn majority ever will be.
Mrs. Luan was impenetrable to blame, and
coaxing, and ridicule. She was thick-skinned ;
made armor-proof against all such shafts by
provident Nature. With perfect equanimity
she now heard herself blamed for Dora's sin,
and after awhile she even said, very calmly :

" How hard it is raining ! "

" Just like her ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay,
with gentle exasperation. " She lets the child
go out, and then she says, ' How bard it is
raining.' You would not let John go, Mrs.
Luan."

Now Mrs. Luan, though patient, was, like
many a patient animal, endowed with a weapon
of defence. This was her voice ; a heavy
buzzing, indistinct voice, which paused, and
stammered, and hesitated, till the conquered
listener would buy silence at any price. So,
whenever she was driven into a corner, she
roused herself, and talked her enemy down.

" I have nothing to do with the rain," she
began, in her buzzing fashion.

" Don't," entreated Mrs. Courtenay, becom-
ing alarmed.

But when Mrs. Luan had begun buzzing,
who could stop her ? Mrs. Courtenay, folding
her hands in her lap, let Mrs. Luan go on.
This lady from the rain diverged into her hus-
band's last illness ; then, having buzzed
through that, she made a pleasant diversion
into the world of fancy by wondering how
people felt when they were dead. Thence
she went off to butcher's meat, and having
worried her lively little sister-in-law for ten
minutes, she kindly dropped her, much the
worse for the infliction, and rolled herself back
into her habitual citadel of silence, feeling,
with the same instinct which had suggested

her system of defence, that she w r as safe there
for the rest of the evening.

In the meanwhile, Dora was standing in a
dilapidated summer-house at the end of the
garden, watching for her brother's return.
The cottage rented by Mrs. Courtenay stood
on a narrow promontory of heath, with a road
on either side. The front door faced the
Dublin road, and the apex of the triangular
garden gave egress on another road, long and
winding, which looked as if it passed forever
through heath and mountain, but which in
reality was within five minutes of the railway
station. With a shawl around her, and stand-
ing within the shelter of the summer-house,
Dora, whose look could command the whole
sweep of the road through the grated door,
watched and waited. But the wind moaned,
the rain drifted gustily, the hour at which the
train was due went by, and still Paul came
not. Night darkened around the mount
the rain ceased, the wind cleared away a few
clouds from the sky, and here and there a
star glimmered, and still the grey road showed
no tall figure approaching, and echoed to no
young firm step. Had anything happened to
him ? Had there been a railway collision ?
Had he been waylaid and murdered? But
not in vain had Dora bright hair, and happy
eyes, and a genial smile. These gloomy, mor-
bid fancies only passed athwart her mind like
clouds across a clear sky. She shook her
head defiantly at them, and bade them begone.

" I will not believe^ you," she told them.
" Paul has gone, like the knight or the prince
in the fairy tale, to the dangerous castle or
the perilous wood, and, like him, he will re-
turn triumphant. There is no trial Paul can-
not overcome; there is no heart Paul cannot
win. He was made to prevail and be king.
Since he stays so long, 'tis sine proof of vic-
tory, and if he comes by the night-train, why,
I shall let him in, and none shall be the
wiser."

DORA.

The wind might blow, the raiu might fall —
Dora, whilst she had such thoughts, could not
help feeling happy. She was ambitious, not
for herself, but for her brother. She could sit
and dream about him, with the tender folly
of the young, and never feel that it was folly.
There was no success Paul was not to achieve,
no destiny was too great for Paul, and thus
little by little it came to pass that he was the
hero of his sister's life.

That life had been such as most girls lead ;
a still, narrow path, with a boundless world
around it, dangerously alluring. Such as it
was, it contented her. She was satisfied with
the seclusion which her poverty commanded,
with the society of her friends, with studies
which to her were no pastimes, but serious
pursuits, and with such relaxations as an old
cracked spinet and her flowers afforded. All
this sufficed her, for she had Paul — Paul who
was to be so great a man, the honor and the
stay of his family. When a young girl has
such a thought as this, it matters little what
dresses she wears, or what sort of a house she
lives in. She has an enchanted tower, whence
6he views the nether world with calm indiffer-
ence. Who dare pity, and who would not
envy her, till truth comes and knocks at the
door, claiming admittance in a voice that will
not be denied ?

CIIAPTER n.

But Paul's journey was a secret as yet, so,
with another look up the road, Dora went
back to the cottage through the wet garden.
As she reached the parlor she heard the voice
of her cousin, John Luan, talking within. At
once she broke in, bright and joyous.

"Ob, you faithless John, where have you
been till this hour V " she cried. " Tell me
directly."

A very good-looking young man, with a
good-natured face, very like Dora's in all save

its brightness, turned round on hearing this
imperious mandate, and looked at his cousin
with an unmistakable adorer look. "Slave"
was stamped on his aspect, and no less legibly
was "queen " written on Dora's.

" I have been dissecting," he began.

" Don't, John," interrupted Mrs. Courtenay,
shivering.

"Bless you, mamma," remarked Dora,
coolly, " John would dissect us all if he had us."

John had never much to say for himself,
but when he fell into the hands of this bright-
haired tormentor he became helpless.

" Now, Dora, you know I can't r " he said.

" Can't dissect ? " she suggested. " Then
give up your profession, and let there be an
end of it," she kindly added.

A sigh, verging on a groan, expressed John's
mental sufferings.

"Take pattern on Paul," she resumed.
"He means to be Grattan, or Chatham, or
Demosthenes. Why, don't you mean to be
something ? Now, mamma, please not to in-
terfere. I want to make something of John,
but if I am interfered with how can I ? "

John groaned again, yet did not seem to be
very miserable.

" Yes, I know you would dissect me," said
Dora, shaking her bright head ; " but you shall
not have the chauce, you little wretch ! "

Dora Courtenay had a graceful young figure,
but she was not a fine woman, and John Luan
was a remarkably fine young man. Yet little
wretch she had called him since they were
children, and it was the ouly part of her teaz-
ing which Mrs. Luan could never endure. She
now showed such unequivocal symptoms of
buzzing, that Dora, much alarmed, rose and
said quickly,

" I meant a big wretch, aunt. And now let
us have tea, since Paul is not coming."

To make tea was Dora's duty. She began
the process by peremptorily ordering John
Luan to cut some bread and butter, kindly

MRS. LUAN AND HER SON.

adding an admonition concerning the wisdom
of pinning a cloth bib-wise before him, and not
buttering his coat instead of the bread ; after
which, the diminutive servant having brought
up the tray, Dora sat behind an old-fashioned
tea-urn, and looked through the curling
wreaths of steam, like a bright young Hebe,
with the ethereal vapors of Olympus around
her. It was a very plain meal. Tbe tea was
three shillings a pound, the butter was Irish
butter, and therefore could not be bad, but
had it come from a cheese country, John Luan
would have found it delicious, and all China
could not have matched the flavor of that mild
Congou.

He sat and ate through a plateful of bread
and butter, and drank through seven cups of
tea — looking all the time at that bright girl
before him, and meekly enduring such shafts
as it pleased her saucy little tongue to pierce
him with.

Dora could not help being aware of her
cousin's intellectual inferiority, and she was
not so perfect as not to take advantage of it
now and then. To make up for this, indeed,
she gifted him, like a kind fairy, with some
imaginary graces. He was good-natured, she
made him high-hearted; he was careless of
danger, she made him brave ; but unluckily
she forgot to feel more than a moderate regard
for the owner of these virtues. The crown-
gift of her affection was wanting.

John needed to use no such magic powers,
ne had no imagination, and could not conceive
another Dora than the one he knew. With
her he was quite satisfied. He was in that
happy stage of love when to see and hear the
beloved object is sufficient bliss to the wor-
shipper. He did not think of marriage. They
were first cousins, to begin with, and were by
right of birth supposed impenetrable to love.
Then they were both as poor as Job ; and best
reason of all, marriage was not in the least
necessary to John's happiness. To see Dora

and look at her bright face, to hear Dora and
be worried by her, to obey Dora and cut bread
and butter, or do any humble office for the
pleasure of that haughty little sovereign, was
all John Luan cared for ; and as he had but to
come to the cottage to secure these blessings,
that crown of all bliss, the wedded, was not in
his thoughts.

Now this disinterested adoration had been
going on five years — his mother, his aunt,
Paul, Dora herself, looked upon it as a matter
of course, and never gave it a second thought.
But a drop will overflow the full cun, and a
remark which Dora now darted at her cousin
across the table made him blush a little, and
caused Mrs. Luan to look first bewildered,
then to turn as pale as her dingy complexion
would let her. With a deeply-troubled mien
she put down her cup of tea untasted,. then
looked from her son to Dora, and from Dora
to her son again. Yet all Dora had said was :
" I wish you would not stare, John."

She spoke with a pretty little pettish toss
of her head, but something in John's thoughts
made him color up to the eyes, and dull though
she was, Mrs. Luan was a mother. In a mo-
ment she saw that these two were no longer
children, and whilst she was measuring the
extent of the calamity, Mrs. Courtenay, who
had an awkward and innocent habit of thinking
aloud, said with her pleasant smile :

"La! my dear, John does not stare; he
looks at you, and he looks because he admires
you, I suppose."

Which was the exact truth, and, precisely
because it was the truth, made John look
foolish, brought a sudden glow to Dora's face,
and caused Mrs. Luan to pour the contents of
her tea-cup into the sugar-basin. This do-
mestic calamity sobered them all save Mrs.
Luan herself. But long after the little excite-
ment she thus caused had subsided, John's
mother, though outwardly as dull and as calm
as ever, was brooding over her discovery.

DORA.

She was habitually taciturn, and no one saw
any change in her this evening. She took out
her patchwork, and proceeded with it as
usual. This patchwork, which was literally
hideous, was however the only concession to
fancy which Mrs. Luan had ever made. It
was to her what music is to some, and poetry
to others. These lozenges of faded silks, three
of which being put together formed by their
different shades a cube with a very light top,
and a very dark side to it, were the only re-
laxation Mrs. Luan's mind knew or took from
domestic cares. She loved them, she was
proud of them, she admired them, and felt
pleased when they were praised by some polite
stranger. She never read books or news-
papers ; she took no pleasure in news, national
or local. The ruin of an empire, or the scan-
dalous elopement of a near neighbor, found her
equally indifferent. She could not help this to
a certain extent, for she was partly bora so ;
but she had likewise partly made herself so.
She had assisted Nature, as we all do, and had
not assisted her very wisely — too frequent a
case. Thus she had grown into a silent, apa-
thetic-looking woman, whose concentrated
depth of purpose no one suspected.

Whilst Dora teased John Luan this evening,
and Mrs. Courtenay made little innocent
speeches, Mrs. Luan, whom no one heeded,
and who seemed absorbed in her patchwork,
felt in a strange tumult. Her thoughts, un-
accustomed to wander far, centred around
this great fact : "John is iu love with her."
Gradually her circle widened. She saw the
pair standing at a church altar, and John's
ring on Dora's finger. Then, by a stretch of
her .-low mind, she imagined a poor lodging
somewhere, and John and Dora were in it,
fighting the great battle of respectability versus
poverty, with half-a-dozen children around
them. This was the real point at issue, and it
was frightful. Mrs. Luan liked Dora very
well — as well as she could like a being who

was not John. She felt no maternal jealousy
of a daughter-in-law. It would not have
grieved her to see John worship Dora with the
romantic fancy of a lover, or the yearning ten-
derness of the fondest husband. Her objection
to the first cousinship was of the slenderest
sort. She was a woman of few feelings, as
well as of few ideas. But the cruel truth was
that, if John was poor, Dora was poorer. This
was terrible, and nothing could overcome it in
Mrs. Luan's mind. The beauty of Helen, the
mind of a De Stael, the heart of a Mrs. Fry,
the piety of a saint, would have left her alien-
ated, indifferent, and cold. Poverty had early
taken and stamped her, and the mark was in-
delible. She woke to think of money, as she
slept to dream of it, not exactly for her own
sake, but for John's. She could not give him
wealth, not possessing it herself, but she could
try and make him acquire it ; above all, she
could try and not let him fall into such a snare
as that of a poor marriage. That he should
love Dora, and think of marrying her, was
something awful in her creed. Save him she
must, no matter how — no matter at what cost.
She had no plans as yet ; her mind was not an
inventive one, but she had a hard, stubborn will,
and on that she relied, not without cause. That
will had borne her up all her life, and it had
borne her successfully through many a trouble.
She now resolved that her son should never
marry Dora Courtenay. She was prepared to
use any means that might prevent him from
doing so, and beiug irremediably narrow-
minded, it never occurred to her that Dora
might not be in love with John. This narrow-
ness, this inability to take in more than one
idea at a time, was the weak point of a char-
acter to which tenacity of purpose, and reck-
lessness of all save its own ends, gave danger-
ous strength, all the more dangerous that it
was unsuspected, and was accompanied with
marked intellectual inferiority.

In the meanwhile, the pleasant little war

ACCOUNT OF PAUL'S VISIT TO HIS UNCLE.

went on between Dora and John. Dora had
a skein of wool to wind, and she made John
hold it for her. Yery meek and awkward
looked this Hercules, whilst his Omphale
stamped her foot, or shook her bright head at
him with an encouraging " Don't be stupid,"
or a flattering " Oh ! dear, if you would but
try and be useful, John, and not make me
snap my wool so ! "

" I do my best, Dora," was the good-
humored reply.

Upon which Dora pensively rejoined —

" I wonder what your worst would be like,
John ? "

Not a word, not a breath, not a motion, not
a turn of these two did Mrs. Luan lose. She
watched them till all her senses were strained
with the effort, and her mind felt so bewildered
and confused, that she heard without heeding
it the pleasant little chat of her sister-in-law.

Mrs. Courtenay was doing a patience, and
though she knit her brows, and looked pen-
sively at the cards spread on the table, she
was able to talk.

" I wish you had a new dress, Dora," she
said ; " you could give this to Peggy."

" Peggy must wait, mamma. When Paul is
Demosthenes, he will give me a velvet robe.
John, do mind my wool ? "

John, who was innocently thinking that
velvet could scarcely improve Dora, shook his
head like a good faithful dog under the re-
proof, and, dog-like, was mute.

" I am to have diamond earrings, too," re-
sumed Dora — " Paul says so — beau-tiful dia-
mond earrings, mamma."

Mrs. Courtenay sighed gently. Perhaps she
thought the diamond earrings were rather far
away. Dora herself thought so too.

" I shall be old by that time," she resumed
— " quite old; thirty, at the very least. John,
you know, or ought to know, anatomy. Do
tell me why people look old. Why do faces
get so very odd, you know ? It is not only

the skin that changes. How shall I look
when I get old ? — so ? "

She puckered her pleasant genial face into
the most extraordinary wrinkles, and made
her little mother shiver.

" My darling, how can you ? Surely you do
not mean to say that old people arc so horrid V "

" Oh ! no," coolly replied Dora, rcsuming-
her natural form and features, " but I shall be
so, mamma. Shall I not, John ? "

" Don't," he entreated ; " don't."

" Don't get old ! Do you mean to send me
to an early grave, sir ? "

Dora was rather fond of shaking her head,
and shook it now at the delinquent. So ve-
hement was the shake that her hair-pins got
loose, and a shower of rich brown gold locks
fell down her neck on her shoulders. Dora
blushed a little, and John, lost in admiration,
ventured to stretch out his hand, and touch
with worshipful timidity one of those beau-
tiful tresses. Dora pulled it from him with a
pleasant laugh, and Mrs. Courtenay said,

" Has she not beautiful hair, John ? "

And Mrs. Luan put down her work, and in
her blind mad terror at what she feared,
would, if she could, have destroyed Dora that
moment. Hatred she felt none ; but it is not
hate which works the most evil, or inflicts the
deepest wrongs.

Dora soberly put up her hair, and as the
evening was well-nigh spent, Peggy was told
to go to bed; and Mrs. Courtenay, Mrs. Luan,
and John and Dora parted, to follow her ex-
ample.

CHAPTER III.

" Paul will come by the night train,"
thought Dora; so, when that train was nearly
due, she softly stole down to the kitchen to make
her brother a hot cup of tea. Dora was a clever
girl, and a clever woman is expert in every-
thing. It was no trouble to her to light

DORA.

a fire, and prepare her brother's tea and
supper. The event justified her foresight.
The water was scarcely boiling when she
heard a few light grains of sand thrown against
the parlor window. She stole up-stairs, noise-
lessly opened the cottage door, and got a cor-
dial kiss in the dark for her pains.

" They are all asleep," she whispered ;
" come down to the kitchen."

A pleasant sight to a weary traveller was
that which greeted Paul Courtenay's eyes as
he followed his sister down-stairs. The fire
was blazing, the water was simmering on the
hob, a frying-pan was hissing on the fire, the
cloth was laid; a cottage-loaf, butter, and
jug of ale were the first instalments of a fru-
gal meal, where fried eggs and bacon were to
play the most conspicuous part, and which a
warm cup of tea, and that domestic iniquity,
hot buttered toast, were to crown.

Poor Mrs. Luan tossing restlessly on your
couch, and planning economy in your dreams,
where were you then ?

Paul Courtenay, a dark, good-looking young
man, with a broad beetling forehead, bestowed
a gratified look on these preparations, sat
down, drew his chair to the fire, rested his
feet on the fender, and said emphatically,

"You bright little fairy ! What lucky fel-
low will have you, I wonder ! "

" Well, I do think he will be lucky," can-
didly replied Dora, minding her frying-pan all
the time ; " only I wonder, Paul, if he will ap-
preciate his happiness."

"He had better do so," replied Paul, with
something like sternness.

"Dear Paul!" thought Dora, "I do be-
lieve he would defend me to the last drop of
his blood."

" Why don't you ask for news ? " said Paul.
" Xo, you must eat first. There, hold your
plate, and do not leave a morsel."

Paul obeyed literally. He ate and drank
heartily, and soon looked much the better for

the meal his thoughtful little sister had pro-
vided.

" And now," said Dora, sitting down at his
knee on a hassock which she had brought
down for that purpose — " now you may tell
me all."

Her bright eyes were fastened on bis in
eager expectation ; her parted lips expressed
the very keenness of desire.

" Well, imagine a wild landscape with
mountains around it, a grassy park with noble
trees, the smoke of a waterfall on your right
hand, and on your left a little gray lake with
a patch of blue sky ; in the distance a plain
white house — that is Deenah. When I reached
the house an old servant in sober livery showed
me into the room where Mr. Courtenay was
sitting. I saw a little pale old man, blind of
one eye, on whom I should have been afraid
to blow, so weak did he seem. He held out
his hand, a cold weak hand, and told me in a
whisper — ' I am glad to see you ; but I had a
wretched night — I woke at two — sleeplessness
is constitutional with me. I had a fall three
months back, and s'ome nerve got injured, for
when the weather changes I feel a great
throbbing and cannot sleep."

" Did he ask after mamma or Aunt Luan ? "
" He did not. He could not weary of his
sleepless night ! Yet he also spoke on busi-
ness. ' You are my heir-at-law,' he said ;
' but I did not get my property from my an-
cestors, and what did not come by inheritance
need not go by inheritance. I shall leave you
and your sister, and John Luan even, five
hundred pounds each, which, as I was not on
friendly terms with your late father, and will
never see my sister again, is handsome. But
then to whom shall I leave Deenah and the
rest of the property, which is large — to you or
to young Templemore ? He was my late wife's
nephew, and Mrs. Courtenay brought me a
good deal of money; so he, too, has claims,
you see.' "

MR. COURTENAY'S CURIOSITIES.

" Let him share his money between you,"
promptly said Dora.

" Tell him to make two halves of his body,"
replied her brother, smiling.

"'Well, you shall have the first chance,'
said Mr. Courtenay. What that chance was
I learned after luncheon. It was too damp
for us to visit the grounds, but Mr. Courtenay
— my uncle, I should say — showed me over
the house. He went gliding about that great
lonely place in felt slippers, like the Italian
poet's Sleep, and looking more like his own
ghost than like a living man. But a very nice
ghost Mr. Courtenay made, I must say. He
is small and slender, and neat beyond any one
I ever knew. His motions are noiseless, quiet,
and graceful, like your cat's, Dora. I could
not help admiring the perfection of nicety
there is about that insignificant old man. He
has made his house like himself, a complete
thing ; but money has given him the power
of acquiring what nature bestows, but never
sells, and thence Mr. Courtenay's house is
something exquisite. ' You have not seen my
curiosities,' he said, 'you must see my curi-
osities.' He took me to a sort of gallery, with
windows on one side, and glass cases on the
other. Between the cases were statues, beau-
tiful pieces of furniture, large porcelain or
marble vases, and more things than I can tell
you of. The evening was coming on, and the
room was rather dark. Well, Dora, on that
room hangs my fate ; through that room I am
to grow rich, or to remain poor. That room
and its contents will probably decide whether
or not your brother shall ever marry Florence
Gale ! "

Paul looked grave, almost sad. It was plain
that he felt by no means sanguine.

" But how — how so ? " asked Dora, shaking
her bright head a little defiantly.

" Wait and you shall learn. ' This,' said
Mr. Courtenay, ' is my hobby, you know.
This collection, such as it is, has been valued

at twenty thousand pounds. It did not cost
me twenty hundred. You see taste did not
run much this way when I travelled on the
Continent forty-five years ago. Look at this
saucer — ' he opened one of the glass cases,
and took out one of the most hideous objects
you ever saw, Dora — a large round dish, with
a green speckled serpent, and horrible little
lizards filling the centre. ' Do you know, sir,'
he continued, ' how much I paid for this treas-
ure, genuine Palissy, at a bric-d-brac shop in
Paris, forty-five years ago ? Fifty sous, sir.
It would be cheap at fifty pounds now. And
it is unique — unique ! No other Palissy that
I know of has (hat kind of serpent.' I cannot
tell you, Dora, how he looked as he spoke.
The man was transfigured. His one eye shone,
his pale cheek was flushed, his very voice
quivered. He took me over all his treasures,
and explained them to me one by one in the
same mood. And when we came to a low
glass shade, he stopped with a sort of awe.
' That,' he whispered, ' is my Henri-deux ware
— look ! ' I saw a little pale salt-cellar, with a
very fine pattern upon it, a thing for which I
would scarcely have given threepence, Dora ;
well, it seems it is worth hundreds. And there
is a mystery about its manufacture, and I am
to find out the mystery, though it has puzzled
and still puzzles the learned."

" Well, but what about the fortune ? " asked
Dora.

" Why, this — that if I can write a good de-
scriptive account, a first-rate catalogue of Mr.
Courtenay's collection, both collection and
fortune are mine."

" Why, then, you are sure of it," cried
Dora, with sparkling eyes.

" And pray how am I to write such a cata-
logue? It would take half a lifetime to ac-
quire the knowledge needed for the task, and
Mr. Courtenay would detect the least flaw in
my erudition. I shall make the attempt, and
respond to his kindness in giving me what he

DORA.

calls the first chance, but I do not reckon on
success."

"But you must succeed, Paul. Mr. Cour-
tenay means you to succeed."

" Mr. Courtenay is a true Courtenay, Dora,
honorable and conscientious, and not know-
ing how to decide between this young Temple-
more's claims and mine, he has hit on this
scheme ; but being a true Courtenay, he will
abide by the law of his own laying down."

Dora looked thoughtfully at the decaying fire.

" Has John any chance ? " she asked.

"None."

" Can I help you with the catalogue ? "

"Very little, unless in the way of taking
extracts in Mr. Ryan's library ; but I am not
sanguine, Dora. I feel I shall not succeed,
and I feel, too, I shall not marry Florence
Gale."

Paul spoke despondently ; he was liable to
such fits of depression, and they saved him,
perhaps, from the ridicule which might have
attached to the quiet but obstinate good opin-
ion of himself, and all pertaining to himself,
which was his only foible. But the humility
of his tone, as he thus gave up all hopes of
fortune and Florence, vexed his ambitious lit-
tle sister. Moreover, by thus placing Florence
as a prize beyond his reach, Paul decidedly
proved himself mortal.

"You must succeed, and you shall marry
her ! " she cried, almost impatiently ; " she
must wait for you, Paul."

" How many years, Dora ? "We are not en-
gaged, you know. I could not help letting
her see that I loved her, dear girl ; but she is
not pledged to me. I know she could never
marry me unless I got rich, and you know,"
he added, with his grave smile, " I am not the
man to elope with a rich man's daughter ; be-
sides, I never could tempt a girl to such a
step. It is not in the Courtenay blood."

" Suppose I run away," demurely suggested
Dora.

" Dora," he said, a little austerely, " never
jest so. No sister of mine could do such a
thing."

"Florence Gale would run away with a
lord," thought Dora ; " poor Paul, not to know
it!"

Again the sense of her brother's blindness
came to Dora unpleasantly, and almost re-
morsefully ; for was it not a sort of sin to see
it? But then she remembered the heel of
Achilles, that type of all heroic weakness, and
she was partly comforted. After all, Paul
was not bound to be beyond humanity.

" I say you shall marry her," she said again.
" It is your right, and you shall have your
right, Paul."

" To be sure," he good-humoredly replied ;
" but it is late, suppose you goto bed. I shall
stay here and smoke awhile."

Dora saw he wished to be alone, and she let
him have his way. She got up, filled his pipe,
and brought it to him ; then giving him a
parting look on the threshold of the kitchen
door, she stole up-stairs with a little sigh.
Paul looked very grave, not in the least like a
man who has had the chance of a handsome
fortune just offered to him.

"He does not expect to get it," thought
Dora, as she softly went back to her bed un-
heard. " Oh ! if I could but write that cat-
alogue for him ! It is not in his way, and it
would be in mine."

Lest this confidence should seem presump-
tuous in Miss Courtenay, we may as well men-
tion that she had received a solid education,
was well read in several languages, and could
write very well. From her earliest years she
had shared that portion of her brother's
studies and pursuits which could interest her.
Latin and the law excepted, she knew as much
as he did, and some things she knew better
than Paul. Their father, a man of rare ac-
quirements, had spared nothing to teach them
both, and Dora, he would say sometimes, was

FLORENCE GALE.

the more brilliant scholar of the two. Dora
knew it, in a careless sort of way. As a rule
she forgot the depth and extent of her infor-
mation ; but sometimes, too, she remembered
it, and she now wondered if she could not
render her little learning usefuLto her brother.
She sat up in her bed, thinking of the visit
she was going to pay to Mr. Ryan, of the
works she must read, of the manner in which
she could turn her researches to Paul's advan-
tage.

" He must write that catalogue, and write it
well," she thought. "I wish I could see
Deenah and the lake, and the gallery, and that
wonderful salt-cellar."

These thoughts followed her in her dreams.
She saw a green solitude, and a shining lake,
and a white house. She wandered in its
rooms, preceded by Mr. Courtenay, who, look-
ing on her with his one eye, said in a whisper —

" Don't be afraid, my dear ; I am dead, and
cannot hurt you."

She followed the noiseless little old man till
she came to the gallery, and there she wan-
dered alone, for, ghost-like, he had suddenly
vanished. She saw every object her brother
had described, and especially did she see Mr.
Courtenay's specimen of Henri-deux ware.
The mystery concerning this rare bit of pot-
tery, dreamed Dora, was to be found within
one of its recesses ; but unluckily she scarcely
had lifted up the glass shade to peep in, when
she woke and saw the sun shining in at her
window.

CHAPTER IV.

Paul's godfather, Mr. Ryan, had one of the
largest private libraries in Dublin, and to him
Dora at once applied for books. She was an
especial favorite, and was graciously received,
so far as books went, but on hearing of the
catalogue Mr. Ryan laughed derisively.

" Paul does not know human nature," he

said, " or he would never believe such a wild
story as this. Let him get the five hundred
pounds — if he can — and I shall turn them into
thousands ; tell Paul so."

Mr. Ryan had made a handsome fortune in
the Funds, and thought himself an authority
in all financial matters. Dora believed in
him implicitly, save when he ventured to cen-
sure Paul. She did not deny his power of
turning five hundred pounds into so many
thousands, but she indignantly vindicated her
brother's knowledge of human nature, and as-
serted his prospects of success.

" I am sure Paul will have Deenah ! " she
said, warmly, " and his catalogue will be a
beautiful catalogue ; and I hope, Mr. Ryan,
that you will let me read in your library, for I
want books, quartos perhaps, or in-folios,
which I cannot take home. I am to write
out all the extracts, you know."

" Yes, yes ! you poor little innocent," kindly
said Mr. Ryan, patting her on the head, " have
your way."

Thus it came to pass that Dora was very
busy in Mr. Ryan's library one bright morn-
ing, a week after Paul's visit to Deenah, and
that Mr. Ryan was reading with her and gen-
tly nodding over his book. Mr. Ryan was a
happy man, and sleep came easily to him, as
most things did, and rather oftener than was
needed. It came now insidious and stealthy.
The book was dull, the room rather close, and
Mr. Ryan's luncheon had been comfortable.
Sleep was having it all his own way, and
would have prevailed entirely, if the library
door had not opened gently, and a very pretty
girlish face peeped in with a merry laugh.
Dora looked up, and Mr. Ryan awoke with a
start.

" Napping — napping both of you ! " said the
intruder ; " and how is that catalogue to be
done, eh ? "

" I was not napping, Florence," gravely re-
plied Dora ; " I was reading."

DORA.

" Was Mr. Ryan reading too ? " shrewdly
asked Miss Gale.

Mr. Ryan laughed, and looked admiringly at
the pretty creature before him. Paul's mis-
tress was neither short nor tall, neither plump
nor thin. Her figure had every charm which
nature can give to youth, nothing too much
and nothing too little. She stood before Mr.
Ryan, dangling her hat in her hand, and smil-
ing down at him in conscious beauty. She
was always pretty, but these smiles of hers,
which were neither few nor far between, made
her enchanting, and she knew it. Seducing
is the word that describes her best. Never
did softer black eyes beam from beneath more
finely-pencilled eyebrows than those of Flor-
ence. Her dark hair was glossy and abun-
dant ; her teeth were two rows of pearls ; her
rosy cheeks "were full of the most fascinating
dimples, and though she was by several years
Dora's elder, she looked the younger and the

more childish of the two.

" Why were you not reading and helping
poor Paul ? " she asked, coaxingly, of Paul's
godfather ; " and why is not Paul here ? " she
added, turning on Dora, and speaking rather
pettishly.

" Paul is not well, Florence."

Miss Gale threw herself into the nearest
arm-chair, and exclaimed, petulantly,

" I do think Paul does it on purpose, not to
be well just because he has that catalogue to
do, and the chance of a fortune to get. I sup-
pose young Templemore will have it ; and I
wish he may," she added, waxing wroth ; " he
is my cousin, third or fourth, and I wish he
may get Deenah ! I do, since Paul does not
care for it, and only coddles himself up."

Dora looked at her in a silent indignation,
which was wholly thrown away on Miss Gale ;
while Mr. Ryan remarked gravely,

" Then I suppose you will marry Mr. Tem-
plemore if he gets Deenah ? "

" Marry him ! " exclaimed Florence, raising

her arched eyebrows ; " marry him, Mr.
Ryan ! "

" What ! is he so objectionable ? Never
mind, Deenah will make him fascinating
enough."

"But he has-got a wife and little girls!"
ejaculated Florence. " I told you so the
other day — I wish you would not worry, Mr.
Ryan."

" Why, yes, it is tantalizing. The little
girls would make no difference ; but the wife
is an objection."

Florence laughed, and Dora, bending over
her book, thought with a swelling heart, " It
is Deenah she wants. Paul she does not care
for. She does not even ask what ails him."
But this omission Miss Gale repaired before
her departure. After spending half an hour
in listening to Mr. Ryan's mingled praise and
quizzing — provided she got the one, she had
not the least objection to the other — she sud-
denly discovered that she was wanted home.

" I told papa I was going to see aunt," she
said, confidentially, to Dora ; " and now I shall
have to say that aunt was out. I thought to
find Paul here — what ails him ? "

"He knocked himself up with working too
hard."

" Now, Dora, if you put that into his head,
that wretched catalogue will never be done ;
so pray don't. Good-morning, Mr. Ryan, a
pleasant nap to you."

And putting on her little hat, after waving
it in mock courtesy to Mr. Ryan, Miss Gale
danced out of the room without giving him
time to follow her, or even ring the bell.

" The prettiest, emptiest little thing that ever
was, ch, Dora ? "

But, whatever Dora's thoughts might be,
she would not grant Paul's mistress to be less
than perfect.

"Florence is too good-natured, Mr. Ryan,"
she said, indignantly; "she allows you to
quiz her ! I would not tolerate it ! "

THE MYSTERIOUS SALT-CELLAR.

" Nor deserve it," politely said Mr. Ryan ;
"no, no, Dora — I know where the shoe
pinches. You cannot understand that Paul
should be so smitten with that silly little
bird, but you will not confess it. Never mind,
my dear. Most young men would be no wiser
than Paul is. So we will help him all the
same with his catalogue, in order that he may
get his pretty Florence. For unless Paul has
Deenah, or something very like it, Mr. Gale
will never give him his daughter, as we all
know."

Dora sighed. Yes, Paul's happiness hung
on that catalogue.

Mr. Courtenay was a pitiless collector. lie
had specimens of everythiug, or, to speak
more correctly, he had collected in every pos-
sible direction. Paul had paid a second visit
to Deenah, and come back with a list of ob-
jects to be described that would have puzzled
a Benedictine monk's learning. Etruscan
vases and Dutch hardware, Majolica, Indian
carving, mediaeval armor, old laces, illuminated
manuscripts, bewildered Dora, and tried Mr.
Ryan's library to the utmost. So she worked
hard, and without relaxation, till it was time
to go and bid Mr. Ryan adieu.

" I shall go on with that Hydria," he said,
" and that antique mask as well. I shall do all
the hard work for you, Dora. The rest will
be child's play to Paul and you — tell him so."
-~ Mr. Ryan had been " going on " with the
Hydria and the antique mask for a week. He
was one of the many who mistake a kind in-
tention for its fulfilment. A promise was so
delightfully easy. It gratified both his amia-
bility by the prospect of good to be done, and
his indolence by its postponement. Dora
smiled at his calmly-benevolent tone, and then
went her way.

Mr. Ryan's house — and a handsome, pleas-
ant house it was — stood near Phoenix Park.
There Dora was to find her brother, who wished
to escort her home. He was true to his ap-

pointment, but as he walked towards her Dora
was struck with his pale face, and exclaimed,
anxiously,

" Paul, you have been working ? "

" I could not help it. Do you know, I think
that if it was Mr. Courtenay's object to give
me a taste for his curiosities by making me
write that catalogue, he has been successful.
I could not help looking over my notes, and
once I had looked I should write."

Dora looked at him with growing uneasiness.
Paul was very pale, but his dark eyes burned
with a feverish light. Surely he was not ill ?
surely it was only fatigue that ailed him ?

" You know I told you that Mr. Courtenay
has a salt-cellar of Henri-deux ware ? " re-
sumed Paul, " and that, though he does not
expect me to solve the great mystery, he
nevertheless wishes me to have a theory on
the subject. Well, Dora, I do believe I am on
the track — yes, and I think, too, my theory is
the right one."

Dora looked at him in great admiration. Of
course, if Paul had a theory, it must be the '
right one, and of course a right theory on Mr.
Courtenay's salt-cellar of Henri-deux ware
meant triumph. She said so with sparkling
eyes. Paul laughed, and shook his head.

" I don't know," he said. " I promised
Florence to work hard, and I will."

" When did you see her ? "

"This afternoon. Dear girl! she came to
tell me her father wants her to marry a Mr.
Logan, whom she hates. She was all in tears,
but I so promised to work, and be successful,
that she was bright again when she left us."

Dora sighed. What availed it that she did
all she could to spare Paul, if Florence came
and urged him on ? But with that menace of
a rival it was useless to try and check him.
Silly though she was, Florence had an art in
which even silly women are expert. She knew
how to rule the man who loved her, and Dora
was too wise to contend acrainst her influence.

DORA.

"And so," continued Paul, "I worked
hard. I did more. I called on Mr. Gale on
my way here."

Dora stood still, and uttered a breathless
" Well ? "

" Well, I got a diplomatic reply. Mr. Gale
praised my candor, but, of course, pledged
himself to nothing. Only I know and feel
this : if I succeed, I am sure of Florence
spite all the Logans there may be."

He seemed so hopeful, that it made Dora
happy to look at him. They spent the even-
ing in working together, and making use of
her notes. They sat in the cottage parlor,
with the rest of the family around them.
Paul's mind required neither silence nor soli-
tude for its exertions. He read and wrote,
and Dora either helped her brother, or was
wrapped up in him. Though she had no spare
time or speech to bestow on John, Mrs. Luan's
son did not miss his cousin's teasing. He
thought it hard to be excluded from his chance,
as he called it, of Mr. Courtenay's fortune,
and he had said so bluntly on learning the
terms on which Paul was to compete for it.
Mrs. Courtenay, good soul, had wondered her
brother-in-law did not at once leave the money
to Paul, just giving him a few thousands to
begin life with ; but of herself, or even of her
daughter Dora's claims, she said nothing.
Paul was dear to her, as if he had been her own
son, and on this evening she was engaged in
doing a patience for a wish, which wish was
her step-son's success in his undertaking.

" And it is going on beautifully, Paul," she
said, with a beaming face. " This is my great
patience, that which Louis the Eighteenth did
every evening after his dinner. I really think
it will succeed."

Paul smiled kindly, and Mrs. Luan went on
silently with her patchwork. She had made
no comment on her brother's decision, and her
silence was laid to the fact that they had quar-
relled at the time of her marriage, and never

been reconciled. It was hard to say what
passed in her mind. She seemed as dull and as
apathetic as ever. On one point she remained
firm. Neither Dora's promised five hundred
pounds, nor the chance which her brother's
aifection would certainly give her, of a hand-
some portion, if he inherited Mr. Courtenay's
fortune, could make her see John's love for
his cousin Dora with anything save detestation.
She had no imagination to mislead ker. Mr.
Courtenay was not dead, but living. His prom-
ise could be revoked, and the fact that Dora
was poor remained in all its ugly truth. It
may be that this fear was enough for her, her
mind not being one which could hold many
ideas, or grasp many projects at the same
time. At all events, it was the only thought
she dwelt upon as she sat and stitched at her
patchwork during the long autumn evening,
whilst brother and sister toiled, and John
looked on with sullen discontent. He thought
it hard, and he said so, to be excluded from
the competition, since there was one. Who
was that Templemore, that he should step in
and have a chance when he, John, had none ?
Why should not John have attempted a cata-
logue, and had his theory on the Henri-deux
salt-cellar? So he grumbled, then went to
bed, whilst Dora sat up with her brother, car-
ing nothing for either labor or vigil, if they
but helped him to a fortune and Florence
Gale.

"Dear girl !" he said fondly. "She is so
artless, she has already appropriated half the
collection. She seems to take it for granted
that the poor old gentleman must die off in
order to make room for us."

Dora looked pensive, but did not wonder
much ; there was a charm in everything Flor-
ence said.

THE CATALOGUE COMPLETED.

CHAPTER V.

The catalogue proved a tedious task, and
soon absorbed Paul Courtenay completely.
He grew to be like a gambler watching the
fate of bjs last stake. The law was neglected
now, and he remained at home day after day
" to work at the catalogue." He had acquired
a genuine passion for the curiosities on which
his fate hung, and that passion held him fast.

" There is no such collection as Mr. Courte-
nay's," he often said to Dora ; " besides, we
alone have got a Henri-deux salt-cellar, you
know."

The whole family, indeed, got excited when
the catalogue was mentioned. Mrs. Luan said
nothing, but looked almost bright. John for-
got his annoyance to wish Paul success ; and
Mrs. Courtenay, with a little shrill raising of
the voice, " was sure she was that dear Paul
must win."

Dora alone was rather grave. She too felt cer-
tain of her brother's success, but then how pale,
how worn he looked ! Paul's mother had died
young, and Paul was very like the miniature
of her in his room. Oh ! what if the cost 6 of
success should prove too dear ! This terrible
thought came but once, and was banished so
angrily that it came no more; but though the
doors were closed upon it, the baleful presence
had been there, and the uneasiness it had gen-
erated remained behind. '

At length the catalogue was finished, and
Paul, who would not trust the post with it,
took it down himself to Deenah. He was full
of hope, especially concerning his theory on
the Henri-deux ware.

" There is a G on our salt-cellar," he said to
Dora ; " who cm doubt that it was put there
for Girolamo della Robbia,the great Italian?"

How happy and confident he looked, but how

sunken his eyes were, how hollow his cheeks

had grown ! The thought haunted her, as,

after seeing him off, she came home from the

station and passed through the garden to the
house, looking at its last autumn flowers. A few
pale and drooping chrysanthemums still braved
the night and morning chill, and held on their
languid life, ready to perish with the first sharp
breath of coming winter. To Dora, in the
fulness of her strength and youth, these flowers
were ungenial. She looked at them with a
sort of pity, but without love.

" Poor things ! " she thought, as she passed
on — "poor things! I wish for their sakes
there were a perpetual spring. But would
they really like it ? They were born to bloom
in autumn and to suffer."

With this thought came another that passed
through her like a quick sharp pang. Why
was Paul so sad-looking ? Was he, too, meant
to live in sorrow, and die early ? She rebelled
at the thought. She would not submit to it.
Paul was her hero and her king, endowed with
the heroic gift of perpetual youth and every
kingly attribute. He should live, he should
be strong and happy. He should prevail and
be rich, ay, and have Florence Gale too, since
he wished for her.

"It is a folly," thought Dora, looking down
at it from the height of her superior wisdom.
" I dare say he thinks he cannot help it, as if
one could not always help these things ! Poor
Florence, it is no fault of hers if she is so
much beneath dear Paul ! "

As she came ' to this charitable conclusion,
Dora entered the cottage and found Florence
there. The young lady flew at her and gave
her a warm hug.

"Now, darling!" she cried, "do tell me.
Is it a good catalogue ? "

" Yes, a very good one, Florence."

" And do you think Paul will get Deenah ? "

" Mr. Courtenay is still living, Florence."

" Oh ! but he is sure to die. He looks so
ill ! "

" So does Paul."

Florence pouted, and said a little sulkily,

DORA.

" That is for me, Dora. '

Dora sighed, and said more gently —

" I do wish you had spared him a little
more ; but what is done is done. Let us only
hope he will be successful."

Florence laughed.

" He must be successful if he means to have
me," she said saucily. " But why did he go
off to Deenah ? I came to see him, and he is
gone ! Why did he not manage to see me ? "

" He is under a pledge to your father."

" Pledge fiddlesticks ! " interrupted Flor-
ence. " Why does he keep it ? "

" Because Paul cannot break a promise,"
was the grave reply.

" Oh ! dear," ruefully said Miss Gale ; " why,
I had to tell such a set of fibs to get here.
Firstly, that Mrs. Smith wanted me to take a
drive with her — that was to papa ; secondly,
to Mrs. Smith, that I wanted to see Mrs. Cour-
tenay about a charitable concern ; and third-
ly — " here Miss Gale looked bewildered — " I
have forgotten the third," she said, " but I
know there was one."

Dora heard her gravely. Paul adored Flor-
ence, but she wondered how long such adora-
tion would last.

" We shall soon be going down to Deenah,"
resumed Florence, who would talk, no matter
about what. " I suppose papa wants some
shooting, but I think it would be much cheaper
to buy game, don't you ? "

" I suppose so," replied Dora passively.

"Such a beautiful place as old Courtenay's
is," continued Florence enthusiastically ; " I
shall like it much, Dora. I have planned all
sorts of changes, you know. These mousey
old things shall not have the best room. We
dined with old Courtenay last year, and oh !
how he did prose ! He had not slept all
night, and be said so, also that his nails grew
fast, and did I not think it a sign of ill-health ?
And I was thinking all the time of his Paschal
candelabrum, as he calls it."

" The finest of its kind, excepting one at
Milan," interrupted Dora with sparkling eyes.

" Is there really an uglier one ? " asked
Florence. " Well, I was thinking of it, and
that if I had Deenah I should put it in the hall,
and now of course I will."

Dora did not answer. She longed for
silence and peace. Belief came ; the door
opened, and John Luan entered the room. It
so happened that this was the first time Flor-
ence saw him, for she was a rare visitor at the
cottage. She gave him a half-shy, half-doubts
ful look. He looked at her, too, aud rather
scornfully Dora watched what followed. Miss
Gale could not do without admiration. Paul
was not present. She at once took up with
John. Mrs. Luan's son, so bashful with Dora,
showed sudden brightness. This pretty dark-
haired girl, whose face expressed vivacity and
languor in a most bewitching degree, rather
threw Dora into the shade. Indeed, so far as
beauty went, there could be no comparison be-
tween these two. Take away her brightness,
and a pair of dark-grey eyes from Dora, and
there remained little to her save youth and its
bloom. Dora was not jealous of John, but
what girl likes to be eclipsed ? She resented
his faithlessness and Miss Gale's coquetry in
equal degree. Besides, how dare she trifle
thus with another whilst Paul was away ? So
she looked at the pair with an austerity of
which John was unconscious, and which filled
Miss Gale with mischievous glee. But this
pretty pastime did not last. Florence started
up with an artless exclamation of —

" Oh ! dear, poor Mrs. Smith will be mad
with me, she will. Good-bye, darling ! "

And giving Dora a warm hug, and a fond
kiss, and dropping John Luan a curtsy, she
ran away, thinking,

" How savage Dora looks, and how sly she
is ! but have I not paid her out for it, though ? "

From which it need not be concluded that
Miss Gale meant any particular harm, or that

DEENAH.

Bhe had designs on penniless John Luan.
Only pleasure was her law, and it was very
pleasant to be looked at with such sincere ad-
miration as that to be read in Mr. Luan's blue
eyes.

" What a sweet girl ! " he could not help
saying, and he went to the window to look
after the graceful figure lightly running down
the road toward the carriage of Mrs. Smith.
" Such soft dark eyes, and nice eyebrows ! "

" Yes," apathetically said Dora, " very ! "

She, too, looked after Florence, and as she
looked she tried to solve a problem which
puzzles many women, and the opposite of
which, no doubt, perplexes many men. How
is it, for instance, that girls like Florence, who
have not the better and nobler part of beauty,
its grand or its lovely meaning, only the white
and red, or the well-shaped eye and arched
brow, who have little mind, not much heart,
and no more sense than wit, how is it they
win, ay, and keep men's hearts ?

" Paul has never been the same to me since
he saw her face," thought Dora, with a swell-
ing heart : " and it is well for me I do not care
for John, for he swears by her already. How
does she do it ? "

Vexed question. How often the man of
sense and sterling merit has tried to solve it,
when he has seen himself put by for a coarse
or a shallow fool ! But Dora only thought of
her own case, and she thought of it as if with
a foreshadowing of what the future was to
bring forth. She was not surprised, when
John left the window, to find that it was to
talk of Florence Gale ; but the subject rather
wearied her. She was glad when her aunt
entered the room, and still better pleased
when the evening was over, and she sat up
alone waiting for Paul.

€he looked at the fire, and tried to see
Deenah in it. Then she checked herself.
What was Deenah to her, or any place where
Florence must reiarn !

"You are beautiful, Deenah," she said to
herself ; " but I must not think of you.
Well, no matter, so dear Paul has you and is
happy."

And as dear Paul himself was even then
knocking at the door, she rose with joyous
eagerness to let him in.

" Well ? " she said, breathlessly.

" Well, all right ! "

He looked radiant, and so did Dora.

" Did he promise ? " she asked.

"No, no. Men like him never promise.
But he paid me some handsome compliments
on my industry."

" And what about Mr. Templemore ? "

"Not a word. I never did think that
Templemore had the least chance. I suspect
it was some promise to his wife. How cold it
is!"

" And now, what will you have ? "

" Nothing, my dear. I shall just take the
cold out of my bones and go to bed."

" How pale you look, Paul ! "

" I was rather cold coming down — "

" Go to bed at once and take something
hot."

But Paul declined the latter part of Dora's
invitation. He would go to bed presently, but
he would take nothing hot, and as Paul had a
will of his own, Dora did not insist. They sat
up awhile, and Dora mentioned Florence Gale's
visit. His eyes softened, and he laughed when
ister told him about Florence's three fibs.

"Dear girl!" he exclaimed fondly.

"He must be bewitched," thought Dora;
but aloud she said, " Go to bed, Paul, you
look quite ill."

"I don't feel so. I feel very happy, Dora.
Happiness lies before me. I think myself sure
of the girl. I love, of a handsome fortune and a
fine estate, and as I must work on, I hope to
these blessings to add those of a position won
by my own exertions, and of honorable '
I say it again, happiness lies before me, and

DORA.

that prospect has not always been mine. And
you shall be happy, Dora. A guinea a line will
you get for that catalogue, and let me tell you
there are not many who get so much."

"A guinea a line ! " said Dora, clapping her
hands, and looking delighted. " Oh ! you gen-
erous Paul, you are surely the Prince of
Publishers ! "

" And what will you do with that money ? "

" Buy aunt and mamma new dresses, take a
cottage with a large garden to it ; then I must
have an aviary, a conservatory."

" You will find all these at Deenah ! " he
interrupted.

" But I do not mean to wait till Mr. Courte-
nay dies, for them, sir."

" Quite right, ma'am ; and so good-night."

"And now I must go back to the law,"
said Paul, next morning.

This was more easily said than done. Paul's
heart was no longer with his austere mistress.
The goal of his ambition had been displaced
and the task before him seemed dull, flat, and
unprofitable. That catalogue had unsettled
them all. And so time passed. Mrs. Courte-
nay wondered at her brother-in-law's silence.

" He ought to know Paul is anxious," she
said, " and send him word the catalogue is all
right. I believe he quarrelled with my dear
husband because I was French ; but all that
must be over now, and he might call upon me.
And if he objected to Mrs. Luan, he might
have asked to know what day she was out ;
and, at all events, he ought to send us down a
basket of game."

None of these things, however, did Mr.
Courtenay do.

" But I am not afraid," said Paul to his
sister. " I am sure my theory about the Ilenri-
deux ware is the right one."

" Of course it is, Paul."

"Ah! you are truer to me than Palissy's
wife was to him. What a fine fellow he was.

Dora ! His trials and failures would have
sickened any but a true hero. It did me good
to read about him yesterday. He had labored
nine months, his oven was ready, his vases
were ready, his enamel was ready, — fire was
to try all. Six days and six nights he spent
tending that fire, and at the eleventh hour,
when the goal seemed all but won, fuel failed
him. Think of that agony ! The man seized
all he had at hand — chairs, tables, furniture,
the very flooring of his room, and his wife
goes distracted, and Palissy's neighbors say
he is mad, and that he is setting fire to his
house. Well, that madness was his last. He
had prevailed ; he knew the Italian secret, and
had made it his."

" And you have written a good catalogue,
and found out the secret of the Henri-deux
ware, and Deenah is to be yours," replied
Dora.

" And as you have helped me with the cata-
logue, you shall have a suite of rooms in
Deenah."

Dora laughed, but there seemed very little
likeliness of any such contingency just yet.
Time passed, and Mr. Courtenay gave no sign.
They all lived in suspense, save Mrs. Luan.
She brooded day after day, no longer over the
best way of saving candle or sparing fire, but
over the means of separating John and Dora.

" John must go to London," she at length
discovered. Unluckily, to go to London
money was needed, and neither John nor hi8
mother had any. Many a sad mess did Mrs.
Luan make with her patchwork about this
time.

At length Mr. Courtenay wrote. It was
Dora who received the letter, and with it a
large sealed packet from the postman. She
came in with it to the parlor, where Paul was
putting on his gloves before going out.
"Is it Fate ? " he asked gaily.
" I believe it is," replied Dora. "It comes
from Deeuah."

MR. COURTENAY'S DECISION.

Mrs. Luan put down her patchwork.

" Perhaps John had better not go to Lon-
don, after all. Suppose Mr. Courtenay were
to portion Dora. Say give her two thousand
pounds or so."

Whilst Mrs. Luan was thus calculating,
Paul broke the seal of the letter, glanced
over it, then said calmly, " I have failed."

A dead silence fell on them all.

"My theory on the Henri-deux ware was
wrong," resumed Paul, quietly ; " at least, my
uncle says so." And he read aloud : " ' The G
on my salt-cellar has another origin than that
you ascribe to it. In the year 1537, died
Madame de Gouffier, wife of the Lord of Oiron.
She left some valuable specimens of pottery.
Now, Henri-deux ware is the only valuable
French pottery of that period. Hence, Mr.
Templemore concludes that the G on my salt-
cellar is for Gouffier. I agree with him, and
shall call my Henri-deux ware 'Pottery of
Oiron in Poitou.' "

The letter concluded with some compliments
to Paul's success and industry in other re-
spects, enclosed a check for two hundred
pounds, to make up for loss of time, and lest
he should accuse his uncle of partiality, was
accompanied by a printed copy of Mr. Temple-
more's catalogue. Paul's voice never faltered,
his cheek never blanched, his eye remained
firm as he read this letter. Mrs. Courtenay
looked blank ; Mrs. Luan bewildered ; and
Dora hid her face in her hands and wept.

" Come," he said cheerfully, " that will
mend nothing. Let us look at Mr. Temple-
rnore's catalogue."

Perhaps that was the hardest trial of all —
perhaps it was too hard. Dora, who had
checked her tears to look at her brother, read
with the keenest pain the meaning of his face.
Defeated was written there. Ay, Paul Cour-
tenay felt doubly defeated, for he felt that
his uncle's sentence was just, and Mr.Temple-
more's victory complete. He shut the book

with some emotion, took his gloves, looked
for his hat, and saying rather hurriedly, " I
shall be late," he left them. They were all
silent after he was gone. They all knew —
even Mrs. Luan knew it— -that a thunderbolt
had fallen, and that this young tree, so green,
so fresh a few weeks back, was riven.

Mrs. Courtenay lamented over the loss of
Mr. Courtenay's fortune, as if she had ex-
pected Paul to enter into possession of it the
next day, and he had been unkindly deprived
of it. Mrs. Luan, who never said much,
seemed to have grown dumb ; and Dora, the
light, gay Dora, was gloomy, and surreptitiously
took Mr. Templemore's catalogue, and went
up with it to her brother's room, the only
place where she knew that she could look at it
in peace. She sat by the window, whence she
could see, if she chose, the distant bay, with
the sea melting away into a soft, gray sky ;
but little charm had that grand prospect for
Dora now. She, too, for once, wanted to be
miserable, and she had her wish. The cata-
logue was a wonderful catalogue. It was
magnificently printed, and the illustrations
were beautiful — mere woodcuts, indee I, but
executed by a practised hand, and with a
vigor and a spirit which Dora, who drew well,
could appreciate. The text, however, was the
criterion of Mr. Templemore's work ; and
there too, alas ! he far surpassed her brother.
Paul's taste for virtu was a fictitious, acquired
taste ; Mr. Templemore's was evidently a natu-
ral gift, matured by long, careful cultivation.
Dora could not tell how far he was right in his
theory concerning the Henri-deux ware, but
she was obliged to confess that it was infi-
nitely more plausible than her brother's. Mr.
Templemore's superiority in other matters she
also ascertained; but she could not go to the
end of the painful task. She threw the book
away in a passion of resentment and grief,
and burst into a flood of bitter tears.

Slow and miserable was the rest of this un-

DORA.

happy clay. Paul came home very late, but
he found Dora sitting up for him in the par-
lor. He looked scarcely pleased. Perhaps
he was in one of those moods when silence
and solitude are most acceptable. Yet Dora
was not troublesome. She did not intrude ad-
vice or consolation. She only looked at him
with gentle, loving eyes, until his heart smote
him for the coldness of his averted glances,
and lie beckoned her to his side. At once she
came, and twining her arm around his neck,
laid her cheek to his.

" Poor Dora ! " he said, kindly, " you have
all the sorrow, as you had all the trouble. But
do not fret for me. I shall do. It is all
over ! "

" You saw her? "

" No ; but I wrote to her. She had never
been pledged to me, but for all that I set her
free. I fancy she will marry soon — I trust she
will be happy, dear girl ! "

Dora's eyes flashed. Happy with another !
— oh ! how could Paul say that ? — how could
he feel it ? But he did feel it. Perhaps his
was the disinterested love which is as rare as
true love itself; perhaps it was not very deep
love, after all, and could be resigned easily to
loss and separation.

" But you, Paul," she said, " how will you
feel ? "

" Unhappy for a time, then I shall grow
comforted, no doubt. But, Dora, I do not
think I shall ever marry."

" Then if you do not, I will not either," she
said, impetuously — " never, Paul ! "

" Never ! — what will John say to that ? "

"John may say what he pleases — I do not
care about him. Besides, I would not marry
my cousin."

" Well, time will show what either of us
will do ; and now, Dora, it is late — go to bed,
dear."

" Why should I not sit up here with you ? —
we used to sit up for the catalogue, hoping

and dreaming. Why should we not sit up
now, regretting and lamenting together ? "

" I cannot talk about it," he said, in a. low
tone. " I wish I could — it would be better
for me — but I cannot."

" And what will you do about that money,
Paul ? " asked Dora, with flashing eyes ; " you
will not keep it ? "

" Yes, Dora, I will. My first impulse was
to return it, and if Mr. Courtenay's decision
had been an unjust one — not a farthing of it
would I touch. But there is the hardship of
my case. I cannot think myself an ill-used
man ; I had a chance given me, and I lost it.
It was fair play, Dora. I should only display
a small, silly pride, if I were to refuse this
gift of a relative who meant me kindly."

Dora was silent. She seldom opposed any
decision of her brother's. To please and obey
him was the law of her life, and when he
again said that it was late, she took the hint
and left him. Mrs. Courtenay was already
fast asleep, but Dora could not go to bed at
once. She could not forget Paul, sitting by
the lonely hearth below, and mourning over
his lost love and lost fortune, both wrecked
in the same little tempest — little to the cold
world looking on — to him how grievous and
how sad ! At length he came up-stairs, but
he, too, stayed sitting up. What was he
doing ? Dora stole out on the dark landing,
and listened at her brother's door. She beard
a chair moving slightly. Paul was sitting,
then ; yet if he wanted to sit up, might he not
have stayed below ? His light was not out,
Dora looked in at him through the keyhole,
then stole back to her room with a deep sigh :
Paul was reading the catalogue.

That catalogue became the unhappy young
man's retrospective torment. He never read
it in the presence of the family, yet Dora knew
that he studied it night and morning. He
gave the day to the law ; the hours which
were his he devoted to this morbid brooding

JOHN LUAN'S VISIT TO LONDON.

over the past. There was no doubt a sort of
dreary satisfaction in comparing his own fruit-
less attempt with his rival's sure effort, in
thinking, " I should have succeeded if I had
done this, and I failed just by that hair's-
breadth." If Dora had dared, she would have
remonstrated with him, but she did not ven-
ture to do so. It was Paul's misfortune that
he must suffer in silence.

If anything could have added new bitterness
to his regret, it was the sudden decease of Mr.
Courtenay. He died at Deenah toward the
close of the year. By his will he left the bulk
of his property to Mr. Templemore. To Dora,
Paul, and John he left five hundred pounds
apiece. Neither his sister, Mrs. Luan, nor his
sister-in-law, Mrs. Courtenay, was mentioned
in Mr. Courtenay's will.

" A very strange, uncivil man," said Mrs.
Courtenay, stiffly.

Mrs. Luan, who had most reason to com-
plain, said nothing, but she thought —

" John can go to London now."

How that thought passed from Mrs. Luan's
mind to John's no one ever knew, not even
John himself; but he entered the cottage one
evening overflowing with the project, and find-
ing Dora sitting alone by the fire, and looking
rather pensive, he came up to her with the
question —

" Anything new, Dora ? "

"Nothing," she replied, gravely, "only I
was thinking about our five hundred pounds.
Mr. Ryan says he could double the amount for
us in no time."

" I mean to go to London with mine," said
John.

" To London ! "

If he had said to Timbuctoo, Dora could
scarcely have looked more surprised.

" Yes, for my profession. It will be such an
advantage to me."

John thrust his fingers through his fair
locks, and looked like a man who has five

hundred pounds, and knows his status in so-
ciety.

"An advantage to leave us," gently replied
Dora.

She only thought of the cousinship, of the
old familiarity, of the friendship which had
grown with years, and were to be now all put
by ; but her gentle voice, and her mild, re-
proachful look, said far more than this to
John Luan. He turned red and pale, and
trembled.

" Dora," he faltered, " we are too young —
you know ? "

" Too young for what ? " asked Dora, ris-
ing, and standing straight before him.

She spoke so coldly, she looked so lofty,
that John was dumb ; but if anything had been
needed to urge him to go to London, that look
and that question of Dora's would have done
it. He sat down without answering her, and
looked rather sullen and discomfited. When
his mother and Mrs. Courtenay came in, he
spoke of his journey as a settled thing. Mrs.
Courtenay lifted up her hands in amazement.

" My dear boy," she said, raising her little
shrill voice, " what can take you to London ? "

" Mr. Courtenay's five hundred pounds,
aunt," answered John, rather carelessly.

" But Mr. Ryan would double it for you,"
cried Mrs. Courtenay ; " he would treble it,
John," she added, with a little scream of de-
light at the prospect of such doubling and
trebling, which is indeed very delightful whilst
it takes place on the increasing and not on the
decreasing principle. It is charming to multi-
ply your capital by three, but such multiplica-
tion sometimes ends by the division of your
sum total, and then, alas ! it is grievous
enough. Such lamentable results Mrs. Cour-
tenay by no means contemplated, and she
candidly wondered at John's obstinacy in not
letting his five hundred pounds be trebled by
Mr. Ryan.

"Mr. Ryan would not take the trouble,"

DORA.

replied John, trying to get out of it this
way.

"Oh, yes he will, if I ask him."

" Well, then, don't ask him, mamma," said
Dora, a little tartly. " John wants to go."

John hung his head and looked sheepish ;
but it was true enough, he wanted to go, and
he went.

When it came to the parting Dora forgave
him. She could not go with him to the sta-
tion, for Mrs. Courtenay was unwell, but she
clung to him rather fondly as he bade her
adieu at the end of the garden, where the cab
stood waiting.

" Good-by, old Jolmny ! " she said, with a
sigh. " I know you will never come back."

" Yes, I will," lie interrupted. " Good-by,
my dear girl ! "

Tears stood in his eyes as he kissed her.
Perhaps, seeing her so kind, John Luan was
sorry to be going, after all.

" You'll be late," said his mother, who did
did not like that parting.

John looked at his watch, kissed his cousin
again, and entered the cab with Mrs. Luan.
His last words were —

" I shall come back sooner than you think,
Dora."

" Poor Johnny ! " she thought, as the cab
drove away; "he means it, but he will not
come back."

When Mrs. Luan returned from the station
she looked flushed and excited. This parting,
•the first which had ever taken place between
her and her son, had been too much for her.
Her mind had not perhaps realized its keen
agony until she was called upon to endure it.
Dora looked at her with gentle pity, but there
was a sort of sternness in Mrs. Luan's eyes as
she returned the look. That bright hair and
those pink checks had divided her from her
darling, and she bated them. There is a
Btrange inability in some natures to under-
stand other natures. It was then, and was

ever afterward, impossible to Dora to under-
stand this woman, whom she had known all
her life. She saw that she was grieving for
her son, but she did not understand the na-
ture of that grief.

" Dear aunt," she said, going and sitting
down by her, " you must not fret. It is in
the nature of young men, I suppose, to leave
those whom they love best. I dare say John
has been thinking about that a long time, and
when he got these five hundred pounds he
could not resist the temptation."

This soothing speech Mrs. Luan did not an-
swer, but, to Dora's surprise, she rose, took
off her cap, and flung it to the other end of
the room, saying,

" Oh, my head is so hot ! "

To take off her cap and throw it about
became one of Mrs. Luan's habits from that
dav forth.

CHAPTER VI.

It may be that Paul Courtenay had hoped
to the last, and that his uncle's will was a
blow to him. It seemed to Dora that he
looked sadder and graver after John's depar-
ture than he had ever looked before. She
watched him closely, and thought that he was
both pale and grave when he came home one
evening in the spring that followed Mr. Cour-
tenay's death. A book lay open before him,
and he never once turned its page?.

" Something new has happened," thought
Dora.

Mr. Ryan's entrance helped to divert her
thoughts. Mr. Ryan often came to see them
of an evening now. He had invested their
thousand pounds in some wonderful mannet,
and the doubling or trebling was going on
amazingly. Mrs. Courtenay, who took the
deepest interest in that process, could not
weary of the subject, and tried many a pa-
tience for its sake. She called it " it," and

FLORENCE GALE'S MARRIAGE.

never specified it by any other term. So al-
most her first words to Mr. Ryan this evening
were,

"Well, Mr. Ryan, how is it going on? "

"Nobly ! " was Mr. Ryan's emphatic reply.

" Well, but when am I to be rich ? " asked
Dora, a little tartly. "I want to sit down,
and fold my hands, and be a useless fine lady,
Mr. Ryan."

" Oh ! you girl ! "

" My dear, did you not hear Mr. Ryan say-
ing it was going on nobly ? " remarked her
mother, with gentle reproof. " Now, when a
thing like that goes on nobly," cried Mrs.
Courtenay, raising her voice, and clasping her
hands with a sort of childish delight, " I call
it beautiful."

" Paul, what do you say to it ? " whispered
Dora. " Are we to be rich ? "

She bent over his shoulder, and looked in
his face. He smiled gravely.

" Do yon wish to be rich, Dora ? " he asked.

Dora had had that wish; not that wealth
was very dear to her for its own sake, but be-
cause she loved her brother. But now that
Paul was to be poor, and that Deenah was
gone, it seemed to her that money was of little
worth.

" I don't know," she hesitatingly replied,
" yet I suppose it must be pleasant."

" Pleasant ! " a little indignantly remarked
Mr. Ryan. He had money, plenty said the
world, and he did not like to hear Mammon
slighted and called pleasant.

" You are quite ridiculous, my dear," said
Mrs. Courtenay.

But Dora did not heed them. She had re-
turned to her chair, and thence she looked at
Paul so grave, so sad, and she felt again,
" Something' new has happened." She knew
what had happened three days later. On the
morning of Mr. Ryan's visit Florence Gale had
married a Mr. Logan, very rich, said report,
and young and handsome, it added. So it was

probable that Mrs. Logan had not been made
a martyr to filial obedience, after all. Of this
Paul said nothing to his sister. He had closed
the book of his life at the page where love and
hope had each written his sad vixit, and ho
opened it again at the page of hard work and
lawful ambition. He was grave, and by. no
means cheerful, but he was neither nervous
nor melancholy. He bore his lot manfully,
and Mr. Courtenay's fortune and the catalogue
and Florence Gale were soon as things that
had never been at Mrs. Courtenay's cottage.

Seeing him thus, Dora gradually became as
bright and as radiant as ever. Joy had return-
ed to her, and she would not let the lovely
guest be gone. She read, she sang. She woke
music from her old spinet, she was house-
keeper and a young lady, and she was as
happy as the day was long. Early one summer
evening Paul came home. He found his sister
in the garden watering her flowers. She
turned round on hearing him, and became
suddenly silent.

" Paul ! how pale you are ! " she said, a little
anxiously.

" Am I ? " he cheerfully replied, " I feel
very well, however. I have just met Mrs.
Logan," he added; "she looked both lovely
and happy. She came and shook hands with
me, and looked as light-hearted as a butter-
fly."

" I never liked her," resentfully cried Dora ;
" she was never worthy of you."

" It was not her fault, Dora, if I was mis-
taken in her ; but it was mine."

" How she lured you on about that cata-
logue," continued Dora, " and then bow soon
she forsook you t "

" She was not pledged to me."

" True love needs no pledges," loftily replied
Dora.

"But suppose some women cannot fool true
love," he playMly suggested. "Are you sure
of yourself, Dora ? "

DORA.

"No," she honestly answered, "for I can-
not imagiue I shall ever care for any one as I
care for you, Paul. And if you do not mar-
ry," she added, warmly, " I never shall —
never ! "
* Paul smiled, but he thought it unlikely that
either he or his sister should ever marry. He
felt no inclination for wedded life, and Dora
was proud and poor, and lived in such seclu-
sion that the male sex might well be forgiven
if they did not appreciate her merits.

" Well, little Dora," he said, cheerfully, " we
shall be none the more unhappy for it, if it is
to be."

" Unhappy ! I should think not."

She raised her face for a kiss, which she
got, and perhaps, as she received it, Dora felt
some little jealous joy at the thought that
the day of Florence Gale had gone by, and
ber own had come back.

Paul retired early that evening. He was a
little tired, he said, and Dora could not waken
him by playing on her " piano," as she and
every one at home called it, by one of those
convenient fictions in which it is pleasant for
the poor to indulge. She sat and sewed by
the light of the solitary candle, whilst Mrs.
Courtenay tried her patience, and nodded over
it, and Mrs. Luan pored over a letter from
" poor John." A loud ring at the garden bell
startled them all.

"Light the other candle!" cried Mrs. Cour-
tenay, wakening up with an alarmed start ; but
before Dora could obey that prudent order,
the heedless little servant-girl had admitted
Mr. Ryan, who burst in upon them like a tem-
pest.

" Ntaws, news ! " he shouted, waving his hat
in the wildest excitement.

"How is it going on?" cried Mrs. Cour-
tenay, breathlessly.

" Grandly ! Paul and Dora have two hun-
dred a year each. It has been coming on
these six months. I sold out and invested

again this very afternoon — two hundred a year
each ! "

A thousand pounds had given them two
hundred a year each ! Ignorant as she was of
money matters, Dora knew that this was grand
trebling indeed. The tidings so bewildered
her that she stood still and mute. Mrs. Cour-
tenay, on the contrary, uttered three little
screams of delight ; whilst Mrs. Luan took off
her cap and flung it at Mr. Ryan, on whose
head it alighted sideways, giving his red face
a waggish and knowing aspect.

This sobered them all.

" Is the woman mad ? " asked Mr. Ryan,
staring, and taking off Mrs. Luan's cap with
some indignation.

" I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Luan,
calmly. " I meant to throw it on the table."

" Did you, though ! I wonder why it flew
up upon me, then ! And pray, ma'am, why
did you take off your cap at all and fling it
about so ? "

" My head is so hot," she replied, staring at
him, " and you upset me with your two hun-
dred a year."

" Yes, yes; your son John has made ducks
and drakes of his money — I know — I know."

And Mr. Ryan humanely considered that
this disappointment was a sufficient explana-
tion of the cap affair, as he called it, when he
related the incident to his sister, Miss Ryan,
who was then on a visit to him.

" Oh ! how you have trebled ! " cried Mrs.
Courtenay, raising her voice and her hands
in admiration. " How you have trebled, Mr.
Ryan ! "

" Dear Paul," said Dora, as happy tears
stood in her eyes ; " he has been working too
hard, but he can rest now."

" Oh ! you girl ! A young man can never
work too hard."

" And I say that Paul has been working too
hard," replied Dora; " but I must go and tell
him the news. A fairy tale — a real fairy tale ! " •

PA[JL COURTENAY'S DEATH.

She lightly ran up-stairs, leaving her mother
in ecstasies, and Mrs. Luan settling her cap
on, but looking very dull and gray. What
had become of John's five hundred pounds by
this time ? And why had she sent him away
from Dora, who had two hundred a year now 1
Was this the end of her planning ? Oh ! if
she had but waited !

" I shall not waken him if he sleeps,"
thought Dora ; " but if he is awake, I will tell
him with a kiss. Paul, my darling, we are
rich now. We can afford not to think any
more of Mr. Courtenay's fortune. And with
two hundred a year and your profession you
can find a wife — a true good wife — not a
Florence Gale, who could forget you for a Mr.
Logan."

With a noiseless foot she entered his room.
It' was dark, and the light she held fell on the
pillow where his calm face lay sleeping. She
put the candlestick down and softly stole tow-
ard him. When she stood by his side she
looked at him with eyes swimming in tears.
How altered he was since the day when he
had come back from Deenah, full of eager
hope ! How pale and thin and worn he looked
in his sleep ! And what had he been read-
ing ? — that dreadful catalogue again ! • She
knelt on the rug. and softly took his hand,
which hung loosely outside the bedclothes.
But scarcely had she touched it when she
started up and uttered a piercing cry. That
hand was cold — cold as marble; and, alas!
that cry, though it filled the house and brought
up its terrified tenants around her, did not
waken her brother. Never, never more would
Paul draw her to his side and call her his little
Dora. Brother and sister, whom nothing was
to divide, were parted thus early on their
journey ; and whilst one took his rest, having
earned his wages, the other was to go on the
sad pilgrimage alone and desolate !

" My brother, my brother ! " was all she
could say. For weeks this was her cry, for

years it rang in her heart, " My brother ! " In
every hour of tribulation the sorrowful words
were spoken.

Every one grieved for this young man. Mrs.
Courtenay mourned for him as for a son. Mrs.
Luan shed genuine tears, and remembered
with a pang that his death gave Dora four
hundred a year. Mr. Ryan did not weary of
lamenting " the poor boy's untimely fate ; "
but of all those who could say, " Thus died
Paul Courtenay," none knew that with him
died the pride and the ambition of his sister's
heart. She had loved him, but she had also
hoped in him. He had been, though she
knew it not, perhaps, the great stake in her
life. All her hopes and her desires had rested
upon him, never once upon herself. Through
him she was to be honored, in his reflected
glory she was to shine. Of her own value and
her own part in the great human drama she
never thought.- When he went, all went with
him. It might be well for both of them that
it should be so. He never knew the bitter-
ness of disappointment, nor she that of a sud-
den wakening. He was her hero now for ever.
He was to have been a great orator, the rich
man, the pride and stay of his family. How
often had the triumphs of Demosthenes, of
Chatham and Grattan, made her heart throb !
How often had she sat at twilight, by the open
window, or over the smouldering fire, listening
to her brother's fervid eloquence, to the mur-
murs of applause and the deafening cheers of
a senate, whilst her mother chatted prettily or
her aunt stitched at her patchwork !

All this was over now ; but better perhaps
that death had stepped in, silencing the elo-
quent lips with an icy hand, than that Time,
the great disenchanter, should have shown to
Paul and his sister the folly of a long-cherished
dream.

But this Dora never felt, and never was to
feel. The object of her adoration was safe
from a fate so grievous. Yet perhaps because

DORA.

she bad loved him so fondly, and hoped in
him so fervently, was her grief felt and not
spoken. To all seeming, indeed, it was not a
deep grief. She mourned, but not with such
a sorrow as her impassioned love ought to
have called forth. So thought Mr. Ryan, and
even her mother. Dora was pale and thin,
but she smiled brightly, nay, she laughed —
why, she actually sang again, though Paul
was in his grave. She sang his songs, too —
not plaintive, but merry Irish melodies, which
had been dear to him.

" The Irish are a light-hearted people, Mr.
Ryan," solemnly said Mrs. Courtenay to her
friend.

Mr. Ryan did not answer this national ques-
tion, but listening to Dora's singing up-stairs
in Paul's room, he thought, " That girl puzzles
me." He also thought that he would study
her, but the opportunity to do so was not
granted to Mr. Ryan.

Paul had not long been dead, when Mrs.
Courtenay said to her daughter one after-
noon,

" I am sure it was this dreadful climate that
killed my poor boy."

"But, mamma, Paul's was a heart-com-
plaint."

" Of course it was ; well, the climate killed
him — and I am sure I have a heart-complaint
too."

" Dear mamma, I cannot . think that. My
dear brother was so pale, and you have a
lovely color."

"But such dreadful palpitations!" sighed
Mrs. Courtenay ; " oh ! such dreadful palpi-
tations ! "

Dora put down her work and fell into the
saddest dream. Paul had never complained
of palpitations, but said he was well to the
last.

"I want a change," pursued Mrs. Cour-
tenay; "and I think I shall go to London."

" To London ! " cried Dora, much startled.

" Yes, London air always agreed with me.''

" But, mamma, London air is surely not
good air ? "

" .Beawtiful air ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay,
raising her voice with enthusiasm.

Dora looked at her aunt. "Was it she who,
to be with her son, had suggested so strange a
step to her mother; but Mrs. Luan stitched
on stolidly at her patchwork, and said,

" There is no air like Dublin air."

" Do listen to her ! " compassionately ex-
claimed Mrs. Courtenay. " No air like Dublin
air ! Poor thing ! "

" Then aunt had nothing to do with it,"
thought Dora, in her innocence.

She tried to oppose Mrs. Courtenay's wish ;
Mr. Ryan also interfered, but to no purpose —
there was a secret agency at work more potent
than they knew of. Mrs. Luan's plan was of
the simplest kind. She asked her sister-in-
law daily how she was, and if she felt quite
well. She put these questions when Dora was
not present, and with them, and a few care-
less hints, she carried the day, and the London
journey was decided upon. The cottage was
given up, the furniture was sold off, and on
the morning of the day when they were to go
to Kingston, thence to sail for Holyhead, Dora,
went alone to Glasnevin.

A plain head-stone marked Paul Courtenay's
grave. His name and age, and the word
Requiescat, were his only epitaph. Grass and
a few flowers already grew over him. As she
looked at that narrow space, at these few feet
of earth which held all that had been dearest
to her, Dora's heart overflowed with other feel-
ings than those of sorrow. There came to her
in that sad hour a bitterness which she could
not restrain. She remembered her uncle, who
had tempted Paul in his poverty, and urged
him to a task beyond his ability ; she remem-
bered Florence Gale, who had spurred him on
to labor beyond his strength, then forgotten
him ; she remembered Mr. Templemorc, whose

LOSS OF DORA'S INCOME.

triumph had embittered even Paul Courtenay's
last hours ; and to these three she attributed
his premature death. " I must forgive them,"
she thought ; " I must forgive the living as
well as the dead ; but to forgive is not to love,
and never, never shall therje be kindness be-
tween them and Paul's sister! "

Alas ! was this a spot, was this an hour for
thoughts like these ? A lowering gray sky
bent over the cemetery, a southwesterly wind
moaned amongst the young trees ; it had rained
all night, and the sodden earth said how cold
and how dreary was the bed of the dead. There
they slept around Dora in hundreds, ,in thou-
sands. Did they murmur, did they complain ?
Life, its fever, its troubles, and its hundred
cares were over for them, and was it not well ?
If they could have spoken, would not their
faint, low voices have risen to reprove the re-
sentful girl who brought to their peaceful realm
the angry feelings of life ?

CHAPTER VII.

Mrs. Courtenay had left Dublin a year
when Mr. Ryan took a journey to London, and
scarcely giving himself time to dine, at once
entered a cab, and drove off to see his old
friends.

Mrs. Courtenay lived in a pretty little villa
in Bayswater ; a white nest, with young green
trees around it. Mr. Ryan gave the place a
gratified look as he alighted and saw it in the
clear moonlight of a cold spring evening.
" Dora's bower," thought Mr.Ryan. A neat little
parlor-maid opened the door and admitted
him. " That's right," thought Mr. Ryan; " no
page in buttons — no fourth-rate man-servant,
but an irreproachable young woman. Dora is
a sensible girl." The crimson staircase carpet,
with its brass rods; the spacious landing,
adorned with pretty flower-stands, confirmed
this favorable impression ; and the drawing-

room added to it. A very charming drawing-
room it was, not luxurious, though graceful
and elegant. " Dora's kingdom," thought Mr.
Ryan ; and when the folding-doors opened, and
Dora entered the room, robed in white silk,
with roses blushing on her bosom, and wreathed
in her bright hair, she appeared in Mr. Ryan's
eyes as the fair queen of that little realm. Mr.
JStyan looked at her and at the drawing-room,
and at Mrs. Courtenay's black satin dress —
nay, even at Mrs. Luan's stylish cap, with ad-
miring eyes. Por were not all these luxuries
aud tokens of prosperity the result of the four
hundred a year his skilful management had se-
cured to Dora Courtenay ?

" Ah ! ha ! you were going off to a party ? "
he cried, gayly ; " why, even that rascal, John
Luan, has white kid gloves on. You did not
expect me, did' you, now ? "

" No, indeed, Mr. Ryan," replied Mrs. Cour-
tenay, in a most dolorous tone.

She sank down on a chair with a heavy sigh.
Mrs. Luan took a low seat, and sat straight
and motionless upon it. John Luan threw
himself on the sofa and looked deeply sulky.
Dora alone remained standing, and she greeted
her old friend very kindly ; but something
. ailed her too, for there was a deep flush on her
cheek, very different from its pure clear bloom.

" Why, what has happened ? " cried Mr.
Ryan, staring around him in amazement.

" Oh ! we are not going to the party," re-
plied Mrs. Courtenay. "Professor Gray has
just called to tell us that Brown aud Co. have
stopped payment, and that Mr. Brown is off
somewhere or other with poor Dora's four hun-
dred a year, and other people's thousands."

This was news indeed ! And, though Mr.
Ryan burst forth into incredulous exclama-
tions, very certain news, unfortunately. Dora's
money had vanished for ever in the gulf of
Brown and Co.'s difficulties, though, luckily
for them all, the little income of -Mrs. Courte-
nay and Mrs. Luan was still safe.

DORA.

" And we were going to such a nice party,"
plaintively said Mrs. Courtenay. " I almost
wish Professor Gray had kept his news till to-
morrow."

" Professor Gray takes a strong interest in
Dora," ironically remarked John. " Did you
not see, aunt, how he changed color when she
told him she was penniless, and how crestfallen
he looked as he left us ? "

" Yes," innocently i-eplied Mrs. Courtenay,
" he is one of Dora's admirers, you know. And
so was Mr. Brown. The last time she wore that
dress and these roses, he said they were set in
gold."

" Brown is a scoundrel ! " angrily said
John.

Poor John Luan ! For the last year he, too,
had sighed at Dora's feet! He, too, had
thought she looked lovely in her white silk
dress, and with the roses in her hair, and he
had burned with jealous wrath whenever Pro-
. fcssor Gray or the delinquent Brown looked at
her. Of one rival he was rid, and the other
he suspected he need not fear ; but what
availed it ? Dora was penniless, and John
Luan as poor as ever. He had come to take
his aunt and cousin to the party, and to wor-
ship and admire Dora, and feel wronged be-
cause others did as much ; instead of which he
had the doubtful satisfaction of calling Brown
a scoundrel, and of knowing that he could by
no means afford to marry a poor girl and keep
a wife.

" Poor John ! " thought Dora. " I like him,
I admire Professor Gray, and that cool, fair-
looking Mr. Brown was very pleasing in his
way ; but the thought of becoming Mrs. Luan,
Mrs. Gray^ or Mrs. Brown always made me
shudder. I wish I could tell him so." .

" Dear, dear, that is sad ! " exclaimed Mr.
Ryan, shaking his head at Dora. " That is
sad, my poor girl ! "

"Yes," she replied, "my little prosperity
came like a fairy gift, and like a fairy gift it

went away. But I was born poor, you know,
and can go back to poverty very easily."

John gazed admiringly at this young stoic,
who looked so serene — and so pretty — with
the roses in her hair, and he said, with. sudden
animation,

"It was only yesterday Thompson said I
was sure of that appointment. I shall cer-
tainly go down to Oxfordshire to-morrow."

Mrs. Luan heard him, and looked at him
and Dora with the sullen look of yore. For
the last year she had, as it were, wooed Dora
for John, after her own awkward fashion.
And now her labor was worse than vain, and
she once more saw John and Dora in a poor
cottage, with babies around them, whilst in
the background appeared a vision of Mr.
Brown in an express train, with Dora's four
hundred a year in his carpet-bag.

" If she had taken John at once," resent-
fully thought Mrs. Luan, " her money would
be all right ; and if he had not taken a fancy
to her his money would not be almost all
gone."

" Dear! dear ! " again said Mr. Ryan, "it is
very dreadful ! Four hundred a year, such a
nice little income ; and all gone — all gone ! "

Yes, it was all gone, indeed, and with it
had departed the new life which had been so
pleasant — the admirers, the parties, the intel-
lectual society, the little luxuries, the many
comforts. All these were gone, and Mr. Byan
no longer wielded that magic wand of capital
which would conjure them back again. With
a heavy heart he left his friends, and he spent
the night in maturing plans for their benefit.

But when he called the next day Mr. Ryan
found that everything had already been settled
without the help of his advice.

" It is no use fretting, you know, Mr. Ryan,"
said Mrs. Courtenay, with airy fortitude;
" staying in London is out of the question,
and Dublin air disagrees with me, so we shall
go to France."

THE FAMILY'S REMOVAL TO FRANCE.

" To France ! — why, who put that into your
head, Mrs. Courtenay ? "

" No one," tartly replied that lady ; " but I
am sure my native air is the very thing for
me."

Mr. Ryan stared. Mrs. Luan was looking
at the wall, and Dora's eyes were downcast.
John was not present.

" And what does John Luan say to that ? "
he asked.

"John knows nothing about it," was the
supercilious reply. " He went off to Oxford-
shire by the first train, and it was only five
minutes ago I made up my mind that Rouen
was to be our future residence. But now, Mr.
Ryan, I have a great favor to ask of you.
Mrs. Luan and I will go off at once, and settle
our new home. Will you kindly take care of
Dora here, and help her to dispose of the fur-
niture ? "

Mr. Ryan tried to remonstrate, but opposi-
tion only confirmed Mrs. Courtenay in her
purpose. Seeing her so determined, Mr, Ryan
desisted. After all, going to France might not
be so bad a plan. France was cheaper then
than it is now, and economy must be once
more the law of Mrs. Courtenay's life.

It is always sad to break up a home, and so
Dora now found it, spite her stoicism. When
it bad been ascertained beyond doubt that not
a farthing of her money could be recovered,
Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan proceeded to-
gether to France. Once more John Luan's
mother consented to leave him, in order to
separate him from Dora. She knew that the
best way to keep Mrs. Courtenay and Dora in
their new home was to accompany them. In-
deed, she had a strong presentiment that her
volatile little sister-in-law, if not watched,
might escape back again to England. Rather
than run so great a risk, Mrs. Luan would
forego even bidding adieu to her son, who was
still down in Oxfordshire, huDting for his ap-
pointment.

A letter soon came from Rouen, informine
Dora that Mrs. Courtenay had discovered the
most delightful lodging, with the dearest old
creature, and that all she wanted to be per-
fectly happy was her dear Dora's presence.

The furniture was disposed of to a broker,
so that on receiving this letter Dora had but
to pack up her trunk and leave the house
where she had spent some pleasant, if not
happy hours. She went over it alone, sighing
gently at the loss of her four hundred a year.
She looked wistfully at' the deserted drawing-
room, which she had. taken such pleasure in
adorning. Never more should Dora Courtenay
see pleasant, genial faces gathered there ; no
more should she hear intellectual and witty
talk within its walls. A few letters from Mr.
Ryan to a few clever people in London, a few
parties, and Dora's bright happy face had soon
made Mrs. Courtenay's little villa an attractive
rendezvous.

" But all that is over now," thought Dora,
as she closed the door, and went up to her own
room ; " we must return to the old life. Ah I
if we had but dear Paul, how welcome it would
be!"

That was the thought that ever came back.
Deep within her heart slept the remembrance
of her great sorrow, but every now and (hen
it woke again to cruel and bitter life. That
was the thought, too, which had kept Dora's
heart free. No man seemed able to waken
within her even a far echo of that passionate
love which she had once bestowed on her
brother Paul. When she looked at his por-
trait, the keen eye, the intellectual brow, the
manly look, all seemed to say, " Find the like
of us if you can." Who, indeed, could com-
pare with the lost hero of her young worship ?

" Yes, all would be well if I had you," she
now thought, glancing toward the miniature,
which hung between the firep I her nar-

row bed. "Oh! my brother! my broth
she exclaimed, as she clasped her hands in

DORA.

sudden sorrow, and could not see that adored
image for blinding tears. " Why did I lose
you, my brother ? "

Yain appeal to the inexorable grave ! Yet
how often will that pitiful cry, " My brother ! "
be heard like a wail in the life of Dora Cour-
tenay ! She had sunk on a chair in her grief,
when her room door opened, and Mrs. Luan
came in.

"Aunt," exclaimed Dora, much amazed,
" what has happened ? "

" Nothing. What ase you crying for ? "

Dora did not answer. She never could
speak of her grief. Mrs. Luan took her bon-
net off and threw it on a chair.

" You want to stay," she said, angrily

"Aunt, I do not."

" Then you want to go back to Dublin."

" Oh ! no," sadly replied Dora.

The thought of returning to her lost home
was exquisitely painful to her. What was
that home without Paul's dear presence to
cheer it, or fill it with bright hopes and fond
illusions ? Moreover, in Dublin she must meet
Florence, or see Mr. Templemore. She did
not hate them, but they had so filled her
brother's heart with grief, that this proud and
silent heart had broken, and the spot that held
them became to her as the fatal gulf, or the
pitiless rock where some loved being has per-
ished, to be shunned for evermore. But Mrs.
Luan still looked at her mistrustfully. She
had come back to fetch her niece and take her
away, actuated by one of those wonderful
maternal presentiments which fail so rarely,
and she had found John Luan below with Mr.
Ryan. He had just arrived from Oxfordshire,
rather sulky and crestfallen at having failed
completely in his object, and very indignant
with Mrs. Courtenay for taking her daughter
off to a strange country. Thus he spoke to
his mother with the unconscious selfishness of
the young. She looked at him sullenly. Why
did he not think of her going ? Why did he

not want her to stay with him ? Why was
it all about parting with Dora, and nothing
for the separation between himself and his
mother? In this jealous mood Mrs. Luan
went up to Dora's room, and seeing her tears,
gave them but one meaning. Dora was cry-
ing at parting from John Luan ! From that
moment forward Mrs. Luan no longer left
Dora's side. She allowed Mr. Ryan to settle
with the brokers, she suffered the furniture to
be removed and money to be wasted and
squandered at a terrible rate, according to her
economical principles, and still she stuck to
Dora ; whilst John stalked about the house
with gloomy and sullen looks, and thought of
his lonely rooms in Howland Street.

In one respect Mrs. Luan's caution was not
needed. John had no intention of making
open love to Dora. He had not done so when
she had four hundred a year, and he would
not do so now that she had not a shilling.
Indeed, all Dora's admirers, with Professor
Gray at their head, had vanished. Report ex-
aggerated her losses, and the thought of mar-
rying a whole family daunts most men.

" It is well for me I cared for none of them,"
thought Dora, rather stung to find how sud-
denly her value had fallen.

And now all was ready, and Dora and Mrs.
Luan had but to depart. John and Mr. Ryan
saw them to the station.

" Good-by, dear girl," said Mr. Ryan, kind-
ly ; "I shall keep my eye on Mr. Brown, you
know, and if anything turns up, why you may
rely upon me."

Dora could scarcely repress a smile. Mr.
Ryan's eye in London, or even in Dublin, did
not seem to her very likely to affect Mr. Brown
in America, and she had not the faintest hope
of anything turning up in the shape of money.
John was silent, but he was rather pale, and
Dora saw that this parting affected him.
" Poor John," thought Dora, kindly ; "he has
fancied himself so long in love with me, that

THE RESIDENCE AT ROUEN*.

he believes it. I dare say he will go on so to
the end."

But she ^ent up to him and said a few kind
words about better times that were coming for
them all, and his getting that appointment in
the end.

"And if I do get it," began John, rather
eagerly ; but he ceased abruptly on seeing
his mother behind him. He had a vague
consciousness that Dora's altered circum-
stances had also altered his mother's feelings
and wishes.

"Time to go, John," said Mr. Ryan.

Yes, it was time, and spite Mrs. Luan's
watchful eye, John took Dora in his arms and
kissed her.

" Tell aunt I shall go and see her in Rouen,"
he whispered.

"What is it? What did John say?"
eagerly asked Mrs. Luan, when the two gen-
tlemen were gone, and she and Dora sat in
the railway carriage.

"John says he will come and see us in
Rouen," simply replied Dor,a.

Railway and steamboat travelling has no
romance now. It is swift and convenient — we
must not ask it to be eventful. After an easy
passage, and a rapid journey through a green
landscape, Dora and her aunt reached Rouen
in the evening. Narrow streets and church-
spires rising through the darkness, seemed to
Dora the chief characteristics of Rouen as
they drove through it.

"Oh, such a dear old place," said Mrs.
Courtenay, whom they had found at the sta-
tion ; " I am sure you will like our apart-
ments, Dora, and that dear old thing, Madame
Bertrand."

Dora asked no better than to be pleased
with everything. But when she reached their
new home, and saw a dingy old house, a dark
and narrow staircase, a clean little old land-
lady in a cotton apron and white cap, and
some very poorly-furnished rooms on the first
3

floor, she tried not to sigh as she remembered
the pretty villa in Bayswater.

, CHAPTER Vm.

The often-boasted charm of novelty was not
felt by Dora when she awoke the next morn-
ing and looked around her. The little room,
with its dingy, old-fashioned furniture, not one
article of which was endeared by familiarity,
seemed both cheerless and unpleasant. The
ceiling was low and depressing. The few
sounds which arose from the street had no
old homely meaning in them. A certain
quaintness there was, indeed, in the aspect of
the place, but even Dora was obliged to con-
fess that there was no more.

" And yet I shall be happy here in spite of
you, you poor little room ! " she thought, as
she rose and dressed herself. " I never had
such bed-curtains before. I shall remember
that when I feel dull, and be thankful."

Those curtains were certainly peculiar, more
peculiar than beautiful. Dora sat down on
the edge of the bed to look at them. They
were of a dull lilac tint, which many a wash-
ing had faded, and they represented the for-
tunes of the fair and much-tried Griselidis.
Dora saw her standing at her father's door in
humble, shepherdess attire ; then came the
noble wooer and his suite to bear the new
marchioness away. Now Grisclidis sits on a
throne in state, and with rank and dignity
begin her sorrows. Her children are taken
from her, her husband grows unkind, and
finally repudiates his too patient wife. Dora,
who had raised the curtain to follow the
story to its happy end, dropped it with some
scorn as the last print showed her the Mar-
quis of Saluces embracing his forgiving spouse.

" How I should have hated that man ! " she
thought, her bright eyes flashing. " Some
sour old bachelor certainly had these curtains

DORA.

first. What woman would choose such a sub-
ject for night or morning contemplation ? "

She was dressed by this, and opened the
window a little impatiently. Stranger still
than within did everything without look to her
unaccustomed eye. On the opposite side of
the narrow street stood an old church, at the
corner of a dark alley. It had long been dis-
used for worship, and was now the storehouse
of a large foundery. Through the open door
Dora could see heaps of grapeshot and mus-
ket-balls lying on the dusty floor. The cold
gray walls were stripped of all their ecclesias-
tical pageantry. The painted glass windows
had long been shattered and walled up. Al-
tar, pictures, flowers, and golden candlesticks
were all gone, but high up near the roof Dora
could still read the half-effaced words, " Gloire
a Dieu."

Above the gate stood a stone bishop in his
mitre. The figure, though sadly mutilated,
still stretched out a benignant hand to bestow
the pastoral blessing. But the staff, emblem
of authority, was broken in the other hand,
which grasped but a useless fragment. Very
brown and gray was the carved front of this
dilapidated edifice. And yet the sad old ruin
had a charm which struck Dora as being both
quaint and graceful. The keeper of this place
probably had a taste for flowers, for he had
made himself a garden high up among the
buttresses. A sort of terrace he had fash-
ioned there ; he had brought mould to it, and
then filled it with stocks and lilies. Tall,
white, and spotless rose the virgin flowers,
looking very fair and pure against that som-
bre background. A vine, too, there was, that
scattered its green arms about and hung over
the street in festoons, which the ligh't breath
of the morning stirred gently.

The street itself was narrow, steep, and very
old. It had been of some note in the days
gone by. Presidents and members of the
Parliament of Rouen had dwelt in those large

hotels, with quiet grass-grown courts in front
and broad gardens behind. They were now
the abode of manufacturers and of retired
legal practitioners, who kept them in repair,
but who cared to do no more. Everything
was tranquil and silent. One house, more
poorly inhabited than the rest, showed a few
tokens of life. A green sign-board dangled
from one of the second-floor windows, and in-
formed the passers-by that Professor Didier
lived within. A pale, thin old woman looked
out for a few moments, then shut the window.
A rosy boy appeared at another window on
the third floor, and stared at Dora, but he too
vanished, and the house became as silent and
as quiet as its neighbors. In the street Dora
saw two children lazily going to school, then
a servant-girl in clattering sabots, who came
back with a pail of water from a fountain that
was almost underneath her window ; but when
the children had gone by, and the servant-girl
had passed beneath a dark archway in the al-
ley, not a soul was to be seen in the whole
street, and not a sound was to be heard save
the little flow and plash of the invisible wa-
ter. Dora tried to see it, and leaned out,
but she only caught sight of some stone carv-
ing with a green fern growing on the top of
it, high out of the reach of rude hands.

" It will be very quiet," she thought.

Already a sort of torpor, the forerunner of
the life she was to lead, stole over her. She
looked down the street, *and at its narrow
close she saw the green hazy river, with a
black boat gliding down ; and thus looking
and leaning on her window-sill, Dora fell into
a vague yet not unpleasant reverie. The clear
foreign sky, the strange city, and the quiet
street, with its picturesque memorials of by-
gone days, lulled thought to rest, and drove
care away. The loss of some money seemed
an event of little magnitude when compared
with these impressive tokens of ruin and de-
cay. Besides, Dora was still young, and as a

MADAME BERTRAM).

rule gold is neither youth's hope nor its de-
sire. Other wishes, other longings than the
sordid are they which haunt the heart of twen-
ty-three.

" Well, my dear," said her mother's voice
behind her, " how do you like this ? "
Dora turned round, smiling brightly.
" It is very picturesque and peculiar," she
replied.

" Picturesque and peculiar ! " exclaimed
Mrs. Courtenay, with that little shrill raising
of the voice by which she expressed astonish-
ment. " My dear, it is simply enchanting. I
have not felt so happy for years as I have felt
since I came here ; and Madame Bertrand is
the most delightful old creature you ever saw ! "
" Is she old ? " demurely asked Dora.
" Is she old ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay,
with the little shrill raising of the voice again.
" Old as the hills, but so good ; only I suspect,
my love, that she is a little touchy. She has been
better off, you see, and feels it hard to have to
wait upon us now. She made it a stipulation
that she was to be called Madame Bertrand,
and I came in to tell you so — I was afraid you
might hurt her feelings inadvertently."

Dora promised to be careful, but expressed
some wonder that Madame Bertrand should
have undertaken to be their servant-of-all-
work. Upon which it turned out that Madame
Bertrand had undertaken no such thing ; but
had volunteered her services with restrictions
so numerous that Dora was amused to hear
them recapitulated by her- mother. She prom-
ised, however, to attend to all this touchy lady's
regulations. Mrs. Courtenay nodded, and at
once resumed Madame Bertrand's praises.
That lady, it seemed, had had a succession of
lodgers.

"And they all adored her, save one," said
Mrs. Courtenay. " He was a Monsieur Theo-
dore, and after behaving abominably, coming
in and going out at all hours, and calling her
' Bertrand,' quite short, as if she were a man,

he ran away without paying the poor old
soul."

Dora laughed merrily.

"Do they do that in France too?" she
asked.

" My dear, how can you be so simple ! They
do it everywhere. But it is a shame to impose
on that poor old thing, who, from all she has
told me about herself, must be one of the best
creatures who ever breathed ! "

Dora did not attempt to answer this. She
knew it was her mother's habit to take her
opinion of people from their own account of
themselves. So she listened to Madame Ber-
trand's praises with an amused smile, but with-
out other contradiction than the demure re-
mark —

" I wonder if Monsieur Theodore made love
to her."

" My dear, I tell you she is old — old ! " re-
monstrated her mother; and in the same
breath she informed her that breakfast was
ready, Madame Bertrand having condescended
so far as to prepare it.

Dora cast a quick, keen look around their
sitting-room, as she sat down to breakfast.
It was a clean, cold, and poor-looking apart-
ment enough.

"But you shall have another look before
the day is out," said Dora aloud. " I am talk-
ing to the room, aunt," she added, smiling at
Mrs. Luan's startled face.

" Don't spend, Dora ! " exclaimed Mrs. Luan,
putting down her cup in alarm.

"Oh! I must; but it shall not be beyond
pence. I know that shillings are forbidden
now."

Mrs. Luan still looked uneasy, but did not
venture on further remonstrance When
breakfast was over, Dora entered her room,
unpacked her trunk, and took out some of
those little toys which are the delight of a
woman's heart. She had saved them from
the wreck of her fortunes, not merely bee

DORA.

habit had endeared them to her, but because,
though valuable of their kind, they would only
have been swallowed in the great catastrophe,
and would have brought in little or nothing at
a sale. "Within an hour the room, as Dora
had told it, had another look. She had hung
up a few water-color drawings on the walls,
put up two brackets with the bronze heads of
Shakespeare and Dante upon them, and for
the dingy, common French porcelain vases,
with artificial flowers in them, under glass
globes, which adorned Madame Bertrand's
black marble mantel-piece, Dora substituted
two white and blue vases of genuine china,
which she filled with fresh wall-flowers, bought
from a woman in the street. This, and a
work-basket on the table, a few books on a
shelf, and here and there a little feminine
trifle, so altered the aspect of the place, that
when Mrs. Courtenay came out of her own
room, and saw it again, she uttered a little
scream of delight.

" Tou are a fairy ! " she cried, clasping ber
hands in admiration.

" Twopence for nails, and twopence for
flowers," triumphantly said Dora, looking at
her aunt ; " total, fourpence !'"

Mrs. Luan was mute ; but, if she had dared,
she would have said that the fourpence were
ill-spent.

The day had been a busy one for Dora, and
toward the close she entered her room and sat
down to rest by her open window. She looked
at the old church, at the lilies, at the house
where the professor lived, and she found them

all quiet and silent as in the morning. The
little rosy boy, whom she had already seen,
was peeping at her from behind a window cur-
tain, but when he saw her smiling face he dis-

. , peared. A glimpse of the professor's wife
she also had, but it was a brief one. Madame
Didier was looking out at her husband, a
lame, infirm man, who walked down the street
leaning heavily on his stick. She watched

him till he turned the corner of the street,
then she shut her window, and was seen no
more. Dora leaned back in her chair, with a
book lying unopened on her lap. She could
imagine from this day what her life would be.
She would not have pictures to hang or
brackets to put up daily, but daily she might,
if she pleased, sit by her window and read, or
sew, or look at the old church. Mrs. Cour-
tenay was too delicate to take long walks,
Mrs. Luan too indifferent, and tbey could not
afford to hire carriages. She had been out
for an hour alone, and she had caught a
glimpse of Rouen. It looked a dull, grave,
commercial city, with magnificent Gothic
churches, but it also looked very dreary.
Little light or cheerfulness was there in those
ancient streets, over which huge mediaeval
piles shed their gloom.

"And we do not, know a soul here," she
thought ; " and if we stay years in Rouen, as
we may, I shall spend those years in compara-
tive solitude."

There was something almost appalling to
Dora in the thought, and the evening of that
first day was not calculated to contradict it.

It was a spring evening, hot as summer, yet
they remained within, for whither should they
have gone ? Mrs. Luan, who never felt dull,
perhaps because she never felt merry ; was
busy with her patchwork. Mrs. Courtenay at
first talked in a very lively strain, and was
enthusiastic about the pleasures of this new
life, but gently fell asleep in the end. Dora
looked at a flower-pot on the window-ledge, in
which a weak shoot was attempting to send
forth a pair of leaves.

" I suppose I shall have to take some in-
terest in you," she thought ; " but you are not
animate enough for me. I wish one could
make slips of living creatures, and watch them
growing. It would be pleasant to see the tips
of a pair of brown, furry cars shooting up,
then bright eyes, then a round head, then the

REMEMBRANCES OF OTHER DATS.

rest of the creature; but the ears would be
the really pretty part of it. I should like to
have a kitten so, or a pup ; but where is the
use of liking anything more ? I, who could
not see a bird fly but I longed for it, must
now learn to be as sober and demure as any
nun."

In this austere mood, Dora took up a book
and tried to read, but reading seemed to have
lost its charm.

"I must study," she thought — "nothing
else will do." So she went and fetched
Dante, and did her best to fathom one of the
most obscure of his difficult passages. But
neither would that answer. Study cannot be
taken up as a foil against passing tediousness.
She is an austere mistress, and requires undi-
vided worship. Besides, there rose sounds
from below which disturbed Dora. Madame
Bertrand had friends who spent the evening
with her. Their loud talking and louder
laughter came up to Dora as a sorrowful com-
ment on the present, and a no less sorrowful
remembrance of the past. She remembered
joyous young days in Ireland, pleasant even-
ings between her brother Paul and her cousin,
John Luan. She remembered evenings when
she had conversed with the gifted and the
wise during thd>brief year of her prosperity.
That, too, had its charm, colder than that of
her youth, but happy because intellectual.
And now, how had it ended ? She had lost the
two friends of her girlhood ; she had lost the
intercourse which is so dear to an inquiring
and cultivated mind, and she was the denizen
of a strange city, thrown on her own resources,
bound to live without a purpose or a task in life
other than that of fife itself— a dull and a hard
prospect at twenty-three. But we do not all
feel alike on these subjects. Madame Ber-
trand and her friends talked so loud, that Mrs.
Courtenay awoke, and looked startled.

" Dear me ! " she said, innocently, " I
thought I was at one of our parties, and that

I had fallen asleep whilst Mr. Gray was telling
me of a scientific experiment. It is such a re-
lief to find it a dream ! Poor Mr. Gray ! — how
he used to prose ! "

" Thank Heaven, she regrets nothing ! "
thought Dora, with a smile.

" Do listen to these people laughing," good-
humoredly continued Mrs. Courtenay. " You
have no idea how cheerful my country-people
are, Dora."

She spoke airily. It was plain that she ap-
propriated the cheerfulness of Madame Ber-
trand and her friends, and made it her own
for the time being.

" And so will I," resolutely thought Dora,
with a little defiant shake of her bright head.
" So will I."

Alas ! it was very easily said — more easily
said than done. When Dora went back to
her room that evening, and looked at the prim
and patient Griselidis, she wondered if <
had ever been amongst the trials of that lady's
lot.

CHAPTER IX.

A brave heart will go through more than
Dora had to bear. After all, her lot was not
so hard. She had the shelter of a roof, daily
bread, raiment, all the things that thousands
struggle for so wearily, and can so seldom win.
She had these, and with them leisure, a few
books, the companionship of two beings who
loved her, and a happy, sunny temper, to
make all good. If she sometimes heaved a
little regretful sigh, it was because she was
still young, you see, and did not know the
wonderful blessings of peace. Give her a few
years more, and let her go forth and be i
in some lonely boat on the waves of life, and
how she will look back to this safe haven,
and pine for its sweet shelter ! Happy girl !
Xeither passion which is Fasting, nor sorrow
which is cruel, nor care which is remor

DORA.

is with you now. So this is still your golden
time, and these are still your halcyon days,
though Rouen is rather a gloomy city to live
iD.

But though Dpra, more through tempera-
ment than from any philosophical apprecia-
tion of the blessings which remained to her,
was happy and contented ; though Madame
Bertrand said it did one good to see the de-
moiselle's bright face, and grew poetic with
her neighbors when she once broached that
theme ; though everything, in short, seemed
as it should be, still Dora heaved that little
regretful sigh we have spoken of. It came
probably because no human life can be free
from it. We may be sure that on the day
when Napoleon was crowned in Notre Dame
he heaved a sigh for Corsican hills, or for
having eaten cherries with a pretty girl in an
orchard when he was sub-lieutenant — for any
thing, in short, which he had no more. It is
the mortal lot to repine. Saints fret over
their sins, and sinners lament their lost follies,
and every one has suffered some deprivation
or other. Dora's was money, and with money
the loss of comforts, and pleasures, and en-
joyments, which that modern lamp of Aladdin
summons forth at its bidding from the dark
recesses of life, where they sleep so soundly,
so far as the needy are concerned. The cruel
enchanter Brown had taken her lamp away ;
the spell was gone, and some trouble was the
result. On most days she defied her fate, and
forbade it to vex her ; and on other days, as
we said, she sighed.

Her mother and her aunt, who shared her
loss, did not deny its existence, but they were
not prepared to sympathize with Dora when
she felt dull now and then. The sound of her
native language had not yet lost its charm for
Mrs. Courtenay, and Mrs. Luan professed her-
self delighted with the cheapness of Rouen.

So Dora behaved like a true stoic. She en-

dured and did not complain.

Rouen is a picturesque city, and Dora liked
the picturesque, and found and made herself
pleasures out of it. The solemn gloom of
Notre Dame and Saint Ouen, the glorious
painted glass in Saint Vincent and Saint
Patrice, the wonderful facade of Saint Maclou,
or the exquisite court of the Palais de Justice,
gave her many a 'delightful hour. But one
cannot live upon architecture, and Dora often
felt restless, and scarcely happy, even though
these magnificent memorials of the past were
daily within her view. She missed something
— something which Athens itself, and the
Acropolis, which glimpses of Olympus and
Mount Athos could not have supplied. The
open space and border of heath, the view of a
gleaming or stormy sea, which she had had
from her mother's cottage in Ireland, often
came back to her with a sort of passion. Oh !
that sad memory did not stand between her
and that past ! For a year back again in the
old country, with the bracing sea air, and with
it the breath of liberty, far, far away from
those grand frowning Gothic heaps of stone.

Rouen has few attractions as a modern city
— and they were fewer then than they are
now — and these Dora quickly exhausted. The
theatres she did not visit, her mother did not
care for excursions, and theAminine delight
of looking in at shop windows Bbe seldom in-
dulged in. She was still young, and not in-
sensible to the charms of elegant and costly
attire. So it was rather hard to see velvet
and silks which she must now never wear, or
jewels that could no longer be hoped for as a
good yet to come. The gate of all luxurious
enjoyment was closed upon her ; and if Dora
was not wise enough to scorn such vanities,
she was too proud to indulge in weak and use-
less regret.

To stay very much within was therefore one
of the features of her lot, and such tranquillity
is utterly obnoxious to youth. She sometimes
longed for motion with a feverish restlessness.

DORA AND A POOR OLD WOMAN.

She did her best to conquer the unquiet mood,
and she tried to make herself home pleasures,
but this was no easy matter. Madame Ber-
trand's cat did indeed steal up to her, but she
only slept and purred. So Dora made friends
with a host of sparrows, whose nests were in
the old church. She bribed them with crumbs,
and soon so tamed them that they would come
and flutter past her open window, and, if she
sat very still, peck on the ledge whilst she
looked on. She also opened a flirtation with
the little rosy boy in the opposite house, and
she seldom appeared at her window but . he
was to be seen at his, laughing and nodding to
her. A silent interest she likewise took in
the doings of the lame professor and his pale
wife ; and altogether she made the best of her
lot, but, as we have said, she could not help
feeling restless now and then.

That unquiet mood had been very strong
upon her on a bright day in summer, when, in
the afternoon, Mrs. Courtenay suddenly ex-
pressed the wish to partake of some Fromage
de Brie.

" I should like it, oh ! of all things," she
exclaimed, raising her voice in her little shrill
tone.

Dora looked up from her work, and sup-
posed the wish was one her mother could
gratify.

"Oh! no," was the slightly plaintive reply,
" I would not touch one of the cheeses they
sell about here; and Madame Bertrand's
woman lives miles away, at the other end of
Rouen — miles away ! "

" I shall go and fetch you a cheese, mam-
ma," quickly said Dora, throwing down her
work.

" My dear, it is ever so far away. Oh ! so
far — miles ! "

"Then it is the very thing for me," gayly
said Dora. " I feel just now as if I should
like to go to the edge of the world and look
over."

" My dear ! " expostulated her mother.

" I should ! " wilfully said Dora. " Oh ! for
one good peep out of this world, and to see
the stars spinning ! "

The journey to fetch the cheese Mrs. Cour-
tenay longed for promised no such prospect,
and was described by Madame Bertrand as
something formidable ; but Dora was bent on
going, and she went.

She had not walked ten steps when, as she
passed the house where the lame teacher lived,
she heard a groan of distress coming from be-
neath the archway. The gate, as is usually
the case on the Continent, stood wide open,
and Dora put her head in and saw a lamenta-
ble picture. A little woman, very old, and
very poorly dressed, was sitting on the last
step of the stone staircase, staring at half-a-
dozen of broken eggs and some spilt milk.
An earthen bowl and a plate also lay in frag-
ments near her.

" Can I help you ? " asked Dora.

" Can you pick up milk," was the sharp re-
tort, " or mend broken eggs ? "

" Yes," good-humoredly replied Dora, " I
think I can do both."

" I had not tasted a drop of milk, or seen
the yolk of an egg, since I lost my five-franc
piece," groaned the old woman, without heed-
ing her ; " and now that I had saved and saved
till I could have an egg again, I stumbled, and
there they are, dish and all — dish and all !
There they are ! "

Dora stooped and carefully picked up two
of the eggs, which had escaped with a gentle
crack.

" These will do," she said, softly laying them
on a fragment of the plate ; " and for the other
four and the milk here is a cure."

She put her hand in her pocket and took
out a few pence; but the old woman ahook
her head.

" Have eggs and milk got feet ? " she asked.
"Will they come? I cannot go and fV'.ch

DORA.

them — no, I cannot, I am too tired,'' she add-
ed, as if Dora were attempting to persuade
her.

" You are but a cross old fairy," thought
Dora ; " but still you shall have your way,
and I will see if I canuot make you happy."

So she took back the money which she had
put in the old woman's lap, and she went
away.

The little old woman remained sitting on the
step of the staircase groaning over the broken
eggs and the spilt milk, and addressing them
with impotent wrath.

" You did it on purpose," she said, shaking
her head at them, " you know you did ! "

" Did they, though ? " said some one,
coming in from the street. "That was too
bad of them."

" Go your way," was her angry reply. " Go
to your old frippery, and let me be quiet.
Don't touch them," she almost screamed, as,
in going up the staircase, the stranger seemed
likely to tread on the two eggs which Dora
had put on the broken plate. " She is bring-
ing me more ; but I will have these too."

Even as she spoke Dora appeared under-
neath the archway, followed by a child with a
cup full of milk, and four eggs on a plate.

" There," she said, gayly, " they did come to
you, after all ; and they are all yours, the cup,
the plate, the milk, and the eggs," she added,
taking them from the child's hand to present
them to her.

" The cup too ? " screamed the old woman.

"Yes, yes, the cup too," replied Dora,
gravely. " Are you glad ? "

"Ravished!" was the ardent reply; "en-
chanted ! Oh ! the beautiful cup ! Why, who
are you?" she suddenly exclaimed, glancing
from the gifts to the giver, and shading her
eyes with her hand to seo her better.

Dora stood before her bright aud smilin«
with her little donations in her hands. She
saw that her prolcylx was dazzled with her

blooming, radiant face, and it amused her.
To charm animals, allure children, and con-
quer ill-tempered people, was her gift; she
knew it, and she liked it. "I thought I
should prevail over you," was her triumphant,
though unspoken boast, as the old woman still
stared like one confused.

"Good-by," she said, aloud; "the child
shall carry these up for yon," and handing
both milk and eggs to the little girl who had
brought them, Dora nodded and went her
way.

" Who is she, eh ? " asked the receiver of
the milk and eggs.

"She lives opposite," replied the child,
glibly ; " and she sits at her window. Such a
beautiful demoiselle ! "

Unconscious of her double triumph, Dora
went on her way. The distance was great,
but it was reached at last. Dora bought the
cheese, and with the precious dainty carefully
wrapped up, so that no untoward accident
should cause it to break, she turned home-
ward. The cheesemonger lived very far away,
and the sun was now near its setting. As
Dora went down a steep street, she saw all
Rouen beneath her. It wa*s a picture ! Many
a poor, struggling artist, living in a dull, smoky
city, would give a year of his life to have the
chance of painting such a one. The gleaming
river, now dark purple, now flowing gold,
wound through the old town, and passed be-
neath the bridges ; church towers and spires
rose above the dark sea of roofs, and appeared
in fine clear lines on a sky of pale azure;
luxuriant verdure and rounded hills framed
the magic picture over which, spread a haze
both soft and bright. It was beautiful, won-
derfully beautiful, and Dora stopped and gazed
in deep admiration. But neither that nor the
long walk which had tired her could quell the
restlessness within her. She had brought it
out, and she was taking it back. Her life was
a dull life, and Dora had tasted another life

THE BOOK-STALL.

than this. She had had a life full of fervor
and hope with her lost brother in Ireland ; she
had had a life of intellectual pursuits and so-
cial pleasures in London, and now she was
lingering the last bright years of youth away
in a French provincial town. In short, Dora
felt not merely restless, but dull.

It is sad to say it, but more than one-half of
the human species, womankind, is sorely trou-
bled with that modern complaint of dulness.
After all, there was some good in the olden
time, when men fought and strove, and women
sat at home and spun wool, and both liked it.
Yes, there was a philosophy in the spindle
and distaff, or in the silk and worsted, no
doubt about it. When Matilda and her maid-
ens sat down to their tapestry and worked in
tent-stitch the history of the Norman Con-
quest, they were thus saved many a trouble
and many a weary hour. Of course there was
sorrow in these days, and there was love too,
easy, natural love, which came and went like
a gentle epidemic ; but we doubt if these me-
diaeval women were haunted with the ideal,
or if they made theis moan because they
failed to secure variety. Peace, which we
prize so little, was one of their blessings. A
calm and tranquil life they led in the main.
Strong walls were raised, and men wore heavy
armor, that these ladies might sit in quiet and
work on canvas strange warriors on gaunt
horses, or quaint trees, with birds never
known out of fable perched on the boughs.
We have improved all that, to be sure ; but
then let us not complain if we are called upon
to pay the penalty of the improvement.

Vain admonition ! Dora had a warm, genial
nature; she loved her mother and she liked
her aunt, but she longed for a life in which
there should be some other purpose than to
make the two ends of a narrow income meet.

That longing was strong upon her as she
stood and looked at dusk gathering over the
city below her. With a sigh at its useless-

ness, she roused herself from her reverie, and
went down the street at a quick pace. To
reach home sooner she took a short cut
through one of the narrow lanes that were
to be found within the shadow of Notre Dame
A gray twilight still reigned there. As she
passed by one of the low shops, with beetling
first-floors over them, Dora saw some books
on a stall outside. Had she ever seen them
there before? It seemed not to her. The
shop was not a mere second-hand bookseller's
shop ; many wares were sold within it. There
were portfolios of drawings in stands inside
near the door ; in a corner she saw some old
portraits, with fixed eyes staring through the
gloom. A few plates of old Rouen ware, a
worm-eaten bos of carved wood, a shattered
Etruscan vase, and a heap of ancient tapes-
try, appeared in the window above the book-
stall. At once Dora's thoughts flew back to
the days when her brother and she were en-
gaged in the catalogue. She paused and
looked at that old bric-d-brac shop with a sad,
troubled eye. Oh, ye days gone by, how you
can haunt us ! It was a pain to linger there,
and yet Dora could not bear to go. A light
burned in the shop ; its rays fell on the stall
outside. She took up a book to stay and look
a little longer. The book itself woke kindred
recollections. She remembered how she had
once provoked her brother Paul with a piece
of girlish folly, and how he had answered her
with a " Read Epictetus — read Epictetus " — a
tantalizing injunction, since he read it in the
classic original. Now the book Dora had
taken up was an old French translation of
Epictetus. Her heart beat as she opened its
pages ; then, as she glanced over them, and
read a few maxims, the calm and divine
wisdom of the Phrygian slave won on her by
its beauty.

" I wonder if the book is a dear one ? " she
thought.

She hesitated a while, then ventured into

DORA.

the shop with the volume in her hand. The
dealer was not alone. There was a customer
with him, a slender, dark man, for whom he
held a candle in a dingy iron candlestick.

" Pray how much may this book cost ? "
asked Dora.

The man turned round, and said, civilly,

" What book, mademoiselle, if you please ? "

" Epictetus," she answered.

The customer, who was gazing intently at
an old engraving, now looked up as he heard
this girlish voice uttering the name of the stoic
philosopher, and there was just a touch of
perplexity in his glance as he saw Dora. You
would scarcely have connected philosophy un-
der any shape with her open, genial face.
Thus, bright, hopeful, and young might have
looked a Psyche before her sorrows.

" Ten francs," was the dealer's reply.

Dora had made up her mind to give so much
as one franc for the volume, but ten made her
blush with confusion at having entered the
shop at all.

" I did not think it was so expensive," she
said, apologetically.

He saw her embarrassment, and replied,
good-naturedly, that the edition was a rare
one. Dora, who was reluctantly putting the
book by, brightened up. Had he got a
cheaper edition ?

" No," and he shook his head, " he had
not ; and what was more, Epictetus was
rather a scarce book. Few people cared
about it.''

Dora apologized for having troubled him,
and left the shop. The dealer looked after
her and chuckled.

" Whenever an out-of-the-way book is asked
of me," he said, turning to his customer, " it
is by your country-folk, Doctor Richard, and
especially by your countrywomen. To think
of a little chicken like that wanting to peck
at Epictetus ! "

"Who is she?" asked Doctor Richard;

and he made good his claim to be Dora's
countryman by a moderate yet unmistakable
accent.

" I do not know her name, but I often see
her about Notre Dame. A pretty girl, eh,
Doctor Richard ? "

"Not very pretty," dryly replied Doctor
Richard, " but very bright. She lit up your
shop, Monsieur Merand."

"Come, you shall have another candle,"
said Monsieur Merand, taking the hint. " Ton
must see that engraving well in order to ap-
preciate it."

He entered the dark parlor behind his
shop. Doctor Richard remained alone, and
he wondered.

"Where can I have seen this girl, who
wants to buy Epictetus, with that joyous
face ? It was she who was giving milk and
eggs to the cross old witch on the staircase,
but I knew then that I had already seen her.
When and where was it ? "

Doctor Richard's memory was one tenacious
of faces, and it never deceived him. Yes, he
had certainly seen and been struck with that
bright face, " with eyes so fair," like Collins's
Hope, before this day. Suddenly the remem-
brance flashed across his mind. He had seen
her at a concert six months ago, a bright,
happy, and admired girl. He remembered
her looks, and her smiles, and her bouquet of
rare roses on her lap — rare for the season of
the year. He remembered, too, some un-
known lady's comment, "Miss Courtenay is
the most extravagant girl. Now, these roses
cost a guinea, at least." And now Epictetus
was too dear at ten francs. And the milk and
eggs, moreover, suggested a strange contrast
between the present and the past. The story
of her losses Doctor Richard had also heard,
and thinking over it, he fell into a fit of mus-
ing, whence Monsieur Merand, returning at
length with the candle, roused him. But
the engraving, on being seen more closely,

MONSIEUR MERAND.

proved what Doctor Richard was pleased to
call "an impostor." He put it down with a
great show of contempt, and looked for his
hat,

" "Well, then, hare ' Epictetus,' " said
Monsieur Merand, thrusting the book toward
him.

"Not I," curtly replied Doctor Richard.
" Good-night, Monsieur Merand ; you must
keep better wares if you want my custom."

"He will come for it to-morrow," said
Monsieur Merand, composedly, putting the
engraving aside ; " and I dare say he will take
Epictetus as well. I saw him looking at it."

CHAPTER X.

Mrs. Courtenay was getting uneasy when
her daughter came home.

" My dear, how long you were ! " she said,
with a sigh of relief.

"It is very far away. But the cheese is
perfect, and — " here Dora paused in dismay.
The cheese might be a first-rate one, and was
so, no doubt, but it was no longer in her pos-
session. She had probably left it at the bric-
d-brac shop.

" I looked at a book-stall near Notre Dame,"
she said, feeling Mrs. Luan's reproving eye
upon her, " and I must have forgotten it there.
I shall go back for it at once. Pray don't wait
tea for me."

She was gone before Mrs. Courtenay could
remonstrate. Within a few minutes Dora had
reached Monsieur Merand's shop. She entered
it after first casting a look at the book-stall,
and ascertaining that neither Epictetus nor the
cheese was there.

" You come for Epictetus ? " he said, recog-
nizing her at once.

" No, sir, I come for a parcel which I for-
got."

" There is no parcel. Take Epictetus for
nine francs, eh ? "

" It is still too dear at that price, thank
you. I am sure I left my parcel here."

She looked for it, but without assisting her
Monsieur Merand went on:

" Let us make an exchange, mademoiselle.
Have you got an old engraving ? I am very
fond of an old engraving. Look, here is a
stock of them ! "

He opened a portfolio, so that Dora could
not help seeing its contents.

"The3e are not engravings," she said;
" these are crayon drawings — and very bad
ones too," she added, shutting up the port-
folio, and again looking for her missing
cheese.

" Bad ! " exclaimed Monsieur Merand, throw-
ing the portfolio open once more — " you call
these bad ! Then, mademoiselle," he added,
taking off his hat to her with a mock polite-
ness, which was not impertinent, " I will make
you a present of Epictetus if you can do me
a head like this."

Dora smiled a little scornfully. She drew
tolerably well, and she knew it ; but not choos-
ing to enter into an argument with Monsieur
Merand, she quietly remarked that as he had
not got her parcel she would trouble him no
longer.

" Is this your parcel ? " he asked, taking it
from the chair on which it had lain concealed
all the time; " why," he added, smelling it and
looking at her, " it is cheese ! "

Dora began to think that this Monsieur Me-
rand was a very odd man ; but he looked both
good-humored and good-natured, spite his
oddity, and she could not help laughing.

" It is cheese," she said ; " but pray give it
to me, sir, I am in a hurry."

" This is a particularly good cheese," he con-
tinued in a pensive tone. " Now," he added]
giving it up to her and putting his hands be-
hind his back, " it is a pity you cannot draw ;

DORA.

I would have let you have Epictetus for a
crayon sketch like this ; " and he took and
flourished one before her eyes.

" I wonder if the man is jesting, or if he
would really buy my drawings ? " thought
Dora, suddenly fluttered at the golden vision
thus opened to her.

" I suppose, sir, you are in earnest ? " she
remarked doubtfully.

" To be sure I am ; but can you draw ? "

He already seemed to hesitate and draw
back.

"I have one or two things by me," said
Dora, still doubting his sincerity ; " shall I
show them to you to-morrow ? "

" Perhaps you had better not," kindly re-
plied Monsieur Merand. "I am a severe crit-
ic, and — and we all know how young ladies
draw."

" I care nothing about criticism," emphati-
cally declared Dora ; " besides, I can keep to
my own opinion, you know, which is, that I
can produce something much better than this."

Monsieur Merand's breath seemed gone at
the audacious confession ; but Dora, without
waiting for him to recover and utter some
other discouraging speech, bade him a good-
evening, took up- her cheese, and walked out
of the shop.

Even Mrs. Luan noticed how bright and ex-
cited Dora looked when she came back.

" Did you get it ? " cried Mrs. Courtenay.

" Here it is," replied Dora, gayly ; " and
what is more," she added, tossing off her bon-
net and shaking her bright head, " I think I
am going to earn cheeses by the dozen ! " She
laughed at their amazed looks, and related to
them what had passed, adding saucily, " And
my drawings are a great deal better than his.
It would not take me more than two days to
draw such a head as he showed me. Now,
suppose he gave me ten francs a head, that
would be a hundred and fifty francs a month,
or eighteen hundred francs a year. Nay, as

to that, I could produce a drawing a day,
which would make three thousand francs a
year."

Mrs. Luan put down her patchwork and
stared ; whilst Mrs. Courtenay said innocently,

" Three hundred and sixty-five drawings a
year ! "

Dora looked bewildered at this unexpected
calculation, then she remarked in a much more
sober tone :

" "Well, I suppose Monsieur Merand would
scarcely take a drawing a day. No, nor yet
one every other day. But then, he may give
me more than ten francs a drawing, you see. I
shall certainly try him to-morrow," she added,
sitting down to take her tea with the com-
posure of an old woman of business.

They were all three rather elated at this un-
expected prospect. Epictetus, who had led to
this, could afford to despise money, five in a
garret, sleep on a straw mattress, and never
lock his door; but Dora had not yet reached
these sublime heights of philosophy. Money
was much to her. Money meant a little of
that pleasure and relaxation which was the
grievous want of her new life ; money, too, in
this case meant exertion, and a motive for it ;
no wonder then that Dora looked once more
as bright as sunshine, and spent a restless,
hopeful night, full of projects and dreams,
some sleeping and some waking.

Nevertheless, Miss Courtenay felt in no great
hurry to try her fortunes when the next day
came round. She took out her portfolio, se-
lected the best drawing in it, and looked ac it
in doubt. Was it, after all, so good as she
had thought it to be ? Mrs. Courtenay, who
felt very impatient to know Monsieur Merand's
opinion of her daughter's production, urged
her to go to his shop early ; but, Dora pru-
dently said, " It would not be dignified," and
she lingered until she suddenly discovered that
if she did not go at once, it would be too late
to go at all. So she slipped her portfolio under

HIS BARGAIN WITH DORA.

her arm, and went out alone, though Mrs.
Courtenay first, then Mrs. Luan afterward,
offered to accompany her.

" No," decisively said Dora ; " I will not
undertake Monsieur Merand in company."

She went, and her mother, and even her
aunt, looked out of the window after her. Dora
saw them, and nodded and smiled and looked
very brave, though her heart beat a little. She
walked briskly whilst she was within view, but
slackened her pace when once she had turned
the coiner of the street. To say the truth, she
felt au arrant coward. " I wonder what takes
rue to that Monsieur Merand," she thought ;
"I could do without Epictetus, and live with-
out that odd man's money. Perhaps he was
only laughing at me yesterday, and that I shall
have had a sleepless night and a useless walk
for my pains."

" The milk and eggs were very good, made-
moiselle," said a cracked voice ; " very good ;
and the cup is beautiful ! "

Dora raised her eyes, which were bent on
the earth, and saw the little old woman whose
distress she had relieved the day before.

"I am glad of it," she replied, with a smile.

" And what is your name, mademoiselle ? "
promptly asked the old woman, leaning her
head toward her right shoulder, and looking
up at Dora with a keen, brown eye, that bore
no token of age.

" I cannot tell it you," mysteriously an-
swered Dora ; "lam a princess in disguise,
and it is a great secret ; but," she good-
humoredly added, noticing the old woman's
blank look, " I know where you live, and I
shall go and see you."

" Do ! " cried the old woman, brightening.
" The third door on the right hand on the
fourth floor."

" You poor little fairy," thought Dora, look-
ing after her, as the little old woman passed
beneath the archway, and entered the house
where she had seen her yesterday, " you have

seen better days, I am sure. And I wish you
were a fairy indeed, for then you would give
me wonderful luck in exchange for my milk
and eggs. Whereas I do believe I am only
going to get a humiliating rebuff."

She had half a mind to turn back as she en-
tered Monsieur Merand's street. But it was
too late to do so. Monsieur Merand stood at
his door, he had seen her, and nodded recog-
nition in a half-friendly, half-ironical fashion.
At least, so thought Dora.

" Oh ! you have brought the drawing," he
said, as she approached.

He glanced at the portfolio under her arm.

" Yes,'-? carelessly replied Dora, entering
the shop. " I hope you did not sell Epic-
tetus," she added, composedly, perhaps to im-
press the dealer with the fact that Epictetus
was the summit of her ambition.

Monsieur Merand shook his head compas-
sionately, and Dora understood his meaning
quite well. Of course he had not sold Epic-
tetus, but of course he did not expect to part
with it to her in exchange for her labor. She
began to feel annoyed at his impertinent skep-
ticism, and somewhat defiantly she opened
her portfolio and handed him the sketch.

" Oh ! that is it, is it ? " said Monsieur Me-
rand, taking it from her hand, and moving to
the door, in order to have as much light as
the street afforded full on the drawing. Dora
remained in the gloomy background, and looked
at him with a beating heart.

Her drawing was taken from a cast of
Michael Augelo's famous " Night." The weary
goddess hung her head, heavy with sleep, and
seemed to forget the cares, the sorrows, and
the sins of life, in those deep slumbers. A re-
pose, which was not that of death, for there
was suffering in it still, wrapped the whole
figure, and was well expressed in the bowed
head. Monsieur Merand looked long and at-
tentively, then he put the drawing down, went
to the other end of his shop, and came back

DORA.

with a book, which he silently placed in
Dora's hands. She looked at it, though she
truly had no need to look. It was Epictetus.

There are delightful moments in life, mo-
ments of boasting and triumph, which we
never forget. Dora had a genial, happy na-
ture, keenly susceptible of emotion, as all
such natures are. Her heart beat with joy at
this little success ; her eyes sparkled, and,
alas ! for stoic philosophy, old Epictetus shook
a little in her hands. It was not vanity, it was
not pride, it was the knowledge that she had
prevailed, that she, too, possessed a gift, and
that this gift was worth something. She could
not speak, she could not trust herself to say
one word — her stammering tongue might have
betrayed her. Monsieur Merand addressed
her first.

" Of course," he said, " the professor
touched up that drawing — but it is no busi-
ness of mine. The drawing is a good one,
and a bargain is a bargain."

This gave Dora her tongue back again.

" Indeed, sir," she replied, a little saucily,
" I thought you were too good a judge not to
know when a drawing had been ' touched up,'
or not. This drawing never underwent such
treatment."

" It is yours — all yours ? " exclaimed Mon-
sieur Merand, in the tone of a question.

" I do not say that," replied Dora, not un-
willing to mystify him ; " but I say that it is
the work of one hand."

Monsieur Merand's face fell.

" Then you have no more such ? " he said,
seeming rather annoyed.

" I did not say that either," retorted Dora,
much amused. " Do you really wish for
more ? "

" Let us deal openly," suggested Monsieur
Merand, putting on a look of great candor. " I
care not who does these drawings, but will
you let me have more by the same hand — say
two to begin with ? "

" But not for ten francs a piece," suggested
Dora, looking grave.

" No, this and the others shall be twenty.
Epictetus and fifty francs for the three."

"Very well," replied Dora, after a pause,
seemingly given to deliberation, but really af-
forded to joy. " Are you in a hurry ? "

" I should like them this week. To-day is
Tuesday — say by Saturday, eh ? "

"Very well," again answered Miss Cour-
tenay, doing her best to look careless and
business-like. " Good-morning, sir."

She gave Monsieur Merand a pretty, conde-
scending nod ; " for he must be in my power,
and not I in his," she thought, as she leisurely
walked down the street, till she reached a
side-door of Notre Dame, which she entered.

Dora felt happy, and happiness with her at
once found its way into prayer and thanks-'
giving. The grand old church, with its mighty
columns and gorgeous windows, could not awe
her, or turn her joy into other channels. Yes,
life is brief, and ettrnity awaits us all ; but
life is sweet, too, and its joys are keen, and
gladness, also, is a form of worship. So Dora
felt ; but a sunbeam stealing in, fighting up
the aisle, and falling on a grave-stone, whence
the word "Requiescat" suddenly seemed to
flash forth, turnefl Dora's joy to chill and sad
regret. Requiescat! The word was written
on Paul's grave, in Glasnevin. She triumphed,
she had her little joy and her little boast, and
he had been denied his. He had gone down
to his premature rest, and he slept too early
a sleep because of that disappointment.

" Oh ! my brother ! — my brother ! " thought
Dora, her tears flowing at the thought, " how
can I be happy and forget you ? "

But did she really forget him ? Was not
his remembrance ever in her heart, ready to
rise at the first whisper ? Did she not remem-
ber him in joy, because he did not share it ;
in sorrow, because he would have borne it
with her ; in every thing of weal or woe, which

THE PICTURE-GALLERY.

stirred her heart or passed through her life.
If she now lingered in that ancient church,
was it not to think in peace of him ? "When
she roused herself with a "I must go in," it
was with a sort of pain; so dear was that
thought, so hard it was to bid it once more
return to those depths of her heart where it
slumbered, indeed, but ever ready to waken !

" Well ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, from the
window.

Dora looked up, and saw her mother's face
looking down at her. She laughed saucily,
showed her the book, and sprang up-stairs.
No sunbeam was brighter than Dora when she
broke in upon her mother and her aunt.

" Victory, victory ! " she cried, clapping her
hands, after throwing poor Epictetus on the
nearest chair. " Monsieur Merand gives me
twenty francs a drawing, and wants two more
by Saturday. We shall be quite rich now,
and Pactolus — is it Pactolus ? — is going to
flow in the room."

" That is delightful ! " cried Mrs. Courte-
nay, with her little shrill raising of the voice.
" Oh ! quite delightful ! "

Mrs. Luan, who looked a little flushed and
excited, stared hard at Dora, and said,

" Where is the money ? "

" I have not got. it yet, aunt. By next
Saturday I hope to show you two Napoleons
and a half. I wonder what drawings I ought
to let him have."

She brought out her portfolio, and the three
looked over its contents. Dora selected a
Niobe and a Dying Gladiator, Mrs. Courtenay
opined for a Sleeping Ariadne and a Cupid,
and Mrs. Luan reckoned up Dora's drawings,
and valuing each at twenty francs apiece,
made up, mentally of course, a goodly sum.

" The Ariadne is much better than the Niobe,
my dear," said Mrs. Courtenay, nodding her
cap emphatically.

Dora looked at the two as only artists can
look at their own work. She liked them both,

and now that she had a market for them, she
regretted parting with them. She remem-
bered how that sleeping woman, unconscious
of abandonment, had charmed her ; how the
meaning of that fine antique had stolen upon
her, the more she studied it. And then the
Niobe ! The immortal sorrow in those up-
raised eyes, and in those parted lips !

" Let them both go," she said, with a little
sigh, and putting them away as she spoke.
" I shall keep the Cupid and the Dying Gladi-
ator — for another time, if, as I hope, Monsieur
Merand will want them. And now, mamma,
s*ince I am getting rich again, we shall take
drives in the country, and you and aunt must
get a silk dress each, and I shall try books,
and hire a piano."

Mrs. Luan's patchwork fell from her hands
on her lap, and she stared at Dora with un-
mitigated astonishment. Had the girl gone
crazy, for how could she expect to achieve all
this with fifty francs ?

Dora laughed a clear, ringing laugh.

" I will do all that, aunt," she said wilfully,
" and a great deal more. I wonder what old
Epictetus has to say on the subject ? "

She took up the volume, and sitting with it
on her lap by the open window, she soon be-
came absorbed and grave. Epictetus' spoke
of virtue, of heroism, endurance, and self-de-
nial, but said not one word of drives in the
country, silk dresses, or musical instruments
of any kind.

CHAPTER XJ.

The event proved Dora to have been in her
senses when she foretold the golden results
which were to accrue from her connection with
Monsieur Merand. He took the Niobe and
the Ariadne without hesitation, and asked for
more.

"I have got a Cupid and a Dying Gladi-

DORA.

ator," replied Dora, with a gentle thrill of
emotion.

" Will you let me see them ? " asked Mon-
sieur Merand, rather eagerly.

" Yes, to-morrow," she answered, quietly.

She brought them the next morning. Mon-
sieur Merand purchased them at once, put
them away very carefully in a portfolio, then
said, gravely :

" Mademoiselle, could you copy in crayons
a few heads from a painting in our gallery
here ? "

" I can try."

" Then you are not sure ? "

" I can try," said Dora again ; and her
bright smile expressed the certainty of suc-
cess.

"Well, then, here is the catalogue; this is
the picture — Hemmeling's. The heads are
marked ; size of the* original. Take your
time, mademoiselle. I am in no hurry, and
should like the drawings to be good."

" I shall do my best," answered Dora, with
a wistful look, for she already felt less confi-
fident of success. Instead of going home, she
went straight to the Musce. With a beating
heart she passed by the majestic front of Saint
Ouen, and turning round the edifice, found
herself in its deep shadow, facing the narrow
door which leads to the picture-gallery. Sight-
seers were scarce that day; Dora met none.
She went up the broad stone staircase alone,
and went in the mood of one going to meet
her fate. These pictures, which she had often
looked at with a calm critical eye, now seemed
to her like so many judges waiting for her, the
future culprit. t The door of the library was
open ; within, a broad cool room, Dora could
see a few gentlemen reading. She remem-
bered the days of Mr. Ryan's library, and Paul's
eager labors and sad failure, and she quailed
to think that she, too, perhaps, was bent on a
task beyond her strength.

She looked around her for comfort, and

found none. The statues which adorn the
hall, the severe Augustus, the writhing Lao-
coon, the cold Pudicitia, had little sympathy
with a girl's trouble or with her fears. What
did the Roman emperor care for the triumph
or defeat of her little ambition ? What was
it to the victim of Apollo's revenge that she
failed or succeeded? As for Pudicitia, «he
would surely have said, if consulted by Miss
Courtenay, " Stay at home and spin wool."

" What is there between these Greeks and
Romans that they should meet us at every
path ? " thought Dora, a little resentfully ;
" They can soothe no grief, raise no hope,
dispel no trouble. Why have we not, then,
the images of our own flesh and blood, of our
own heroes around us, like the painter below
with his pallet in his marble hand ? It would
be cheering to sec a Bernard de Palissy there
instead of that Laocoon and his heathen ser
pents. Poor and little as I am, that obstinate
Bernard, who fought so hard a battle, is kith
and kin to me, arid these are nothing — oh !
surely nothing ! " and still she stood with the
catalogue in her hand, hesitating to enter the
rooms, within which, in her present mood "at
least, her fate seemed to lie. True, failure
would not be ruin, but it would be humilia-
tion, and that surely has its bitterness.

But when Dora entered the sunlit rooms,
and wandered through them, looking at the
quaint old pictures with their stiff, staring
faces, she felt hopeful once more. It did not
seem so very hard to prevail and get the better
of these grim personages. Yet how fine, when
you looked into them, were some, and how
correct was Monsieur Merand's taste ! Every
head he had chosen had its character and its
beauty.

■ " If he is so good a judge," thought Dora,
"I shall get afraid of him."

But fear is not a logical feeling. Dora, as
she looked over Monsieur Merand's selection,
felt cheerful, and not despondent. Her buoy-

NANETTE AND TliE PORTRAIT.

ant nature rose with the magnitude of the
task laid upon her. ThaJ would be a tame
journey of adventure indeed which should
have no patli beset with perils. The toil that
has no difficulties surely has no charm.

On her way home, Dora resolved to go and
see the old fairy, as she mentally called her.
The poor woman's real name was Nanette —
so Dora had learned ; also, that Nanette bore
an unexceptionable character for everything
save temper.

" I am sure she is lucky," thought Dora,
climbing up the dingy staircase that led to
Nanette's room. " The eggs I gave her are
fast turning into gold, and as for the milk, we
all know it is the symbol of abundance."

Nanette's door was open, so Dora had no
trouble in finding her. Nanette lived in a room
which was about the size of a large cupboard,
but which was exquisitely clean and neat, and
Nanette, being as small and as neat and as
clean as her room, looked more than ever like
a fairy, in Dora's opinion. A cross fairy she
was just then, scolding a charcoal fire, which
would not kindle.

" Ah ! you will not, eh ? " she said, angrily,
and vainly using a bellows beyond her strength
— " you know I am old, you do ! "

" Let me try," said Dora, looking in.

She took the bellows from Nanette's hand,
and lo ! in a trice the fire was bright.

" Yes, you are young," said Nanette, with a
wistful look, " and you can work. I cannot ! — I
cannot ! I am seventy-three, and I cannot
work, and have to live on charity," she added,
with an angry flash in her brown eye.

Dora tried to soothe her, but Nanette would
admit of no consolation. Her temper was
roused again. Dora wanted her to have more
milk and eggs, but Nanette scorned the offer.
" She took charity, but she was not a beggar,"
she said, loftily. " An accident was an acci-
dent, but she did not want milk and eggs daily."

Dora suggested bacon, but greatly imperilled
4

her power of fascination by doing so. Na-
nette's brown eye burned like a live coal. It
turned out that bacon was her particular aver-
sion.

" Yes, you are a cross fairy," thought Dora,
" but for all that, I shall prevail over you once
more." So she made no further offers, but
gently drew out Nanette. She learned how
Nanette had been rich — quite rich. She had
earned as much as seventy francs in one month
by lace-mending, but now her eyesight was
gone, and her hand was unsteady, and there
were days when Nanette could not get up, she
was so weak, and then she lay sleepless all
night. " When the moon shone in at her win-
dow, and lit up her room, it was well and good ;
but when the night was dark, and the room
was black, it was very dreary, you see."

Dora's bright eyes flashed with triumph.

" I shall give you a pound of candles," she
said.

Nanette was fairly conquered. Candles,
were the secret desire of her heart. Even
pride and ill-temper could not reject such a
boon. She put her withered hand on Dora's,
and looked up in her face.

"I shall show it to you," she said. "Doctor
Richard wants it, but I would not let him see
it — not I ; but you shall see it ! "

She unlocked a square box on the floor,
fumbled in it, then drew out a velvet case,
which she opened, but jealously kept in her
hand. Dora might look, but by no means
touch. This treasure, which was a treasure
indeed, was an ancient and exqjysite enamel
portrait. It showed Dora a young girl in all
the bloom and radiance of youth, and with
hair of a golden brown.

" Yes," said Nanette, as Dora gave a little
start, " it is like you ; you have the same hair
— I saw that at once. And she was a grr.it,
great lady, and my great-great-grandmother,
too," added Nanette, " and no one shall have
it!" she angrily continued, shutting up the

DORA.

case, and putting away the portrait hurriedly ;
" and he shall not even see it ! " she said, with
a sort of scream, meant for Doctor Richard.

" My poor old fairy ! " thought Dora, as she
left Nanette, and went down the staircase, " I
fear your luck is all for me, and that you can
keep none for yourself. Are you indeed the
descendant of that bright-looking lady in rich
blue velvet ? You may have mended the ex-
quisite point your great-great-grandmother, as
you call her, wore round her white neck, and
been -paid for your labor by the great-great-
grand-daughter of her chambermaid. And
that lady's face and mine are not unlike. I
never was so pretty, but still there is a sort of
national likeness. Who knows but the origi-
nal was the daughter of some Irish Jacobite
who came over with James Stuart ? I may be
Nanette's seventeenth cousin, for all I can tell.
And Nanette shall have milk, and eggs, and
butter, since bacon will not do, and candles,
by all means, for the sake of the grand rela-
tionship we all have in Father Adam."

She sent in her gifts at once, and that same
evening, looking up to Nanette's window, she
saw a light burning in it. The night was black
and sultry ; neither moon nor stars were out,
but it did Dora good to see that light, and to
know that the lonely old woman need not fret
her poor heart away in the darkness. When
she turned back from the window the smile on
her face was so bright, that it puzzled Mrs.
Courtenay.

" My dear, you look very happy," she said.

" Yes, I aja happy," replied Dora ; but she
said nothing about Nanette and the candles.
She would have told her mother, if Mrs. Cour-
tenay could have kept a secret from Mrs.
Luan, but that was impossible. And as it
would have been cruel to make poor Mrs.
Luan wretched by letting her know Dora's ex-
travagance, her niece kept her own counsel.

" And you look happy, too, mamma," con-
tinued Dora, approaching the table, and look-

ing over her shoulder at the cards spread upon
it. " I see you ha?e been successful."

" So successful ! " exclaimed Mrs. Cour-
tenay ; " all the cards came out. And as I
luckily did it for a wish, I am quite sure you
will get on with Monsieur Merand."

Dora laughed, and said there could be no
doubt about it.

Having procured the requisite permission,
Dora began her task the next day. The Mu-
see was a quiet place — two or three old gen-
tlemen, who had been painting there for the
last twenty years, were her only companions.
They looked as antique, and they were as si-
lent as the pictures they copied ; but for the
bright sun shining in the place below, and the
sound of carriages rolling on its stones, Dora
might have fancied herself- in some enchanted
palace. She liked this tranquillity. She liked
her task too ; and as it progressed, and she
felt that she was successful, she loved it.
With a cheerful heart she left home in the
morning ; with a sense of happiness she went
up the stone staircase and entered the rooms
where her silent friends and companions, the
pictures, were waiting for her. . With a fatigue
which was welcome, for it meant labor, suc-
cess, and money, she put by her drawing
when the day was over, and the keeper gave
out the summons to depart. Happy are the
women who have to toil for their bread in
some loved vocation. The curse of labor is
lightened for them, and sweetened into a bless-
ing. Happy they before whom the fair fields
of art lie open. Small though the harvest may
be — not unto all are plenteous crops given — it
is pure wheat, pure and good. Happy, there-
fore, was now Dora Courtenay. Monsieur Me-
rand praised the first samples of her skill, and
Dora's ta?te and judgment confirmed his ap-
proval. The results of her labor were satis-
factory in every seuse. Ere long she was in
the receipt of an income varying from ten to
fifteen pounds a month. Thanks to this un-

THE DUBOIS FAMILY.

expected piece of good fortune, comfort under
many shapes crept into their home. Mrs.
Courtenay and Mrs. Luan had their promised
silk dresses ; now and then a carriage drew
up at Madame Bertrand's door, and took her
lodgers away for the day in the lovely environs
of Rouen ; and every evening the sounds of a
piano stole out of Dora's window, and filled
the dull old street with brilliant music. The
change made her very happy. It was not
merely the money, though that was welcome,
it was also and especially the sense of leading
a useful and active life, which charmed her.
She had been poor, and she had been, if not
rich, at least in easy circumstances, but never
before this time had she earned money, never
had she felt independent, and one in the great
scheme of social life. It was a delightful feel-
ing, and the more delightful that habit and
time had not yet deadened its enjoyments and
destroyed its freshness. And thus the happy
summer stole away.

On a bright afternoon in September, Dora,
on leaving the picture-gallery, went to the
house of a poor gilder out of work, from whom
she had ordered a frame a month back for a
drawing she had undertaken on her own ac-
count. J^eeries of misfortunes had prevented
Dubois from keeping his promise. Dora had
been patient and forbearing, and generous
even, but now her patience was out, and she
entered the dark lane at the end of which
Dubois lived, prepared to bestow nothing upon
him save a severe scolding. " I shall not be
a.t all good-natured," she thought ; " but very
firm and dignified." As she came to this
austere resolve, Dora reached the gilder's
door, but when a dirty child admitted her
within, and she once more saw the poverty-
stricken aspect of the place, her heart re-
lented.

There is a terrible resemblance between all
poor homes. Place them in what latitude,
under what sky you will, they are akin in

three essential characteristics — darkness, dirt,
and dinginess ; we do not speak of exceptions,
but of the general rule. Some features, too,
they have in common to a singular degree.
Why, for instance, must the poor be every-
where so fond of poultry ? The Dubois had
three children, but they also found room -for
a white hen, which went scratching and cack-
ling about their two rooms. Dora had often
looked at that hen with a secret shudder, in-
spired by the thought that it might possibly
be killed, taken to market, and there pur-
chased by Mrs. Luan for home consumption.
" It must be such a fowl as this that she
brought home last week," thought Dora, now
watching the wretched bird as it wandered
under an old bedstead, and looked ghost-like
in that gloomy refuge ; " one should really
know more about the creatures one eats, and
what their rearing has been, for instance."

" Mademoiselle is looking at the white hen,"
said Madame Dubois, a dirty young woman.
" Catch it, Joseph, and let Mademoiselle feel
how fat it is getting."

In vain Mademoiselle protested. Joseph was
already on his knees groping under the bed-
stead ; but just as he stretched out his hand
to seize her, the white hen artfully slipped
under a chest of drawers.

" Shall I get a stick and poke her out ? "
asked Joseph, coming out from under the bed
very red in the face, and much the worse for
the dust he had found there. On hearing this
suggestion, the white hen cackled a feeble
protest, and Madame Dubois angrily promised
Joseph the best slap he had ever had in his
life if he made the attempt. Dora now ex-
pounded her errand. Madame Dubois clasped
her hands and looked piteous.

They were the most unfortunate people.
Poor Dubois had hurt his hand, his right hand,
and was gone to the chemist's to gel it dre
That was their luck.

'; Well, you are unlucky," kindly said Dora.

DORA.

" But where is the frame ? I want to see that
it is of the right size."

Madame Dubois looked despondent. They
were so unlucky that she had not liked to tell
Mademoiselle, but just as the frame was ready
to be gilt, Joseph and the hen had combined
against it, and broken it that very morning.
Dora nearly lost patience, but again pity pre-
vailed, and with a few kind, comforting words,
and a little donation, she left this abode of ill-
luck. The sight of continued misfortune is
oppressive, and Dora breathed a little sigh of
relief as she got out again into the free and
open air.

" I never knew such unlucky people," she
thought. "It is simply dreadful ; and if these
were the days of witchcraft, I should say that
the white hen was at the bottom of it. And
who knows but she is? Who knows that
sorcery has really gone by with the Middle
Ages ? What are all these grim old Gothic
monuments which have remained, but stone
legends? Why may not goblins and evil
spirits abide in their walls, as they are said to
live in waste places? Suppose one of the
frightful stone chimeras that peep down at
you from the water-spouts and buttresses,
should take a fancy to be alive, and suiting
itself to modern ideas and habits, should as-
sume a more sober shape than it received from
its Gothic carver ? Suppose, too — "

HeretDora's fancies received a sudden check.
She stood at Monsieur Merand's door, and as
she had a drawing for him in her portfolio, she
was recalled from the world in which stone be-
comes animate, to that in which drawings are
exchanged for coined gold and silver. With
a cheerful sense of labor, and reward, and use-
fuluess upon her, Miss Courtenay entered the
shop.

Monsieur Merand was not alone. That
Doctor Richard, whom we have already seen
there, was with him. He looked for his cane
as if to go, but Monsieur Merand said eagerly,

" Not without taking that engraving, Doctor
Richard — you must have it."

Dora was struck, and amused, too, at Doc-
tor Richard's look. It was both shrewd and
boyish — a school-boy look. Doctor Richard
was past thirty, yet there was fun and mis-
chief in his swarthy face, and in his dark eyes.

"I should not care to have that Doctor
Richard attending on me if I were ill," thought
Dora. " I am sure he laughs at all his patients.
Has he patients ? " she mentally added, seeing
that his clothes, though scrupulously neat and
clean, had seen some wear.

" Come, have it," urged Monsieur Merand.

" Not on those terms. Did I not tell you I
was a ruined man ? "

" Come, Doctor Richard, those mines did not
take all your money."

" They plucked some good feathers from my
wing, I can tell you."

" Mines ! has he lost in mines ? " thought
Dora. " Not our mines, I hope." For the
slender provision remaining to her mother and
aunt was invested in tin-mines in the west of
England.

Some more arguing ensued between the
dealer and his customer, but the latter prov-
ing obdurate, Monsieur Merand pu^away the
engraving, and Doctor Richard walked out of
the shop without seeming to see Dora. She
looked after him with a vague fear at her
heart. How she would have questioned him
concerning his losses if she had dared ! Mon-
sieur Merand saw her look, and he tapped his
forehead.

" A good gentleman," he said, " a very good,
humane gentleman — attends on half the poor
in Rouen for nothing — but not right there, you
know."

" He has had losses," remarked Dora.

" Yes, the news came this afternoon. I am
sorry for him, poor fellow ! "

Dora was untying the strings of her port-
folio. Her hands shook a little.

DR. RICHARD COMMUNICATES BAD NEWS.

" Pray where are those mines ? " she asked,
trying to speak carelessly.

Monsieur Merand thrust his hands in his
pockets, raised his eyebrows, and shook his
head. His answer was a doubtful one. The
mines were in England, then in Wales, then
in Cornwall. Dora, who had breathed a re-
lieved sigh, felt faint and sick again.

"I hope — I trust they are not those of
which my mother holds some shares," she
said.

Some, alas ! she might have said all that
Mrs. Courtenay possessed was thus invested.
The anxiety and distress on her countenance
struck Monsieur Merand.

" Shall I ask Doctor Richard ? " he said.

" Yes, Monsieur Merand, do, pray. It will
oblige me. It is very foolish of me to think
anything of the kind ; but we have had losses
already, and that makes me timorous."

" I shall be sure to see him this evening, or
to-morrow at the latest," continued Monsieur
Merand, " and then — why, here he is ! " he
added, breaking off as Doctor Richard re-
entered the shop.

Something in their two faces showed Doctor
Richard that they were talking of him. He
bent his full black eyes on either alternately,
and his countenance assumed a sudden look
of mistrust, not unmingled with defiance.
Monsieur Merand stood on ceremony with no
one. In a few words he exposed Miss Cour-
tenay's anxiety, and her purpose in inquiring.
No kind and courteous periphrasis marked
Doctor Richard's answer. He was a quick
and sure surgeon, and did not prolong Dora's
agony.

" The Redmore Mines," was his brief reply.

Dora turned pale ; but uttered not one word
at first. They both looked at her anxiously
and gravely.

" These are the mines," she said, at length.
After a while she added, looking at Doctor
Richard, "Will there be nothing left ? "

"Scarcely a sixpence in the pound, 1
lieve ; but no \>ne can tell yet."

It was ruin. A second ruin, deeper, fulk-r
than the first.

" God's will be done," said Dora, after an-
other pause. "Here is your drawing, Mon-
sieur Merand ! "

She gave it to him as she spoke.

"I shall want another soon," he said,
quickly.

She nodded assent, bowed to Doctor Rich-
ard, and left the shop without uttering an-
other word. She could not speak, her heart
was full, and her brain as yet felt too dizzy
for thought.

There is a terrible kind of poverty ; the
poverty of the millions, who, being used to it
from their birth, luckily do not see it in all its
horrors ; the poverty which the narrowest
plank, which the frailest barrier divides from
the deep, dark gulf of want. That poverty
Dora had never known. She had been reared
on a slender income ; but she ever felt safe in
her little cage, and had no conception of the
life led by such as have to shift in the wilder-
ness, and are not sure, when they go to bed
at night, that there shall be bread for them
on the morrow. To, lose the nine-tenths of
her income was nothing, whilst the tenth,
which was strictly sufficient, remained unto
her. But to lose that, to have to face a
second poverty, grim and bare as the first,
and far more pitiless than it had ever been,
filled her with a sort of horror — not for her
own sake merely, but for that of the beings
whom she loved.

" My poor mother ! My poor aunt ! " she

thought when she could think.

She was standing on the place, with the
massive gloom of Notre Dame hanging over
her. She entered the grand old church. She
wanted to be calm ere she faced them at
home; the dim light, the cool atmosphere,
the faint breath of incense, the vastness

DORA.

the seclusion of this Christian home of souls,
lulled the brief storm of her soul to rest.
After all, she could work, she could earn ;
she was young, and had energy. She was
thrown on Providence, and Providence was
thereby bound to take care of her, and those
who were dear to her. She was now like one
of those birds of the air whose fleetness and
freedom she had so often envied. There was
nothing in store for her ; like them she was to
live in boundless trust, neither hoping nor
despairing.

Dora's heart beat as she came to this con-
clusion. She was a brave girl, and now that
the first shock was over, she could meet her
new lot, and look it in the face. Besides,
there was consolation in all its bitterness.
Her eyes sought the gravestone with its Re-
quiescat. It was too dark to read it ; but she
knew it was there, and her heart was full as
she thought —

" Poor Paul ! he is best at rest, after all !
Best in Glasnevin, away from all these trou-
bles, which would have bowed him down so
heavily. He need fear no care, no burden
now. Toil is over for bim. He has got his
wages. That is the meaning of the old Latin
word Requiescat ! May he rest ! Is life such
a trouble and a toil, that repose must needs
be man's dearest wish to the dead ? And now
I must go in and tell them, poor things, and
see tears, and hear lamentations."

She left the church and went home, and
never, if the truth must be confessed, never
had she felt so arrant a coward as when she
went lip the staircase. She heard them talk-
ing within. Mrs. Courtenay's tones had their
usual airy cheerfulness, and even Mrs. Luan's
husky voice told Dora, by it3 briskness, that
her aunt was in a good humor.

" I dare say they have "had a letter from
John," thought Dora, with a sigh ; and, feel-
ing like a culprit, she entered the room. She
did not delay one second — she could not.

" I have had such strange news," she said?
looking at them wistfully ; " not good news, I
confess, but I hope you will take it well, and
remember that I am young and can work, and
that Monsieur Merand means to go on employ-
ing me."

" News ! — what news ? " asked Mrs. Courte-
nay, amazed.

" Our shares in the Redmore Mines are
worthless," answered Dora, in a low voice;
and she gave them the few particulars of the
catastrophe which she knew.

Dora bad been prepared for her mother's
grief and her aunt's consternation, but she had
not expected to fiud them both incredulous.
Yet so they were. Mrs. Luan said, with some
excitement :

" It is not true — the mines are good ! " And
she took up and put down her patchwork in
evident emotion.

Mrs. Courtenay was still more positive.

" My dear," she said, good-humoredly, " if
this were true, we should know it ,as well as
that Doctor Dick—"

" Doctor Richard," interrupted Dora.

" Doctor Richard," placidly resumed Mrs.
Courtenay, " can scarcely have means of in-
formation denied to us. Besides, I dare say
he was entertaining himself at your expense,
child."

Dora looked very earnestly at her mother.

" If you had seeu him and heard him speak,
mamma," she said, "you could scarcely con-
nect the idea of a foolish jest with that man ;
still less would you think it likely that he
should or could be mistaken about a thing he
asserts so positively as this."

Mrs. Courtenay looked slightly disturbed.

" Why, what is he like ? " she asked.

"A gentleman — a real gentleman, I mean.
Yes, truly, a real gentleman ; though almost
shabbily dressed."

" I don't believe him- — he is a liar ! " excit
cdly said Mrs. Luan.

SAD THOUGHTS.

" He looks one straight in the face, aunt."

" But, my dear, you know nothing about
him," urged her mother.

"I have seen him, mamma, and both his
appearance and manner are remarkable."

" Is he handsome ? "

" Not at all. Indeed, he is dark and rather
plain. I feel pretty sure that he comes from
the south."

" Then he is an Irishman ! "

" Yes — at least I think so."

" I don't believe it," again put in Mrs.
Luan ; " Richard is not an Irish name — he is
a liar ! "

But Dora noticed that her hand shook so
that she could not thread her needle.

" I am not sure he is Irish," she resumed,
" but his countenance makes me think he is.
Whatever his country may be, his face is that
of a generous, warm-hearted man, and, I will
add, of an upright one."

Mrs. Courtenay said innocently :

" My dear, how you must have looked at
him to see all that in his face ! "

" I did indeed look at him," replied Dora,
gravely. " When he uttered this terrible
news, I looked at him as I seldom look at peo-
ple, mamma. But you see it was Destiny, our
Fate, that was speaking. He seemed sorry,
very sorry for me, but he softened and miti-
gated nothing. I do not think he could do so
even if he wished it — the truth is too strong
for him."

They both looked at her with some sur-
prise. She was pale, but grave and collected.
The blow had fallen on her, but it had not
crushed her ; and though she felt it still, she
was already rallying from its effects. They
exchanged alarmed looks. Was it, could it
be true ?

" But if the money is lost, what shall we
do ? " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, raising her
voice, and clasping her hands in terror.

" Monsieur Merand asks me for another

drawing," said Dora; "besides, I shall try
and get some teaching."

" I shall write to Mr. Dcrring at once ! "
cried Mrs. Courtenay, much agitated. "As
my solicitor, he must know the truth."

" It is too late for the post to-day, mamma.
I dare say we shall know the truth to-mor-
row."

But it was very plain that concerning that
truth Dora herself felt no doubt. The dreary
certainty had entered her soul in Monsieur
Merand's shop, and could leave it no more.

They spent a melancholy evening. Mrs.
Courtenay took out her cards, and tried the
favorite patience of His Majesty Louis Dix-
huit, but she changed color ere she had gone
half through it. She had placed an omen
upon it, and whether the cards would not
come right, or whether — what was just as
likely — Mrs. Courtenay's disturbed mind would
not let her take advantage of the chances of
the game, it was plain that the residt would
have been a cruel " no " to her secret hopes.
So she would not trust fate, but mixed up the
cards hurriedly, and put them away with a
frightened look that went to Dora's heart. It
was a relief to her when she retired to her
room for the night. As she closed her win
dow, which had remained open, she looked up
to Nanette's, where a light was burning.

" My poor little fairy," she thought, " that
light of yours has often cheered me, and done
me good, for poor though I am, it showed me
I was not powerless. And now, must I bid
you be careful and sparing of your poor rush-
light, or, saddest of all, give up my little
bounty because I can afford it no longer ! "

These were not cheerful thoughts, and Dora
felt depressed as she sat on the edge of her
bed, and looked at the story of the patient
Griselidis on the'faded curtains.

"She worked for her living, to 1"' Bure,"
thought Dora, as she examined the prim figure
standing with its spindle and distaff by the

DORA.

cottage door, " but did she ever know the
cruel doubt and fear which are upon me now ?
She had always wool to spin, I suppose, that
patient Griselidis. Was there a time when
she thought of sitting empty-handed, with
nothing to do, and therefore nothing to earn ?
God help us ! If those shares are really lost,
are we three to be dependent on my drawings,
and on Monsieur Merand ? John will do
something for his mother, poor fellow ! — but
what can he do? Oh! how weak and un-
grateful I was all this time, complaining that
I led a dull life, forsooth, and not appreciating
the inestimable blessing of security and inde-
pendence, mean and humble though both
were ! I fear no labor, no drudgery ; but
what if these should fail me, and with them
honest livelihood ! If I had been sinking at
sea, or shut in by flames from all help, that
Doctor Eichard could scarcely have looked
more compassionate than he did. He seemed
struck with pity. I dare say my face told him
it was ruin ! ruin ! — cruel ruin ! — irrevocable
ruin ! God help me ! what shall we do ? "

Once more a sort of despair filled her heart,
but it soon passed away. Hope and a natu-
rally brave spirit chased the cowardly feeling,
and bade it begone.

" I will be brave — I will be strong ! " thought
Dora, proudly, " and, with God's help, we shall
have the needful."

She went to bed and slept — slept soundly,
even. But Mrs. Courtenay's slumbers were
agitated and broken, and Mrs. Luan's eyes did
not close once through the whole of that long
night.

CHAPTER XII.

TnE two elder ladies were anxiously waiting
for post-time. Dora was calm. She needed
no confirmation to her knowledge of the
worst. " We must bear it," she thought, re-

ducing into practice the lessons of Epictetus.
" The rest matters little."

That " rest," which she thus dismissed, was
much to the two elder women. They denied
its existence, yet waited for its coming with
fear and trembling. What if those Redmore
Mines should indeed prove as treacherous as
Dora's four hundred a year ! We all know
that sorrows come not singj^. These dark
sisters are in a league against man, and when
one has done with him, she calls another to
fill her vacant place by the stricken hearth.
Well may people in trouble be gloomy. They
know that, though one misfortune is gone, the
other is surely coming. But it is hard to feel
a butt for Fate, so against that knowledge
Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan both rebelled.

" I am sure the postman has gone by,"
triumphantly said Mrs. Courtenay.

She had been looking out of the window for
the postman during the last hour. She now
looked again, and to her dismay saw him
turning the corner of the street. At once she
drew in her frightened face, and sat down,
pale and expectant. Mrs. Luan looked scared,
and turned rather yellow. Dora put down
her sewing, and waited patiently. A ring was
heard at the door below.

"It is the baker," murmured Mrs. Cour-
tenay.

A step came up the stairs — a discreet tap at
their door followed.

" Come in," faintly said Mrs. Courtenay.

The door opened, and Madame Bertrand
entered the room, with a blue foolscap letter,
an English letter, in her hand. She came in
smiling and nodding. English letters were
always welcome to her lodgers.

" Here it is," she said, still nodding. " ' How
pleased the ladies will be,' I said to the post-
man ; ' they have not had one for such a time.'
1 Well, then,' he replied, ' they will not mind
paying the extra postage; it is written on
thick paper, and overweight, you see.' So I

ILLNESS OF MES. COURTENAY.

paid him the twenty-four sous," continued
Madame Bertrand.

Dora put her hand in her pocket, paid the
money, and took the letter. Madame Bertrand
withdrew, unconscious of the desolation she
had left behind her.

" Read it, Dora — I cannot," said poor Mrs.
Courtenay.

Dora obeyed and read. They heard her in
death-like silence, Their little all was gone,
their little hoard had been swallowed in the
great wreck ; they were left, two white-haired
helpless women, dependent on a girl. Dora's
tears flowed at the sight of their silent grief.

" Dear mamma, dear aunt," she said, look-
ing from one to the other, " I am young, and
I can work. It is Providence that sent me to
Monsieur Merand's shop. And I like draw-
ing — I did it for pleasure as much as for
money ; if he will but continue and take my
sketches, we can live on my earnings. Be-
sides, can I not teach English or music, or do
a hundred things? As to that, can I not
sew ? "

But age has not the elasticity of youth.
Ruin was before Mrs. Courtenay and her
sister-in-law, and they could see nothing else.
Dora's voice fell on their ear without a note
of hope or comfort in it. It sounded idle, far
away and dull, and left the bitter truth in all
its bitterness. In vain she tried to console
them — she failed, and each rejected her well-
meant efforts after her own fashion. Mrs.
Luan by a silent, moody motion of her hand,
and heavy, averted looks ; Mrs. Courtenay by
pitiful lamentations, ending in sobs and tears.

There is something very grievous in the de-
spair of age. Childhood and youth have their
passionate griefs, but we know that the Siren
Hope keeps many a sweet lure in store for
either. The old she deserts without pity; let
them suffer, their troubles at the best will be
brief, and there is a cure for all sorrows be-
neath the green sod. Rest is there, and

silence, and with both a balm to every earthly
grief; is it worth while for that bright, fair-
haired Hope to take thought of them? To
Dora she was prodigal of promises in this sad
hour. A national gallery would scarcely have
held all the drawings she held up to her view.
Bags full of silver five- franc pieces, rouleaux
of gold, blue bank-notes, this gay young god-
dess held in either of her white hands. Dora's
courage was but the fast belief in future good
rising out of this present woe. Of work and
money she felt sure ; but she vainly tried to
impart her certainty to her mother.

"No, no," despondently said Mrs. Courte-
nay ; " I dare say Monsieur Merand will be like
the Redmore Mines, and we shall all starve ! —
all starve !" she added, rocking herself to and
fro in her chair.

Dora thought at first that as her mother's
grief was loud, it would be soon over — sooner,
perhaps, than that of Mrs. Luan, who sat silent
and moody, like a yellow statue of despair ;
but it was not so. Mrs. Luan rallied a little,
and grew less torpid as the day passed; whilst
Mrs. Courtenay became more and more ex-
citable. She had borne, with great resigna-
tion, with a sort' of cheerfulness, indeed, the
loss of Dora's four hundred a year, but noth-
ing a year threw her into a sort of distraction
over which Dora found that she was power-
less. Mrs. Courtenay cried the whole day, re-
fused to eaf, and when she at lengfb. went to
bed, it was not to sleep, but to fret and moan.
Dora became uneasy, and that uneasiness rose
to alarm when, on entering her mother's room
to see if she was sleeping, she found Mrs.
Courtenay sitting up in her bed, talking aloud
and at random.

It had not seemed to Dora before this that
grief in one of her mother's excitable tempera-
ment might be dangerous. But now the con-
viction that it could be so rushed to her mind
with terrible force, and conquered her equa-
nimity.

DORA.

" Aunt ! " she cried, going back to Mrs.
Luan in their little sitting-room, "stay with
mamma ; I must go for a doctor."

She hastily put on her bonnet and ran down-
stairs to Madame Bertrand. She found her in
her chair snoring comfortably, -whilst the gray
Angola cat, gathered up in a demure attitude
on the table by her mistress, was purring in
unison. The lamp burned unused, for though
Madame Bertrand's spectacles were on her
nose, and a half-mended stocking was on her
left hand, the good lady was, as we said, fast
asleep. It was but a little Dutch picture of
domestic comfort ; yet that homely woman in
the homely room, with the brown old furniture
and the ancient clock ticking behind the door,
gave Dora a brief, sharp pang. Oh ! to be so
once more, with health and humble comfort,
and the sweetest of human blessings, a bless-
ing, indeed, which is more of Heaven than of
earth — dear, happy peace !

Madame Bertrand was not very fast asleep —
only dozing, as she said when on awakening
she saw Dora standing before her; and she
good-humoredly asked to know her young
lodger's pleasure.

" My mother is ill," replied Dora, " and I
want a doctor."

Madame Bertrand stared.

"111! "she exclaimed, amazed. "Then we
must have the English doctor — Dr. Richard."

Dora could not help giving a little start. She
did not want Doctor Richard ; she herself could
not have said why.

" Is he a good doctor ? " she asked doubt-
fully — " a very good one, I mean ? "

" Good ! " screamed Madame Bertrand ;
" why, did he not save Madame Bernard's
cbilil that was black in the face ! And when
poor Monsieur Lcgrand had that brain fever,
did lie not get him through — only is he within
now? He would be the greatest doctor in
Rouen if he were not always nobody knows
where."

" Then let us go for some one else," hur-
riedly said Dora ; " I must lose no time."

" I shall go with you to Doctor Richard's,"
Madame Bertrand good-naturedly proposed ;
" and if he is not within, we can only go to
Doctor Merson — but I have no great faith in
Mm," she added, with an ominous shake of the
head.

They went out together. The night was fine,
but cool. The chill air did Dora good, and
helped to calm her.

" I dare say it is only a little natural excite-
ment," she thought, already rallying from her
fears ; " still, I shall be glad to have advice.
I hope that Doctor Richard is a good doctor ? "

And she asked if he lived far away.

" This is the house," answered Madame Ber-
trand, stopping before a low and very old man-
sion. Dora knew that house well. It stood
next to that in which Nanette lived. She
passed it daily on her way to the Musee. She
knew that gray facade, that low arched door,
those grated windows on the ground-floor.
Once she had seen the door open, and caught
a glimpse of a green court with mildewed walls,
an old shattered fountain, and a heap of sculp-
tured rubbish ; but Doctor Richard, or indeed
any one, she had never seen about the
place.

" He is within," said Madame Bertrand ; she
looked up at the first-floor windows as she
spoke — they were curtainless. Dora saw a
light passing from room to room, but she could
not see who carried it.

" Does Doctor Richard live here ? " she in-
quired, as her companion rang the bell, which
gave a loud dismal peal in the empty rooms
within.

"Not always; but, poor gentleman! he'
spends all his money in buying old things, and
he stows them away here, you see."

The light vanished from the windows above,
a step was heard coming down the staircase,
and presently the door opened, and Dora saw

THE DOCTOR'S VISIT.

Doctor Richard with his hat on and a light in
his hand. She saw him, but he did not see
her. He only saw Madame Bertrand, behind
whom she stood, in the darkness of the street.

" Well ! " he said, with good-humored as-
peiity. "Who is ill? Who is dying now,
just to vex me and keep me in Rouen to-
night ? "

" No one is dying, I hope, Monsieur Rich-
ard," replied Madame Bertrand, curtsying ;
" but Mademoiselle's mamma is very poorly,
so we came for you."

Doctor Richard moved bis 1 light till it fell on
Dora's face; bis look showed that he recog-
nized her, but he betrayed no other token of
previous acquaintance. He extinguished the
candle, put it away on the last step of the
staircase, then walked out, locking' the door
behind him. It was plain he lived alone in
that dreary old mansion.

" How strange and sharp he looks," thought
Dora to whom that night aspect of Doctor
Richard's dark face gave a very different im-
pression from that which she had received in
Monsieur Merand's shop! "I hope he is a
good doctor. I fear he is a wilful one."

At first Doctor Richard walked up the street
before them. Then suddenly slackening his
pace, he stayed by Dora's side, and began
questioning her. How long had her mother
been ill, and what were the symptoms ?

" She got bad news this morning," replied
Dora ; " news which agitated her, and she is
slightly delirious now. It is this that frightens
me."

" There is probably no cause for alarm," he
composedly replied, "though there may be
6onie for care."

He spoke no more, and when they reached
the house he followed her up-stairs to her
mother's room, without uttering a word.

" Mamma, I have brought Doctor Richard to
see you," said Dora, going up to her mother.
" My dear, we cannot afford doctors now,"

answered Mrs. Courtenay, excitedly. " They
are expensive, you know. Besides, that is not
Doctor Richard."

" Yes, it is ! " he good-humoredly replied in
English, and at the same time sitting down by
her, and taking her hand to feel her pulse, " I
am not merely Doctor Richard, but your close
neighbor, don't you know that ? "

The sick lady gave him a puzzled look, and
then, with a wearied sigh, she let her upraised
head sink back on her pillow. Doctor Richard
looked at her very attentively ; he leaned back
in his chair at the foot of the bed, and scanned
her features with the closest scrutiny, seeming
in no hurry either to speak or to move. Mrs.
Luan stared at him amazed, whilst Dora
watched him with breathless suspense. At
length he rose and looked for his hat.

" Is there nothing to be done, sir ? " asked
Dora.

"Not yet," he replied, "but you may as
well sit up with her. I shall call again in an
hour or so, and then I shall know better how
to act."

Dora followed him out of the room.

" There is no cause for alarm, sir, is there ? "
she asked, detaining him at the head of the
staircase.

" Not that I know of; but, to tell you the
truth, I do not know what is the matter with
this lady, and I do not wish to prescribe until
I have such knowledge. I shall call round in
an hour or so."

" But my mother canno,t be very ill ! " urged
Dora. " She was so well this morning."

" I do not think she is very ill," he answered,
quietly ; " but it is to feel sure of it that I
shall come again."

He left her, and Dora, much relieved, re-
turned to her mother's room. But the relief
was only momentary. As she sal and listened
to Mrs. Courtenay's gentle wanderings, and
looked at her flushed face, a subtle bat sicken-
ing fear crept to her heart. What if the blow

DORA.

had been too severe ? What if the terror of
poverty had irremediably shaken a mind of
no great strength ? For it was a cruel — a
very cruel blow. She need only look at Mrs.
Loan's dull, heavy face, at her vacant eyes,
and hands idly clasped on her lap, and see
bow that blow had told on her. She tried to
rouse her a little.

" Do not look so, aunt," she said, going to
her chair and bending over it, " take your
patchwork and cheer up. Mamma will get
well, and John will help us, and I shall draw
for Mons. Merand, and all will be right again."

" We shall give a party next week," here
said Mrs. Courtenay, "and your aunt shall
wear a yellow dress, Dora."

Mrs. Luan smiled grimly.

" She thinks me foolish ! " she said, " does
she ? Eh ? "

She was evidently triumphing in her superior
wisdom. Dora's eyes grew dim as she looked
toward the bed.

" Some people look wise and are silly," con-
tinued Mrs. Luan, with a nod. " Oh ! dear,
how hot my head is ! "

She took off her cap as she spoke, and flung
it to the other end of the room.

There was no comfort to receive there, no
comfort, either, to administer. Dora returned
to her mother's bedside.

" It is a party, a beautiful party," resumed
Mrs. Courtenay : " only where is Paul ? You
must dance with Paul, Dora. Pity you are
brother and sister — I should have liked you
to marry Paul. So accomplished — such a gen-
tleman ! "

"Do listen to her!" scornfully said Mrs.
Luan, still seeming to triumph in her superi-
ority. Then she gave a start, and added ab-
ruptly, " That's the death-watch ! "

Dora felt almost angry.

"That is Madame Bertrand's great clock
ticking," she replied, warmly. " I wonder at
you, aunt ! "

Mrs. Luan stared at her without replying.
Then she rose, picked up her cap, put it on,
after shaking it, and, to Dora's relief, went to
her own room. She remained alone with her
mother, looking at her, listening to her in
troubled silence. The evening, the house, the
street, all seemed preternaturally still, but Ma-
dame Bertrand's clock was awfully distinct.

" How cruel of aunt to say that ! " thought
Dora ; " but, poor thing, she knows no better.
Why do I listen to that foolish old clock ? It
is a hundred years old, at least, and is in its
dotage — why, then, do I mind it ? "

Why is superstition, latent in the human
heart, ready to start forth at the first call of
sorrow ? Oh ! what a relief it was when a
ring was heard below, when the street-door
opened, and Doctor Eichard's step came up
the staircase ! A relief, yet Dora's heart beat
so with sudden fear, that she could scarcely
rise to receive him when he entered the room.
Without speaking he went and took the chair
she had left vacant. He sat down again, and
he looked at Mrs. Courtenay with the closest
attention. Dora stood at the head of the bed,
looking at him with an intent gaze. Years
afterward she could have drawn his face from
memory as she saw it on this evening, so keen,
so watchful was the look she bent upon him
then. Doctor Richard was not very young,
and he was not at all handsome. He was still
in the prime and strength of life, but he was
plain and dark. He had a broad, massive fore-
head, strongly-marked eyebrows, and fine but
very piercing eyes. Some sternness there was
in the upper portion of his face, but a hand-
some, genial mouth redeemed it from any-
thing like coldness. With all this his was a
perplexing countenance, perhaps, because it
was one of many contrasts, and, therefore, not
easily read. Intellect it expressed and power
tempered by good-humor ; but with these at-
tractive«gifts there were others which qualified
them. Doctor Richard looked like a man of

HIS FRIENDSHIP.

strong passions, and especially like one with
whom anger is both quick and vehement. He
might be, and probably he was, warm-hearted,
but he was certainly very warm-tempered.

Dora looked, not to observe all this, though
many a time later she remembered and con-
strued every one of these signs, but to read
in that dark, expressive face the fate of her
sick mother. Doctor Richard remained long
silent. "When he spoke at length, it was to say,

"lam just as much puzzled as before."

He spoke with a candor rare in medical
men. They cannot afford it. Their patients
expect them to be endowed with Godlike in-
fallibility, and woe be to them if by word'or
look they disappoint the preposterous expec-
tation ! But Doctor Richard did not seem to
care much for the reputation of his profes-
sional skill. For without giving Dora time to
reply, he continued, " I cannot tell yet. Will
you let me sit an hour here and wait ? "

" Certainly ; but it is robbing you of a
night's sleep, sir."

" Not it. I can read, you know."

He took a book out of his pocket as he
spoke, and was soon intent upon its contents.
The door of the inner room opened ere long,
and Mrs. Luan came forth ; but Doctor Richard
only 'turned a page without looking round.
Mrs. Luan sat dowD not far from him, and
still Doctor Richard was, or seemed to be, un-
conscious of her presence. Thus all three sat
in painful silence, whilst Mrs. Courtenay ut-
tered some flighty remark every now and
then.

"Dora," she once exclaimed, eagerly, "is
everything safe ? "

" Yes, mamma, quite safe."
"I mean the money. Because, you see,
Mr. Brown is in the room."

She looked significantly at Doctor Richard,
who raised his eyes, gave a little start of sur-
prise, and even colored sligh tly. Dorj blushed
and explained hastily :

" Mr. Brown was our banker, and we unfor-
tunately lost some money through him," she
said ; " so — "

" Mrs. Courtenay connects me with him,"
said Doctor Richard, without letting her go on ;
" pray do not apologize."

" Mr. Brown was a rogue ! " remarked Mrs.
Luan, staring at Doctor Richard, who returned
the look with interest.

Dora, much perplexed and confused, said
nothing. Doctor Richard preserved the great-
est composure, and resumed his reading. A
book lay on the table — Dora took it up. It
was " Epictetus." Never, alas ! had her mind
felt less inclined to receive the stoic's teaching
than it felt then. How hard, how cold, how
heartless it all seemed ! She compelled her-
self to read, indeed, but half the time she found
no meaning in the words before her. Ever and
anon her eyes wandered from the page to Doc-
tor Richard, and every time they did so, they
found, on their way, the face of Mrs. Luan,
sitting in the gloomy part of the room, and
staring at the stranger with that fixed stare
which one sometimes sees in animals when a
guest toward whom they feel but half friendly
is present. That look, of which Doctor Rich-
ard was, or chose to seem, unconscious, added
to Dora's nervousness. She could read no
more — her anxiety was too great ; and still
time passed, and still Doctor Richard read on,
and showed no inclination to go.

Suddenly a church clock struck the hour —
two of the morning ; then a few minutes later
another clock took up the tale, and another
again — for a whole quarter of an hour it was
two. Dora sat no longer reading, but, with
her cheek resting on the palm of her hand, and
her elbow on the table. " Will be never go?
— will he never speak ? " she thoughl ; and she
looked toward him almost entreatingly.

This time Doctor Richard saw her. He had
half closed his book on his knee, and bending
a little forward, he was looking at her keenly

DORA.

and intently. If she bad b'een a picture or a
statue, bis gaze could not have been a more
fixed one than it" was.

" How is she ? — What is it ? " whispered
Dora, rising, and going up to him, for such a
look, she thought, could have but one mean-
ing.

Mrs. Courtenay had fallen into a gentle
sleep. Dora's expressive eyes asked : " Is this
good ? " And Doctor Richard nodded and
smiled, put his book in his pocket, and rose to
go. He was silent, and Dora, taking the bint,
let him out without speaking.

" Well, sir ? " she said eagerly, as soon as
the door was closed upon them, and they stood
on the landing.

"Well," he replied, "I know all about it

now, and Mrs. Courtenay sleeps without an

opiate, which I did not dare to give her. I

believe she will be well in a few days ; but if,

♦
as I fear, mental uneasiness be at the root of

her disease, pray do all you can to compose

her."

Poor Dora! this threw her back on her al-
most forgotten trouble. Doctor Richard saw
her eyes grow dim, and her lips quiver. But
he could do or say nothing, and be merely bade
her a good-night.

" Good-night, sir," said Dora, following him
down ; " I thank you much, very much — will
you come again?"

He seemed surprised at the suggestion.

" Of course I shall," lie said — " there, do not
come down any further — I can let myself out ;
the night air is keen."

But Dora would follow him to the street
door, and even bold the light for him down
the street. He walked away a few steps, then
came back.

'• You Heed not sit up with Mrs. Courtenay,"
he said. " I feel quite sure of her now. Good-
night."

ne held out his hand. Dora gave him«hers,
and thanked him again. He pressed her hand,

and that with so cordial, so friendly a grasp,
that as he walked away and Dora closed the
door upon him, she thought, with some emo-
tion, " I am sure Doctor Richard is a friend."
And so he was — a fast, true friend to her.
Such a friend as life grants to few.

CHAPTER XIII.

When Dora softly entered her mother's
room the next morning, she found Mrs. Cour-
tenay still sleeping. Her head lay on her pil-
low, her bands were clasped, and in the sub-
dued light, which stole in horizontal rays
through the closed shutters, she looked so
cahn, so peaceful, that Dora's last apprehen-
sions vanished as by enchantment. Her face
was radiant when she went forth into the lit-
tle sitting-room, and there found Madame Ber-
tram!, who brought the intimation that Mon-
sieur Merand was below.

"Ask him to come up," whispered Dora,
" but tell him my mother has been ill and that
Ave must speak low." *

Presently Monsieur Merand came up on
tip-toe, and with many whispered apologies for
troubling mademoiselle, be told bis errand.

In her distress at the unexpected catas-
trophe of the Redmore Mines, Dora had left
her portfolio behind her. This Monsieur Me-
rand now brought back, but not without hav-
ing, as he confessed, first inspected its con-
tents. His own drawing he bad found, also
Dora's copy of Keyser's music-lesson, and
concerning this he now ventured to speak.
With an air of diffident yet injured candor, he
asked to know if Dora had been working for
any other dealer. Her freedom to do so Mon-
sieur Merand never questioned, but then he
could assure her that she would find him as
liberal as any other member of the trade.

"Now, with regard to that drawing of
Keyser's," be added, in his most insinuating

M. MERAND AND THE DRAWING.

tone, " I should like it much if it were not
secured."

" It is not," honestly replied Dora, and in
the fulness of her heart she was going to add
that Monsieur Merand was welcome to it, when
the door opened and Doctor Richard entered
the room. Dora forgot the dealer and the
drawing in a moment.

" Mamma is sleeping," she said, eagerly —
" is that a good sign, Doctor Richard ? "

" A very good sign," he answered, smiling.

" I believe, however, she will soon waken."

" Then I shall wait till she does."

He took a chair, and put down his hat. He
evidently did not think that Dora's business
with Monsieur Merand could be of a private
nature. The portfolio lay open on the table,
the drawing was displayed to Doctor Richard's
view, and he unceremoniously bent forward to
see it better.

" What a fine drawing ! " he exclaimed — " is
that yours, Miss Courtenay ? "

" It is," she replied, blushing a little, " and
Monsieur Merand wants to purchase it from
me."

But either Doctor Richard's entrance, or his
praise of Dora's performance, had changed
Monsieur Merand's mood, for he looked super-
ciliously at the drawing, put forth his nether
lip, afid said, curtly:

" Yes, I want a drawing that size ; but this
is not one of your best efforts, mademoi-
selle?"

Dora changed color. Was Monsieur Me-
rand going to turn critical in the hour when
she most needed his admiration ?

" Nonsense, Monsieur Merand ! " put in Doc-
tor Richard — " that is a first-rate drawing."

"Not in my opinion," dryly said Monsieur
Merand, thrusting his hands into his pockets,
and looking rather defiantly at his customer.

" I cannot do better," said Dora, with a
wistful look.

Monsieur Merand looked at the drawing

again, and grumbled something about being in
a hurry, and not being able to help himself.
Dora felt mortified, but necessity is a hard
mistress, and this was not the time to revolt
against Monsieur Merand's criticism, however
harsh and unpleasant it might be.

" And what do you expect for this ? " he
asked, after a while.

Dora hesitated.

" Say two hundred francs," suggested Mon-
sieur Merand, cavalierly.

Before Dora could answer, Doctor Richard
interfered.

" I suppose you mean four hundred," he
said, very coolly.

"Doctor Richard," hotly answered Monsieur
Merand, " do I meddle in your business ? — do
I go and prescribe for your patients ? "

" My dear sir, would my patients follow
your prescriptions ? " was the amused reply.

"Well, then, I decline to submit to your
interference, Doctor Richard ! I will give
mademoiselle two hundred francs — that and
no more."

" And I will engage, by sending that draw-
ing to a house I know in London, to get her,
if not four hundred francs for it, at least thiee
hundred and fifty."

Doctor Richard spoke confidently ; Monsieur
Merand looked blank.

" I cannot help myself," he said at length,
and speaking very sullenly. "I will give
mademoiselle the three hundred and fifty
francs. I do not gain a franc by the transac-
tion — not one," he added, with an injured
look.

Doctor Richard chuckled, and seemed exces-
sively amused.

" I declare it is better than a play to hear
you!" he said, good-humoredly. "Only to
think of your wanting to pass off these tricks
upon me, Monsieur Merand '. "

Monsieur Merand looked as if he did not
know whether to be entertained or angry at

DORA.

the cool tone in which his customer addressed
him. He took the wisest course, however, and,
not deigning to answer him, be turned to
Dora> to whom he said, very civilly — " When
may I have the drawing, mademoiselle ? "

" I should like to give it a few last touches ;
and if my mother is so far well that I can
leave her, I shall work at it to-day, Monsieur
Merand."

" Then I hope she will be well," he said,
a little crossly. " Good-morning ;" and with
the look of a conquered man, he left the
room.

Dora turned toward Doctor Richard. Her
beaming face expressed her thanks before they
were spoken. He gave her no time to utter a
word.

" Do not," he said, quickly. " You would
not have had me stand by and see you robbed ?
Why, your drawing is worth more than the
sum I have stated."

" I cannot understand it," replied Dora,
looking perplexed ; " I never knew I was so
clever ; but however that may be, I do cor-
dially thank you. "Money is invaluable to me
just now,. Doctor Richard."

He nodded gravely, as much as to say,
"Ah! yes, I know — the Redmore Mines;"
and as he heard Mrs. Courtenay talking to
Mrs. Luan within, he asked if he could not
see her. Dora went in before him, then came
back and signed him to follow her.

Mrs. Courtenay was sitting up in her bed.
She looked calm and collected ; and, indeed,
was so far recovered, that Doctor Richard's
presence startled and surprised her. At
once she looked to her daughter for explana-
tion.

"You have been quite unwell, mamma,"
said Dora, smiling, " and Doctor Richard, who
is our neighbor, called in to see you. And
what do you think mamma, Monsieur Merand
came a quarter of an hour ago to ask me for a
drawing from one of the pictures in 'the Gal-

lery. And he is in a desperate hurry for it.
So do make haste and get well."

" And the Redmore Mines," said Mrs. Cour-
tenay, plaintively ; " I did not dream that, did
I, Dora?"

" No, indeed, you did not. But the Red-
more Mines are here now," she added, gayly,
showing her little right hand. " You must
know, mamma, that I am quite clever. Doc-
tor Richard has been looking at my last draw-
ing whilst you slept, and he thinks that Mon-
sieur Merand scarcely pays me enough. He
advises me to raise my terms, and," continued
Dora, suddenly dropping the present for the
past tense, " I have done it ; for he spoke op-
posite Monsieur Merand himself, who could
not deny it, and gave me nearly a hundred
per cent, more at once. So what do you think
of all that ? "

Mrs. Courtenay, scarcely able to think at
all, looked both confused and happy. She also
looked grateful, and her mild blue eyes were
raised to Doctor Richard's face, with an ex-
pression he could not mistake. He smiled
kindly, and sitting down by her bedside, en-
tered into conversation with her. He attacked
the Redmore Mines at once, and put the mat-
ter in a cheerful and airy point of view, which
happened to be particularly suited to Mrs.
Courtenay's turn of mind.

" Such catastrophes," said Doctor Richard,
" are like the railway accidents and steamboat
collisions, the only variety of modern life. The
ups and downs formerly were of another na-
ture. Beautiful ladies were not safe for a
moment, especially when they were wealthy,
but were the lawful prey of the king, his fa-
vorites, and his powerful subjects. As to
men, the strong hand was the right sort of
hand then. Themis had not merely her
eyes bandaged, but fast closed in sleep. Every
man had to be his own policeman, and, as a
natural consequence, his own judge and jury.
This variety of occupations must, to say the

THE DISHONEST GILDER.

least of it, have made a gentleman irritable,
and accounts for many little peculiarities of
those days which would otherwise be inexpli-
cable to our modem ideas. And now, you see,
all that is done, for lovers do not kidnap heir-
esses, but companies wheedle them out of
their gold. Robin Hood or Claude Duval

neither put bishops to ransom, nor dance min-
uets with fine ladies on the highway ; but for
all that, money flies out of our pockets by a
magical process called high interest. Sad,-
very sad, Mrs. Courtenay, only, you know, we
are not born with pockets."

" Dear me, to be sure not ! " cried Mrs.
Courtenay, much struck with the fact, which
had never occurred to her before ; " that is a
very original remark, Doctor Richard."

" It is none of mine," he answered, smiling ;
" but it is full of philosophy. So let us bear
with this catastrophe, which we cannot mend,
and let us bless our stars that it is not the
destruction of life or limb, as it might be if it
occurred through a railway or a steamer. Loss
of money is, after all, the least of the three
modern evils."

" I think so," said Mrs. Courtenay, brighten-
ing. " I have always had a horror of being
drowned or disfigured, and I would much
rather lose my all ares of the Redmore Mines
than even my left eye."

She looked quite gay and cheerful again,
and in this mood Doctor Richard left her,
promising to call again in the evening.

Mrs. Courtenay was charmed with her med-
ical attendant. " How kind he seems ! " she
said.

" Seems ! " repeated Dora, with emotion ;
"is, mamma. 'Twice he came to you yester-
day evening, and he sat up here till past two
rather than prescribe an opiate, which, it
seems, might have injured you. And think
how kind it was of him to interfere with Mon-
sieur Merand on my behalf. Monsieur Mr-
rand looked so angry ! I am sorry to lose my
5

good opinion of him, but I am afraid he has
almost cheated me. How kind, though, of
Doctor Richard not to mind exposing him ! "

" Yes, very kind," murmured Mrs. Cour-
tenay. " And when are you to get the money,
Dora?"

" To-day, if I can finish my drawing,"
eagerly replied her daughter. " Indeed, I had
better go at once," she added, rising ; " Mon-
sieur Merand is in a hurry for it, and I am in
a hurry for Monsieur Merand's five-franc
pieces."

" Yes, I wish you had the money," rather
querulously said Mrs. Courtenay.

Dora saw she could trust her mother to Mrs.
Luan's care, and that it would be better for
her to go and calm the poor lady's mind by
the prospect of gain, the only prospect which
then seemed to have any charm in it for Mrs.
Courtenay. So with a cheerfulness half real,
half put on — alas ! how many things are so
put on by brave hearts, heroism, patience, and
the rest — Dora took her portfolio and went
forth. On her way she thought, " Since I am
selling the drawing, I no longer want the
frame ; and since it is not ready, had I not
better go and tell that poor Dubois not to
make it ? Poor fellow ! I hope he will not be
too much disappointed ! "

Dora found the door of the Duboises ajar,
and she pushed it open hesitatingly ; but she
was not prepared for the sight that met her
view. Her frame, bright as gilding could
make it, stood before her, held by Monsieur
Dubois, whose hand had got miraculously well
during the night, and no less a person than
Doctor Richard stood with his back to her.
He turned round, and seemed surprised to see
her, whilst consternation appeared on Madame
Dubois's face, and Monsieur Dubois turned pale
as a ghost.

"Doctor Richard," said Dora, reddening,
" was that man's hand unwell ? "

"Unwell! no. Has he been imposing on

DORA.

you, Miss Courtenay ? I suppose he was out
of woi'k — a child ill, eh ? "

" Yes," replied Dora, " that is it. "Was it
not true ? "

Doctor Richard laughed heartily, and seemed
much amused.

" The old story ! " he said. " My dear
young lady," he added, " why did you not
look at the man's low, mean face, and read
him ? His story is this. I have kept him in
work for the last six weeks; and during that
time neither he, nor his wife, nor his children,
nor even the white hen, has had a moment's
ailment ! "

Dora was mortified. She had been cheated
and deceived, and Doctor Richard only laughed
at her simplicity.

" He is a low vagabond," resumed Doctor
Richard, still speaking English, but shaking
his forefinger good-humoredly at the culprit,
who looked extremely uneasy, " but clever,
Miss Courtenay, a self-taught genius ; and
though it is abominable that he should thus
impose upon you, I cannot afford to be angry
with him. Look at that frame I have just
bought. There is fancy and invention for you !
Look at that foliage ! "

"Excuse me, Doctor Richard," said Dora,
gently touching his arm, and looking both
amused and puzzled, " but this frame was
made for me."

" nave they sold you my frame ? "

" Dr. Richard, I ordered it."

" So did I, Miss Courtenay."

They exchanged looks — then Doctor Richard
burst out laughing.

" The vagabond ! — the low vagabond ! " he
said again. "He wanted, perhaps, to sell the
same frame twice over. Now, Miss Cour-
tenay, take my advice, do not let yourself be
so easily imposed upon. But what a pity the
rascal should be so clever ! Look at that de-
sign, how correct and how graceful, and thone
I have at home are better still. I must for-

give him, Miss Courtenay, for the sake of that
leaf!"

Dora blushed and laughed.

" But, Doctor Richard," she stammered,
" the design is not his — 'tis mine, I drew it."

" You drew it, Miss Courtenay ! "

" Yes. I wanted it for my drawing, and I
drew several designs, but he told me this was
the best — and so — "

She did not proceed. Doctor Richard was
an altered man. The veins in his forehead
were thick and swollen, and his full brown
eyes burned with resentment so blighting that
it almost frightened her. The amusement
with which he had heard Dora tell of the im-
position practised upon her vanished when he
thus learned the fraud attempted on himself.

" And so they were your drawings ? " he
cried at length, speaking angrily and fast, and
evidently in a great rage. " Your drawings,
which the rascal passed upon me for his ; and
I, a gull as I ever am, believed him ! "

His look, as it fell on the convicted gilder,
expressed the most vehement indignation.
Evidently Doctor Richard found nothing hu
morous or entertaining in being made a dupe
of.

"Is not this abhorrent and shameful? "he
proceeded, addressing the gilder in French,
which he spoke forcibly and well. " You
might have spared yourself this disgrace, and
been none the poorer. Nay, the truth should
have brought you in more than that base
lie."

Monsieur Dubois murmured some unintelli-
gible reply, but already Dr. Richard's anger
had melted into scorn. His brow grew smooth
again, his brown eyes resumed their serenity,
and he burst into a hearty laugh at his own
expense.

" To think of my addressing that low-minded
wretch as if he knew the beauty of truth ! " he
said, turning to Dora. " Whereas she never
left her well, so far as he is concerned. But

THE DUTCH PICTURE.

how are we to deal with this rascal, Miss Cour-
tenay ? Who keeps the frame ? I ordered
it, but then you gave the design, so that if
you want it — "

" I do not," replied Dora, coloring a little.

" Then I shall keep it," he said, readily. " I
shall call again and settle with you, sir," he
added, giving Monsieur Dubois a significant
look ; " for I can see in your face, Miss Cour-
tenay," he continued, looking at her with a
smile, as they both left the place, " that I
must not be too hard on this guilty couple in
your presence. You looked quite startled a
while ago."

"You looked very angry, Doctor Rich-
ard."

" Did I ? "Well, Saint Augustine says that
each man bears within himself Adam, Eve,
and the serpent, and I confess I find it so.
Often that weak Adam, and frail Eve, and
tempting serpent are busy with me. So lest
Adam should prevail against me, I now leave
that sneaking impostor and his 'wife. I have
no doubt they are quarrelling now, with the
boy looking on, and the white hen cackling.
Let them ! Confess that you think me a fool ! "
he abruptly added, stepping on the staircase
to look hard at Dora.

" You forget that I, too, was deceived," re-
plied Dora, smiling.

" In matters of which you could have little
or no knowledge. But if I had looked at the
man's head, I might have known he could not
be the author of that beautiful drawing. Yet
it was that which blinded me. I saw it, and
forgot the man. So there is ever something
to account for my mistakes ; for it is a hu-
miliating confession, though a true one, to say
that i't is my lot to be deceived. There is some-
thing inexpressively persuasive and convin-
cing to me in an assertion. A child's falsehood
has often prevailed over me, and yet, Miss
Courtenay, I am not an idiot, I assure you."

He spoke with a gravity which nearly dis-
concerted Dora.

" I can see you are much inclined to laugh,"
he resumed ; " but you are all wrong. It is
idiotic to be so easily deceived, and yet I am
no idiot — I maintain it in the face of what has
just occurred. Do not protest ; but just allow
me to follow out my argument. You have
read Don Quixote, I have no doubt ; well
then, has it not struck you that this unfor-
tunate gentleman commits but one error, only
it is the first ; in all else he is shrewd, clever,
sensible, well-informed. This is my case.
Ninety-nine things I see clearly; but the hun-
dredth which escapes me is just the keystone
of the edifice. If that Dubois bad assured me
that he was benevolent, humane, a kind hus-
band, a faithful friend, I should have been
amused at his attempting to practise' on my
credulity ; but he said I am an untaught ge-
nius, and I became his victim ! "

Doctor Richard spoke very composedly of
his deficiencies, as composedly, indeed, as if
they concerned him not. Dora, though she
heard him in silence, drew her own conclu-
sions. Though his brown eyes were piercing
enough, eyes that could see far and deep, they
were more penetrating than shrewd. The
glamour of imagination could baffle the keen-
ness of that vision, and Doctor Richard be-
longed to the class of men who are to be the
victims of their inferiors. He knew it, but
the knowledge availed him not.

" His very gifts betray him," thought Dora,
" and have kept him back in the race of life.
Poor fellow," she continued, in her mental
soliloquy, as he left her, and walked away
briskly, "I am afraid he spends his money
very foolishly. What could he want with all
those frames, now ? "

Dora shook her head at Dr. Richard's im-
prudence, and was still censuring him when
she entered the Gallery.

DORA.

CHAPTER XIV.

There were some last touches to be be-
stowed on the music-lesson, and Dora lingered
over her task. For suppose Monsieur Merand
should again find fault with this drawing, and
utter those severe remarks which, in Dora's
present position, it would be so hard to hear ?
Whilst she was thus engaged in the picture-
gallery, she heard a step behind the chair,
and looking round in some surprise at the un-
wonted interruption, she saw Doctor Richard.

"Will you allow me to make one or two
suggestions to you, Miss Courtenay ? " he said,
in his easy way.

Dora assented with a little flush of emotion,
which Doctor Richard did not seem to per-
ceive. He proceeded with his suggestions, as
he called them ; and keen, subtle suggestions
they were, implying no small amount of theo-
retical and practical skill.

" He talks more like a painter than like a
doctor," thought Dora, "and, indeed, more
like a professor than like either."

"You draw, Doctor Richard?" she could
not help saying.

" Yes, I do all my own illustrations," he
carelessly replied.

" He is a writer upon art," thought Dora.

But memory, though questioned, remained
mute, and had nothing to tell about Doctor
Richard's name.

"You did well to take this pretty little
music-lesson," he resumed — " here, at least,
imagination is free. I am not an inquisitive
man, not in the ordinary sense of the word ;
my neighbor's business troubles me not, but I
confess to you that a little picture by one of
the minor Dutch painters once gave me many
a pleasant hour. The burgher father, the
matronly mother, and the daughter fair and
blooming, were all primly seated before me.
The room was large, rather dark, perhaps,
with plenty of plate, and two blue china vases

on an oaken sort of dresser. It was all so
minutely painted, that the Eastern pattern of
the carpet, the flowering of the brocade in
the mother's dress, the fine lace cape of the
daughter, were recognizable, and could have
been identified. The picture was about two
hundred years old. Two hundred years, and
their vicissitudes, battles, and generations had
passed since that calm home had been some-
where in one of the old Dutch cities. I would
have given anything to have had the power
of going back for a while to those large oaken
rooms, with their substantial furniture — to
have conversed with these people, or, if that
were too ambitious a desire, considering that
I do not know Dutch, to have seen them in
their daily life, and household occupations.
Surely there must have been some chamber
up-stairs in which that merchant kept his
money-bags, or reckoned his tulip-bulbs?
Surely, too, that good dame must have had
her empire in wide store-rooms, with jars of
pickles and preserves. As for the young lady,
I could imagine her bower with birds, and an
embroidery-frame, and a looking-glass in the
window. I could imagine all that, but as in a
dream ; for, after all, this supposed merchant
may have been some hard reader, a disciple
of Grotius, who stored books, and not gold,
and who scorned tulips. His wife, in her
way, may have set her mind above mere
household comforts, and been a stern Chris-
tian, and between these two the poor young
damsel probably led a dull life. I doubt if
she had birds. Their singing would have dis-
turbed her papa's studies, and her severe
mamma held embroidery a profane loss of
time, and condemned her to knitting and her
Bible. So, you see, here are two totally dif-
ferent versions of the same story ; and having
found that I could thus construct not two, but
twenty, I turned the picture with its face to
the wall, and forbade it to speak to me more."
Did he speak in jest or in earnest? Dora

THE FIVE-FRANC PIECES.

could not tell, but stole a doubtful look at
Doctor Richard, but he seemed unconscious
of her surprise. He spoke with the compos-
ure of one who is unaware of having said
any thing unusual, and with the facility which
comes from the habit of being listened to.

" Is he a lecturer, an author, or both ? "
thought Dora; "and yet there is something
in him which belongs to none of these — some-
thing of the man of the world, who makes
himself at home everywhere and with every
one."

But if Doctor Richard had no suspicion of
the conjectures in which Dora indulged con-
cerning him, he saw very well that her pencil
remained idle.

" I must not prevent you from working," he
said, smiling ; and renewing his promise to
call on Mrs. Courtenay in the evening, he left
her.

As he walked away, Dora's look followed
him a little pensively.

" Poor fellow ! " she thought, contrasting
his erect figure and easy carriage with his in-
different apparel, " I fear he has been sadly
tossed about by life. Medicine, art, author-
ship have not done much for him ! "

But she admired him for all that. She ad-
mired him as the independent and the clear-
sighted always admire a vigorous and original
mind, even though Fortune should not have
favored it.

Dora left before the closing of the Gallery ;
and as she passed by the open library-door on
her way down-stairs, she saw Doctor Richard
reading within. A heavy folio lay open before
him, and he was absorbed in its contents.

" Doctor Richard has not got many patients,"
thought Dora ; " I wonder whether he reads
on medicine or on art ? And to think of his
spending so much money at Monsieur Me-
rand's ! "

To receive from and not to spend with (hat
gentleman was now Dora's errand on her way

home. She entered his shop with slight heis-
tation ; but Monsieur Merand was an altered
man. The drawing was perfect, and he had
but one regret — he must pay Mademoiselle in
silver five-franc pieces. But with her bright
smile Dora tied up the welcome though cum-
bersome coins in hef pocket-handkerchief, and
thus laden, went home.

" Here is news from the Redmore Mines,"
gayly said Dora, and opening her pocket-hand-
kerchief, she scattered its contents on her
mother's bed.

Mrs. Courtenay's eyes glistened as she saw
the silver shower.

" It is not that I am so fond of money," she
apologetically said ; " but then one cannot do
without it."

Mrs. Luan was mute, but Dora saw the flush
on her sallow cheek, and could read its mean-
ing. Dora felt happy, and happiness is loqua-
cious. She told them how she had worked at
her drawing, how gracious Monsieur Merand
had been, and in all she said the name of Doc
tor Richard invariably came back. Mrs. Cour-
tenay was too much pleased with her medical
attendant to censure this frequent repetition
of his name ; but when, even after dinner, Dora
took up the theme, Mrs. Luan, who had been
almost silent since the preceding day's»catas-
trophe, now looked up, and said sullenly —

" I hate Doctor Richard ! "

" Auut ! " cried Dora amazed — too much
amazed to be indignant.

" I hate him ! " resumed Mrs. Luan ; " look
at his clothes — shabby ; he is no good doctor,
not he ! He is nothing — no one — nobody."

She was almost excited now. Dora would
have answered, and perhaps with less res
and gentleness than she generally show
Mrs. Luan — for her cheeks were flushed and
her eyes sparkled — if Doctor Richard hi
had not at that precise moment been shown
up by Madame Bertrand.

" A good sign when the patient is lively."

DORA.

lie said, going to Mrs. Courtenay's bed with a
pleasant smile; " but I do not mean to give
up my attendance yet. You are not quite
well, my dear madam."

" I do not feel quite well, doctor, but much
better — oh ! so much better," she added with
her little raising of the voice.

He sat down by her and felt her pulse. As
Mrs. Courtenay drew back her hand the mo-
tion disturbed the counterpane, and the five-
franc pieces which Dora had left and forgotten
there, rolled on the floor with many a silver
ring. Doctor Richard gave a little start of
surprise, and Dora blushed.

" I put them there to show mamma that I
can earn money," she said, trying to laugh it
off, " for, thanks to you, Doctor Richard, Mon-
sieur Merand has been liberal."

She began picking up the fallen coins, and
Doctor Richard assisted her. When he handed
her those which he had gathered he was smil-
ing, and Dora could not help thinking how dif-
ferent was the warm genial face she now looked
at, from the dark wrathful countenance she had
seen that morning. That was all storm — this
was all sunshine.

" I am sure he is good," thought Dora ; " he
looks as pleased as if that money were his ! "

" Doctor Richard," she said aloud, " I met
Madame Dubois. She begged hard to be for-
given."

"Will you forgive them, Miss Courtenay?"

" Yes — will not you ? "

" No ; you know the Chinese saying, ' If I
am deceived once, the blame lies with the de-
ceiver ; but if I am twice deceived, the blame
lies with me.' "

Doctor Richard spoke so positively, that
Dora was silenced.

" Now, Miss Courtenay," he resumed, " do
not think me, soft as I have proved myself,
a victim to the dreadful delusion of the de-
serving poor. There are such, I suppose, but
just as there are deserving rich, in a very

moderate ratio. No, I do not ask for that
wonderful bird — a virtuous man in distress.
I am satisfied to take humanity such as it is,
and relieve its sufferings so far as I can, which
is very little ; but I have a strong hatred for
moral ugliness, and so when I get such a rep-
tile as the gilder in my path, and can see no
redeeming trait in him, I leave him to shift
for himself. Some people will be drowned
like the man in the story, and who can pre-
vent it ? Listen to that drunken wretch now
shouting down the street. Who can save
him ? "

" Poor fellow ! " compassionately said Mrs.
Courtenay ; " it is all the cider. Perhaps you
drink wine, Doctor Richard, and do not know
how perfidious cider is. I do. When we came
here first, I actually got tipsy ! " said Mrs.
Courtenay, raising her voice in amazement at
the strangeness of the fact ; " and all for one
glass of cidgr."

" Indeed ! " exclaimed Doctor Richard, much
amused.

"I did," emphatically continued Mrs. Cour-
tenay. " I came in very warm, and Madame
Bertrand would make me taste her cider. I
took one glass, and my head began spinning,
oh ! so much. ' Madame Bertrand,' I cried,
'your cider is very good, but it is very perfid-
ious ! ' ' Not at all, madame,' she replied ;
' you are only a little dizzy.' Doctor Richard,
you may believe me, I could not get up-stairs
— I had to sit down on the steps ; and I must
have been really tipsy, for it seems I got so
affectionate, and squeezed Madame Bertrand's
hand quite fondly. And I talked so — oh !
how I did talk ! Poor Dora came down to me
a little frightened, and what do you think I
said to her, doctor? 'Dora,' I said, 'you are
a dear, good girl, but I must say it, once for
all — I have never told you before, but I must
tell you now. You stay too long at your
prayers in the morning ; and then, Dora, you
are too fastidious about your dress. It is all

MRS. LUAN'S DISLIKE TO DR. RICHARD.

very well to be pious, and to wear nice collars,
but still, Dora, though I like it, I also like not
to be kept so long from my breakfast, so
please to mend ! ' Dora was quite bewildered,
poor dear ! at the lecture, but she helped me
up-stairs, and I took^a nap in my chair and
woke quite well. And that is how I got tipsy
on a glass of cider; and, Doctor Richard,"
added Mrs. Courtenay, raising her voice in
wonder at her own suggestion, " think what
a terrible effect a good many glasses must
have."

Dora had felt rather uncomfortable during
this narrative, especially at that portion which
referred to the length of her devotions, and
the nicety of her collars ; but though Doctor
Richard seemed much amused, he never looked
at her. Moreover, his manner as he listened
and spoke to Mrs. Courtenay expressed a gentle
and respectful sympathy that went to Dora's
very heart. "With Dora herself, when he ad-
dressed her, his tone, his looks, his bearing,
were those of a friend — kind, but not too
familiar. His manner, which had been a little
abrupt at first, was now tempered by a refine-
ment and a courtesy which to Dora seemed
both rare and delightful. She thought she had
never met with so perfect a gentleman. Did
her bright open face betray her secret admira-
tion, or was it part of Doctor Richard's plan to
fascinate both mother and daughter ? Even a
keen observer might have failed to settle this
question, but the dullest must have seen that
Doctor Richard bestowed a considerable por-
tion of his attention on Miss Courtenay. Even
when he spoke to her mother, it was on Dora
that his eyes rested. Few people had ever
looked at this girl coldly, the light in her face
compelled corresponding warmth in the gazer,
and Doctor Richard obeyed the general rule.
When she spoke he smiled and listened with
evident pleasure to the little sallies bj y which
she endeavored to amuse her mother. When
she was silent his gaze wandered toward her,

and rested on her radiant face and light figure,
with evident enjoyment. She was like a Titian
or a Giorgione to him, a glorious bit of color
lighting those dull rooms, and contrasting in
its brightness with the paleness and subdued
tints of age, as seen in Mrs. Courtenay and
Mrs. Luan.

Now there is a subject on which women
have a quickness of perception nothing can
baffle — it is the impression they produce.
Dora knew, as well as if Doctor Richard had
sworn it, that he admired her. She had been
accustomed to such admiration formerly, and
had -received it too often to be mistaken now.
What she saw, Mrs. Courtenay saw too, only
she drew maternal conclusions which Dora
left iu abeyance — that Doctor Richard was a
very fascinating man, a very kind one, too ;
how delightful if he were to marry Dora!
Good, innocent soul ! She never looked at
Doctor Richard's coat, nor asked herself how
he could keep a wife and rear a family ! The
future had, in more senses than one, ever been
a sealed book to this amiable and improvident
lady. Mrs. Luan, too, being a woman, saw
what was going on, and conjectured. Her
slow, dull mind fastened on Doctor Richard's
admiration of her niece with the tenacity of a
leech, and extracted all that such admiration
could possibly yield. '

She already disliked the man, as the bearer
of woeful tidings ; she now hated him as being
poor, and coming to the house to rob them of
their only support. In her sluggish way she
had thought over their position, since the pre-
ceding morning, and she had realized the fact
that Dora was now their mainstay. John
would help ; but Mrs. Luan could not bear to
rob poor John, aud she was willing to lean
heavily, if need be, upon her niece.

Such being the case, why did that needy
doctor come hankering after Dora? They
did not want him. Let him. begone, with his
shabby clothes and look of decayed gentility !

DORA.

For that Doctor Richard's admiration might
be the disinterested feeling which many men
yield to a young and fascinating woman, Mrs.
Luan did not admit in that moment of selfish
terror. She only saw the danger ; and she
not merely saw it, but she magnified it tenfold.

Doctor Richard was too quick and observant
not to become aware of Mrs. Luan's hard, in-
tent look. It annoyed him, yet, thanks to the
blindness of which he was uselessly conscious,
its meaning was not apparent to him. He
saw a dull, heavy-looking lady, with a hideous
piece of patch-work on her lap, and he felt
that there was something unpleasant to .him,
almost repugnant in her aspect ; but he never
thought that this low-browed woman was the
Nemesis of his life. He never thought, as,
after spending an hour or more with Mrs.
Courtenay and her daughter, he took his leave,
that the woman who rose and gave him a cold,
lifeless hand, was the arbitress of his fate;
that from her would spring the greatest sor-
rows and the greatest joys of his existence.
That this being, his moral and intellectual in-
ferior, would nevertheless rule him with a rod
of iron in weal and in woe, Doctor Richard
never suspected.

" Poor thing ! she is predestined to a brain
disease," was his medical conclusion, as he
looked at her.

CHAPTER XV.

What subtle and mysterious chain of small
events is it which we so often qualify as in-
evitable ? Is there anything not immediately
dependent on God's will to which " inevitable "
does really apply ? Are we not free to avoid
or to seek ? Could wo not walk on the
right side of the road as well as on the left?
Must we perforce take that turning instead of
this ? If we go on board the boat which is to
perish, might we not have sailed in that which,
after crossing smooth seas, will come to port

safely ? Inevitable, forsooth ! It is the word
of presumption and of weakness, the excuse
for all short-sighted folly, the plea of all error,
slight or fatal.

That " inevitable," as it -is called, was now
busy with Dora Courtenay's destiny. Her
mother got well again. Even Mis. Luan re-
covered the shock of the Redmore Mines ; a
trifle was saved out of the wreck ; poor John
Luan wrote an affectionate letter, and sent
twenty pounds ; and Monsieur Merand ordered
a series of drawings, which kept Dora in con-
stant occupation. All this was as it should
be — was, at least, as it often is in life, where
the waters flow smoothly again over the
greatest wrecks, but the supererogation was
in the continued visits of Doctor Richard. He
came to see Mrs. Courtenay, and perhaps be-
cause her complaint was mental rather than
bodily, he came more as a friend than as a
doctor. He wished to cheer her, and he suc-
ceeded, nis conversation was attractive and
varied — the conversation of a well-read man ;
he had also a beautiful voice, mellow, har-
monious, and full-toned, and Mrs. Courtenay
once frankly told him it was like music to
hear him. His society, in short, was both
genial and interesting, and Dora's mother was
getting accustomed to it, and required it as
much as her cup of tea in the evening, when
it suddenly ceased.

" I wonder why Doctor Richard comes no
more ? " rather plaintively said Mrs. Cour-
tenay.

" Because you are quite well, mamma," re-
plied Dora, trying not to look as disappointed
as she felt.

For Doctor Richard had grown invisible.
Neither when she passed by his house, nor in
the picture-gallery, nor in the roading-room,
nor even at Monsieur Merand's, did Dora see
him. And there now fell a restlessness upon
her, of which she herself knew «ot the cause.
She worked, she played, she read, she sewed,

ENNUI.

she was never idle a second, and yet some-
thing ailed Dora.

" What a pity Doctor Richard is not a friend
of ours," she sometimes thought, " it used to
do me good when he came. His fancies are
rather wild sometimes, and one does not ex-
actly know when he is in jest or in earnest ; but
he used to set me thinking, and I feel the
want of it now that he is gone. It is wonder-
ful all I learned from him when he came and
stood behind my chair and advised me. Some
of his criticisms were so many rays of light. I
know I want a critic, and mamma and aunt
admire all I do."

But requisite though his presence was to
Dora, Doctor Richard came not. Then she
did her best to remember all that this judi-
cious critic had said. And memory brought
it all back to Dora. Looks, words, the very
intonation with which they had been spoken,
returned so vividly that it sometimes seemed
Doctor Richard himself stood by. Aud she
never asked herself why she thus brought this
stranger in her life, when he had evidently
sought another path than that which she
trod — why she compelled him to be thus
with her in spirit, when his will kept him so
far away in body.

Some of the ancient philosophers thought
that a man could be struck with a thunderbolt
and neither know nor feel it. Perhaps they
came to this strange conclusion from their
knowledge of what happens in the mysterious
world of a human heart. There, indeed, the
thunderbolt may fall, and leave us unaware of
its presence. The great calamity, the crown-
ing sorrow of our life, may have come to us,
and we may not even suspect it, so suddeu
and so invisible was its approach. If such a
grief had come to Dora, her ignorance of it
was complete. She felt dull, and reason tell-
ing her she had no cause for such dulncss, that
she led a useful, active life, with many legiti-
mate sources of interest in it, she argued

against herself, and resisted the enemy ; but,
unluckily, reason too often took Doctor Rich-
ard's voice, and spoke in his language.

Dora was sitting with her mother and Mrs.
Luan. It was evening-time ; the lamp, with
its green shade, gave a circle of light on the
table, and left the room in a soft brown gloom,
through which you caught dim outlines of fur-
niture, with here and there a speck of light
from some bit of china or gilt frame on the
wall. Mrs. Luan was engaged on her patch-
work, Mrs. Courtenay was busy with a game
of patience, and Dora was mending linen.
They were very silent, but the wind moaned
without, and now and then a gust brought a
heavy pattering shower of rain against the
window-panes.

" How different it would all be if Dr. Richard
were here ! " thought Dora, and a thrill passed
through her at the thought ; " then, instead of
this heavy silence, we should hear his full,
•genial voice talking pleasant wisdom, or no
less pleasant paradox. How he would preach
me out of this dulness of mine, if he knew of
it ! How he did go on about ennui the last
time he came ! Was it the last ? ' Depend
upon it, Miss Courtenay,' he said, ' the great
drama of ninety-three was hastened by the
feeling which the French call ennui. There
must have been dreadful weariness in that
pompous old Versailles, with its routine, and
its endless round of solemn gayeties. These
long-clipped avenues, and statues, and vases,
and water-works, looking all so formal in the
bright hot sun, made one pine for variety.
Anything for a change. So welcome Vol-
taire, welcome Rousseau, welcome that inso-
lent barber Figaro, who sapped so gayly the
foundations of the old regime. Welcome,
above all, the Encyclopedic. There is a charm
about impiety when all else fails. The end,
to be sure, was tragic, and seas of blood had
to flow ere the safe shore was reached ; but
then, for a few years, at least, the French na-

DORA.

tion was saved from ennui — an inestimable
blessing, Miss Courtenay, for so lively a na-
tion.' "

Yes, thus bad Doctor Richard spoken ; and
as she recalled his language, and wisely ad-
monished herself with it, Dora seemed to see
Doctor Richard himself sFtting in yonder va-
cant chair, and looking at her across the
table with those genial brown eyes, in which
he could put no small amount of mirth and
humor. The vision brougbi no blush to Dora's
cheek, no emotion to her heart; but it was
pleasant, though brief.

" What a pity he does not like our society
as much as we like his !" she thought, honest-
ly ; " but it is no great wonder. It must be
dull to come and sit here with us, and yet I
am selfish enough to wish that he would come
again ! "

As she confessed thus much to herself, her
mother pushed the cards away, and exclaimed,
a little pettishly :

" How dull you both are ! I wish Doctor
Richard would come in," she added.

Dora could not help smiling at this coin-
cidence in their wishes. *

"But you are not ill, mamma," she said,
gayly, " so why should he come? "

" Not ill ! " replied Mrs. Courtenay, looking
much injured — " and pray, how do you know
that I am not ill ? "

" But I may hope, mamma, you are not so,"
gravely answered her daughter.

" I do not feel at all well," triumphantly re-
joined Mrs. Courtenay, sitting up in her chair
and looking around her with a sort of exulta-
tion at her superiority over her daughter and
her sister-in-law — " I have the most extraor-
dinary buzzing in my right ear."

Spite this ominous symptom, Dora testified
no great uneasiness, and Mrs. Courtenay saw
it and looked offended.

" I think you might send round* for Doctor
Richard," she said a little warmly; "I really

think you might, Dora, seeing me so poor-
ly."

" But, mamma," argued Dora, " you were so
well a while ago, that it seems a pity to dis-
turb Doctor Richard uselessly."

" Uselessly ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay,
raising her voice in mingled amazement and
indignation. "Uselessly! when I tell you I
am quite poorly, and when Dr. Richard has
only to cross the street to come to us."

Dora did not reply, but bent her burning face
over her work. She felt ashamed to send for
Doctor Richard without cause, and she longed
to do so, yet did not dare to indulge that long-
ing. For suppose it should affront him to be
disturbed from his reading ? A while ago she
had stood at the window and looked down the
street, and she had seen a light burning in
Doctor Richard's casement ; sure proof that he
was within. What right had they to intrude
on his solitude? But Mrs. Courtenay could
be wilful when she chose ; she now persuaded
herself that she was very unwell indeed, and
that it was quite unkind of Dora not to send
for Doctor Richard, and what she thought she
said. Thus urged, Dora hesitated, then at
length yielded.

Madame Bertrand was much amazed at Mrs.
Courtenav's sudden illness; but obligingly
went to fetch Doctor Richard at once, whilst
Dora sat in her vacant chair. She wanted to
see Doctor Richard before he went up-stairs,
and to make some apology for thus disturbing
him. But there was no need to do so. Ma-
dame Bertrand came back alone. The house
was locked up — Doctor Richard was gone.

" And when he goes away," added Madame
Bertrand, " it is for days and weeks."

" Then how do his patients manage ? "

" He has no regular patients," replied Ma-
dame Bertrand. " My impression," she con-
fidentially continued, " is, that he goes about
the country bleeding, extracting teeth^and so
on ; and when he has made a little money, he

DR. RICHARD AND THE UNFORTUNATE CHILD.

comes back here and buys a heap of rubbish
with it."

Dora laughed at this vision of an itinerant
doctor, and went back to her mother, who
looked much injured on learning that Doctor
Richard had probably left Rouen.

Days passed on, and he did not return.
Dora asked Monsieur Merand if it was Doctor
Richard's habit to forsake his patients thus
without warning.

" Patients ! — he has none. Besides,"' he
tapped his forehead — " hem ! you know."

" Indeed I know nothing of the kind," re-
plied Dora, gravely ; " and if I thought so,
Doctor Richard should certainly not attend on
my mother."

Monsieur Merand looked alarmed.
" Do not tell him I said so ! " he exclaimed,
hastily ; " I do not wish to injure him, poor
fellow ! He wants all the money he can earn.
He is as poor as Job, you know."

He stared at Dora as if to see the effect his
words produced upon her. To all seeming
they produced none. She went away, looking
rather pensive ; but no other expression save
that of thoughtfulness appeared on her face.

Two days later, however, Dora came home
looking so bright and gay, that Mrs. Courtenay
cried —

"My dear, what *h as happened? Are the
Redmore Mines coming up ? "

" No ; but a child was run over, and — "
" My goodness ! is that why you look so de-
lighted ? "

Dora blushed, and Mrs. Luan stared at her.
" Monsieur Merand wants a new drawing,"
said Dora, apologetically, "and as I was talk-
ing to him Doctor Richard came in carrying a
poor little thing that had just been run over.
I helped him to undress it ; for the child has
got an untidy mother, and he had pricked him-
self awfully with the pins. I also assisted in
bandaging its poor little leg ; but I did little
good there, for Doctor Richard said I was no

heroine, after all. I know I was as pale as a
ghost."

"You are not pale now," remarked Mrs.
Luan.

" No, I came home so fast, mamma ! " she
added, turning to her mother. "Doctor Rich-
ard will look in upon you this evening."

"Who wants him?" almost angrily said
Mrs. Luan.

"Aunt, why do you dislike Doctor Rich-
ard?" asked her niece. "I wish you had
seen how kind and tender he was with the
child ; and when I got her to tell me her name
and abode, and he went off with her in a cab,
Monsieur Merand said to me, ' Do you know
why he does not send that object to the hos-
pital ? — because he means to feed as well as
cure it.' "

" What right has he to give away ? " asked
Mrs. Luan, still gloomy. " He is too poor to
give."

" The poor give more away than the rich,"
rather indignantly said Dora.

Mrs. Luan's answer was to take off her cap
and fliDg it on the sofa.

" How often she does that now ! " thought
Dora. " I wonder if I ought to mention it to
Doctor Richard ? "

But another of the self-woven links of fate
was around her, for on reflection she resolved
to be silent.

"We shall wait tea for Doctor Richard,"
said Mrs. Courtenay. Dora assented, and
Mrs. Luan went and put on her cap and looked
sulky.

The evening was a warm one, and Dora
went and sat by the open window. A faint
breeze came from the river up the quiet street,
which seemed to sleep in gray shadow. How
calm all these ancient houses looked in their
decaying age! — how pathetic in it> way was
that bit of green up amongst the buttresses of
the poor old church crumbling away to ruin,
with these bright flowers and that joyous

DORA.

vine growing,- as it were, out of its stone
heart !

" Poor thing ! " thought Dora, with a sort
of pity, " it does its best to be beautiful to
the last ! I wonder how it looked on the day
of its consecration five hundred years ago,
when it was first opened to human worship ?
It was bright and strong and new then. Every
one of its outlines was sharply chiselled;
every one of its ornaments was painted in
gaudy blue, deep violet, strong red, or pure
gold. Doctor Richard, I remember,- told me
once we can have no idea of the revel of color
in those mediaeval times. We are too apt to
fancy them gray and stern as they look to us
now, through the dimness of so many hundred
years."

Her thoughts had gone thus far when the
sound of a step up the street made her look
down. She saw Doctor Richard coming slow-
ly, and as his look was never once raised to
the window, she could scrutinize him as closely
as she pleased. He looked pale and some-
what worn.

"He has had trouble," thought Dora; "but
what trouble ? His carriage is not erect and
free as it used to be."

" I wish Doctor Richard would come," a
little querulously said Mrs. Courtenay ; " I con-
fess I want my tea."

" He is coming, mamma," answered Dora,
leaving the window.

They soon heard him talking below to Ma-
dame Bertrand, who in a loud, plaintive voice
informed him that she had been dreadfully ill
during his absence.

" Such pains as she had had in all her
limbs ! " Then followed a separate descrip-
tion of each particular pain, after which came
Doctor Richard's prescription.

" Madame Bertrand is a very good sort of
woman," superciliously said Mrs. Courtenay,
" but she does take liberties. To think of her
keeping Doctor Richard in that way ! "

Doctor Richard's entrance put an end to the
cfKise of her displeasure.

" I am so glad to see you, Doctor Richard ! "
she cried warmly; " I was so sorry .you. were
away — and, goodness me ! where have you
been all this time ? "

She looked at him with the most innocent
curiosity beaming in her face.

" I have been in the country with one of my
patients," he replied quietly.

" Then he has patients," thought Dora.

" Is it pretty about there ? " asked Mrs. Cour-
tenay — " I mean the landscape, you know."

Doctor Richard smiled.

"Yes," he said, "it is pretty according to
the present day's idea of beauty ; for I need
scarcely tell you, Mrs. Courtenay, that the
beauty of a landscape is as much subject to the
laws of fashion as a lady's dress."

" Dear me ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, amazed ;
" I never knew that ! "

" It is a fact, I assure you," he gravely re-
plied; "Switzerland and the Highlands are
going down, like Byron's poetry. The fast
generation which is coming on will probably
call Mont Blanc an old impostor — I use a mild
word — and scorn the Trosachs."

" I cannot say that I admire them much my-
self," confidentially said Mrs. Courtenay — "not
that I ever saw them, I confess," she frankly
added.

" To see is by no means necessary for admi-
ration or dislike," returned Doctor Richard,
with unmoved gravity, " since either is a mat-
ter of fashion. The fact is, the sublime will
soon be pronounced a bore. We are getting
tired of it. Even the Romans got wearied of
their classical landscape, and one of their latter
poets complained that he knew the woods of
Mara and the cave of Vulcan as well as his
own house. We are in the same predicament.
We know it all too well."

" Is commonplace so old, Doctor Richard ? "
asked Dora, with a merry laugh.

VALUE OF DOHA'S DRAWINGS.

" Do not laugh at it, Miss Courtenay. Com-
monplace is one of the powers that be, and
will make you rue it."

Doctor Richard spoke in a tone of grave re-
buke, which roused Dora's mirth anew.

" Dora has a horror of commonplace," re-
marked Mrs. Courtenay. " Such a charming
man as Mr. Brown was, and he admired Dora
so much ; but she thought him commonplace."

" And was he not revenged upon Miss Cour-
tenay ? " asked Doctor Richard, without no-
ticing the blush which this indiscreet revela-
tion brought up to Dora's cheek.

" Oh ! yes," innocently answered Mrs. Cour-
tenay ; " he was our banker, and he took all
our money."

" The thief! " said Mrs. Luan. " It was her
money he wanted ! "

" Oh ! but he did admire Dora," retorted Mrs.
Courtenay, a little jealously. "He said her
hair was like dark gold ! "

Dora shook her head, and a meaning, half-
rueful, half-comic, passed across her expressive
face.

" I am afraid the gold he admired was more
substantial than that which Xature has given
me ! " she said. " At all events, not feeling
sure of obtaining the one, he took care to se-
cure the other."

" The thief ! " said Mrs. Luan again.

Dora laughed, and her clear, ringing laugh
showed how far all thought of care was from
her just then.

" He has done me good service, aunt," she
said ; " but for him I should never have known
I was a little bit of a genius in the way of
drawing. Oh ! Doctor Richard," she added,
suddenly becoming grave, and fastening an
earnest look on his face, " I do wish you would
tell me the truth — I do not mean the polite
truth, but the whole truth — about these draw-
ings of mine. It seems to me at times tiuii I
must be laboring under a pleasant delusion.
Here am I earning plenty of money, and all

for such commonplace performances. It is
incredible."

Now, neither Mrs. Courtenay nor Mrs. Luan
liked this imprudent speech, and neither gave
Doctor Richard time to reply.

" My dear, you draw beautifully," cried Mrs.
Courtenay.

"Monsieur Merand does not give you half
enough," said Mrs. Luan; "a cheat, like the
rest of them. I hate the Frerflh ! " she heart-
ily added.

" You hate the French ! " cried Mrs. Cour-
tenay.

" Mamma ! " implored Dora.

Mrs. Courtenay was magnanimous, and made
a sign implying that she would take no notice
of the insult.

" Do tell me the truth, Doctor Richard," re-
sumed Dora. " What are my drawings worth ?
You know. Do tell me how far I can rely, for
instance, on my talent as a means of support."

She spoke very gravely, and leaning back in
her chair, looked with rather sad earnestness
at Doctor Richard. Now, Doctor Richard, who
was usually so gay, so composed, so much of a
man of the world, for once looked thoroughly
disconcerted.

" My dear Miss Courtenay," he said, trying
to rally, "the. terms Monsieur Merand > givos
you are a test of the value of your drawings.
That you draw well, very •well, I have often
told you, and I say so again."

He spoke so emphatically that a bright,
happy blush stole over Dora's face, and made
it as fresh and glowing as a young Aurora's.
If Doctor Richard had been more polite than
truthful, he was rewarded for his sin by so ra-
diant a smile, and a look so bright that, whilst
they lasted, they mad,' Dora's countenance the
most bevi itching he had ever seen. Joy, not
vanity, innocent triumph, did that beaming
face express, till, as if ashamed of her own
gladness, Dora tried to laugh it off by sa;

" Your verdict is so favorable, Doctor Rich-

DORA.

ard, that I will believe every word of it, and
seek to know no more. And now, do tell us
something about your little patient."

There was not much to tell, but Mrs. Cour-
tenay uttered little screams of horror, and
little screams of relief, according as Catherine's
state was described ; and Dora listened and
thought Doctor Richard's conversation delight-
ful, and without saying anything about it
at home, called on the injured child the
next morning, on her way to the Picture-
gallery.

Catherine, who had a temper of her own,
was in a towering passion, and screaming at
the pitch of her sbrill voice, when, after cross-
ing a damp court-yard, Dora entered the chill
and dark room in which Catherine's mother
lived. The child was kicking violently in her
bed — kicking is one of the infantine protests
most in use in every country ; her mother
vainly tried to soothe her, and Doctor Richard
stood looking on helplessly with a linen band-
age in his hand, when the door opened, and
the bright face of Dora appeared amongst them.

" Some good angel sent you to tame this
little lioness ! " said Doctor Richard, gayly ;
" now we shall get on."

Dora smiled and looked doubtful ; but moth-
ers cannot always charm their, own children,
and there is a sweet and natural freemasonry
between youth and childhood. Dora had
scarcely sat down by Catherine, and taken her
hand, when the child ceased crying, stared,
and finally smiled.

" You are accustomed to children," said
Doctor Richard, with a keen look.

"Xotat all."

"A natural gift, then. Yes, children are
wonderful physiognomists."

Dis look rested on her bright face with
that complacency which such bright faces as
hers ever inspire. " Am I getting vain ? "
thought Dora, ashamed at the glow of pleasure
which overspread her countenance. " Granted

that he admires me, need I be any the prouder
for it ? "

Oh! if wisdom would but come at our call,
or, what would often be as great a boon, if a
truer and a keener knowledge of our inner self
than we have w r ere granted to us in the crisis
of existence ! If we could know the why and
wherefore of much that we care not perhaps
to scrutinize too closely, and scan our own
springs of feeling and action as they rise within
us — if we could do all this, how different a
lot might be ours ! But there is a languid
pleasure in ignorance. To see through a
mist, to hear as in a dream, to be borne down
the tide of life, and idly played with by its
waves, instead of bravely swimming our way
to shore against them — all these things are
fraught with a perilous sweetness. Happy, but
surely few, are they who know how to resist
that seducing torpor ere it be too late to re-
pel it. Some forewarning Dora felt, however,
for after putting on the bed of the little
sufferer the sweetmeats she had brought it,
she rose to go. Doctor Richard looked in-
jured.

" Will you not stay and manage her whilst
I dress her leg ? " he asked.

Thus adjured, Dora remained. Doctor
Richard expressed himself highly satisfied
with the state of the injured limb.

" I dare say the little creature will be able
to get into mischief again," he said, gayly;
" and of course she will do so, with that care-
less mother of hers. Pity," he thoughtfully
added, " one cannot stop the growth of some
children, put them in cages, and hang them
up like canary birds. Look at this child, Miss
Courtenay — she is lovely, with delicate, re-
fined features, and if her great-great-ancestor
had only been a baker, or a butler, or a groom
in William the Conqueror's train, we should
now have her portrait in a book of beauty,
and be told in the letter-press how the in-
fantine features, etc., of the honorable Adelina

HER VISIT TO LITTLE CATHERINE.

Fitz-Norman, etc., were the purest model of
the Anglo-Norman type so remarkable in the
English aristocracy, etc. I am really sorry I
am not acquainted with this young lady's
Scandinavian pedigree. For all we know, she
may be a lineal descendant of Rollo himself.
I am afraid you will think me a man of in-
satiable curiosity, Miss Courtenay, but lost
pedigrees are one of my torments. I believe
in race, in the transmission of form and fea-
ture, of mind, and of certain defects and quali-
ties. Now, I want to know what has become,
for instance, of the descendants of the Scipios,
the Gracchi, the Julii, and tutti quantl of those
famous old Romans who are the misery of our
childhood. I want to know it, for I owe them
a grudge, and should like to pay it out. But
a Barbarian tide, leaving behind it an endless
Gothic sea, has swept away every sure token
of the past. It is impossible to doubt but
that some of those renowned families still
flourish — only where are they ? Blood of in-
estimable value flows in their veins, but this
rare treasure not being apprehensible by any
of our senses, its possessors live and die un-
conscious of their own greatness. I always
felt convinced that my washerwoman in Rome
had been an empress — I mean in the person
of one of her ancestors, for the transmigration
of souls is not one of my doctrines — and that
Benedetto, the facchino, was a remote cousin
of Catiline's. He had the man's audacious
subtlety, even as he had his features. Un-
lucky wretch ! he had no knowledge of his il-
lustrious ancestry ! I had a great mind to
enlighten him, but forbore, lest I should ren-
der him too much dissatisfied with his humble
lot ; for, you see, I can temper my fancies with
a certain amount of prudence, Miss Courtenay."
Doctor Richard was sitting on the edge of the
child's bed as he spoke thus, with much com-
posure and his usual fluency. Dora, leaning
back in her chair with her portfolio on her
knees, looked at him thoughtfully.

" He must have some little income," she
thought, " some slender provision between
him and want. The tone and substance of
his remarks — and how strangely he docs talk!
— both tell of leisure. I believe he likes his
profession ; but, poor fellow, I fear it does
not like him."

Spite the patient in the country, Dora did
not think Doctor Richard a busy or a prosperous
man. He had been with the child before she
came, he stayed when she now rose to go, and
she had scarcely been an hour in the picture-
gallery, when Doctor Richard stood behind ber
chair. He did not remain long, however ; he
had to go and read in the library, he said.

" I want to get the song of Roland," he in-
formed Dora, " I want to get back to Ro-
mance and Roncevaux, and the mighty horn
and Durandal, the heroic sword, and Oliver
and Ganelon, and ahove all, to that grand
death-scene, when Archbishop Turpin blesse3
the dead and dying heroes, and then dies him-
self, leaving Roland, as was but fitting, to die
last, with all these noble knights lying around
him. Do you read old French, Miss Cour-
tenay ? No ! what a pity. There are some
rare treasures here."

Now, Dora, being but mortal, thought she
could give Doctor Richard a little useful hint
toward practical wisdom.

" I must work, not read,' 1 ' she said, de-
murely.

" Work," good-humoredly replied Doctor
Richard, " is one of the modern mistakes. We
are born to be as well as to act, and thinking
is one of the many forms of action, whatev< c
matter of fact may say. So I keep to my
creed, and venture to blame yours.''

" Oh ! but I do read," said Dora, blushing ;
" but I have little time and few books.'

" Then, as I have the command of a I
library, allow me to lend you some. V m will
find the catalogue at Ho lame Bertrand's, and
can mark the volumes you prefer."

DOHA.

Dora looked so bappy as she turned round,
that Doctor Richard exclaimed gayly,
" Come, you are a reader, after all ! "
But he gave her no time to stammer her
thanks ; before they were half uttered he was
gone.

CHAPTER XVI.

The catalogue was waiting for Dora on Ma-
dame Bertrand's table when she went home.
" How kind he is ! " she thought ; but to her
sense of that kindness succeeded surprise when
on looking over, the catalogue she saw how
valuable and extensive a collection was thus
placed at her command. Doctor Richard
seemed to know no one in Rouen ; this library
must belong to his patient in the country.
But that patient did not seem to take up much
of Doctor Richard's time.

Early though it was when Dora called on
Catherine the next morning, Doctor Richard
was already with the child. He was alone
with her too, and pulling the string of a little
pasteboard puppet to amuse her. He stood
with his back to the door, and did not see
Dora.

" Faster ! " said Catherine, who lay in her
bed looking on gravely at Doctor Richard's
performance— " do it faster."

" So," suggested Doctor Richard, giving the
figure such a jerk, that its legs and arms both
shot out in hoiizontal directions, "is that
right ? "

" No," was Catherine's peevish reply, and
she turned ber head aside and shut her i

Dora now approached, and Doctor Richard
turned round and saw her.

" Good-morniiiL', Miss Courtenay," he said,
gravely; " \<jii find me verifying the truth of
that saying, uttered by a woman of genius,
that we arc all bom kings. This young lady,
lean assure you, is bflflh a cjueen. I offered
to stay with her whilst her mother went out

on some necessary errand, and all the return
I have got for my kindness is that she has
neither screamed, nor kicked, nor attempted
to bite. In all else I have been treated with
the most absolute contempt. "Well, well," he
added, sitting down on the edge of the bed,
and looking down kindly on the little creature,
who still kept her eyes shut, " this brief roy-
alty is the compensation granted by Nature for
all the future maltreatment of society. And
after all, Miss Courtenay, is not life full of
such atonements? My belief is, that the
'Arabian Nights,' for instance, and all such
stories of enchantment and buried treasure,
were meant to charm the poor man into a

more patient endurance of his barren life. It
is glorious to finger diamonds and pearls, and
have the wealth of an emperor, even though
it be but for a moment. But the most glori-
ous bit of all is, to be Haroun-al-Raschid — to
go about the streets of Bagdad at night with
Giafar and Mesrour, and set every wrong right
again — to give a bastinado to this man, and a
purse of gold to t'other one. Happy Caliph ! "

" The ' Arabian Nights ' are amongst the
books you so kindly offered to lend me," said
Dora ; " and I confess that, not having read
them since I was a child, I have asked for
them."

" And for Macchiavel's ■ Prince ? ' " he said,
glancing over the list she handed him. " Do
you really wish for that book, "Miss Courte-
nay ? " He looked up at her in surprise.

" I do," frankly answered Dora ; " Mr. Ryan
would never let me read it. He would not
help to ruin my political principles, he said ;
and I confess that famous book has all the
charm of forbidden fruit for me."

" You shall have it. I shall play the part
of serpent in this temptation, since you are so
willing to be Eve. But you will be disap-
pointed, for, woman-like, I dare say you will
run away with your first impression. And
yet, you see, this Macchiavel deserves consid-

MRS. LUAN'S SUSPICIONS.

eration. He was one of the few pitchers who
go to the well and do not come back as empty
as they went. But for all that you will be
disappointed."

" I am not such a girl, nor yet so ignorant
a girl as Doctor Richard imagines," thought
Dora, a little displeased. " I suppose he con-
siders Macchiavel's pitcher too full for me. I
require something more readable — something
that will do between the last sweet crochet-
stitch or the new quadrille. Paul was not
so. lie thought nothing above or beyond his
sister."

Unconscious of offence, Doctor Richard once
more devoted his attention to Catherine, who
had opened one eye, then the other, and who
finally uttered an imperious " Give it to rue,"
referring to the puppet.

"Whilst he was engaged with the child, Dora
rose to go.

" You leave me to my fate ! " he said, re-
proachfully.

" Yes," she answered, smiling, "I do ; "
and she went thinking, " Am I getting vain,
that I care so much for what Doctor Richard
may care for me ? "

Alas ! it was not vanity that stung her
then. She did not know it, yet something
she vaguely felt, for she went no more to see
the sick child in the morning. She thus
missed meeting Doctor Richard, but not hear-
inc about him. Catherine's mother was full
of his praises, especially after he had given
her ten francs for an old cracked plate not
worth ten sous. Dora sighed over Doctor
Richard's improvidence. "What wonder that
he had not been a successful man when he
spent his time and money thus ! But she for-
got his sins the very first time he came to see
them. Her color deepened and her eyes lit as
she heard his step and voice coming up the
staircase one evening. Mrs. Courtenay uttered
a little scream of delight, and immediately
poured him out a cup of tea.

Doctor Richard took it, though he also ex-
cused himself for calling so late, but he had
met Madame Bcrtrand, and that lady had told
him Mrs. Courtenay was not quite well. But
Mrs. Courtenay was ill when she pleased, and
not when it pleased other people that she
should be so. She looked affronted with Ma-
dame Bertrand's officiousness.

" Very foolish of her," she said, stiffly ; then
relaxing into her usual good-humor, she added,
confidentially, " I was not ill, Doctor Richard ;
I was only purring."

" Purring ! " he said, a little surprised.

" Yes," triumphantly resumed Mrs. Courte-
nay. " "When, people get to my age they take
to purring, Doctor Richard — that is to say,
they like to sit and muse and think over by-
gones, and close it all with a nap sometimes.
And you will purr too with time, and very nice
you will find it. I wanted Dora to do it the other
evening when I could see she felt dull; but
young people are saucy, and so she answered
that she was a kitten, and could not purr yet."

" But kittens do purr, Miss Courtenay," ar-
gued Doctor Richard, looking with evident
amusement at Dora's flushed face.

" So I told her," cried Mrs. Courtenay, with-
out giving Dora time to put in a word ; " but
she is an obstinate girl, Doctor Richard. Purr-
ing is too quiet for her, and she says she
would as soon be the painted Griselidis on
her bedroom curtains, as sit and purr."

" But Miss Courtenay sits long and patient-
ly at the Gallery," said Doctor Richard.

How kindly he spoke !

" He may be improvident," thought Dora ;
"but he is our countryman, we meet in a
foreign land, and surely we may take pleasure
in his society, and deal leniently with his
faults ; these are but the excesses of a fine,
generous nature. Ah ! how delightful it would
be if he would but continue to come and see
us every now and then ! His very presence
brings warmth with it."

DORA.

Thus she thought ; but if there had not been
a bandage over Dora's eyes, she might have
seen that the cordiality with which Doctor
Richard was received in their home had gen-
erated no confidence on his part. He was
quite familiar with all their' concerns — of his
they knew literally nothing. Now, strangely
enough, the first to be struck with this fact
was Mrs. Luan. The perception had been
coming td her for some time, everything she
now heard and saw confirmed it, and with it
other suspicious which she had long had.
She brooded over them in her usual sulky
silence, however, and went on with her patch-
work, seemingly absorbed in it.

Doctor Richard seemed to "take particular
pleasure in Dora's company this evening. She
felt happy, and looked as bright as sunshine.
The genial light in her face did Doctor Rich-
ard good. He had been severed for some time
from all pleasant society, almost as complete-
ly severed as Dora herself. So no wonder
that he enjoyed looking at the face and listen-
ing to the voice of this radiant girl. If he
liked her society, his was new to her, as, in-
deed, it ever was, like manna after the long
fast to the Israelites. It was so pleasant to
talk about something beyond the common-
place occurrences of daily life ! Never did
danger and temptation wear a subtler guise
than did these. So they talked of many
things. A good deal of drawing, in which
Doctor Richard gave Dora some excellent ad-
vice ; a good deal of music, with the theory
of which he was thoroughly conversant, and
more than all of books, which were evidently
the food of his life.

Now, perhaps, because Dora took evidently
great pleasure in listening to Doctor Richard,
was her danger so very plain this evening to
Mrs. Luan. She watched him. ne looked
very well. He was attired, too, in a respect-
able suit of black, which Mrs. Luan had not
given him credit for possessing. Altogether

he seemed to be enjoying himself, and, as Mrs.
Luan saw, Dora engrossed him almost en-
tirely. As soon as tea was over he asked to
see her last drawing. She went and fetched
it somewhat diffidently. She had learned to
think a great deal of, and, indeed, to dread
Doctor Richard's most lenient criticism. Per-
haps a subtle, unacknowledged desire of pleas-
ing him in everything might be at the root of
that feeling. Doctor Richard looked at the
drawing in silence — in silence, too, he gave it
back to her ; he noticed her flushed cheek and
troubled look, but her nervous little hands
shaking as she tied the strings of the portfolio
he did not see.

" It is not good, is it ? " asked Dora, unable
to bear the suspense of silence.

" Far from it. It is very good, indeed ; but
I am accustomed to that from you, Miss Cour-
tenay."

The blood rushed up to her face and dyed it
with the most beautiful rosy glow, but she bent
over the portfolio, and Doctor Richard saw
nothing, or, at least, he seemed to see nothing.

" But as I looked," he resumed, " I thought
of the paintings in the Campo Santo of Pisa —
something in one of your figures brought back
the whole spot to my mind in a second ; and,
to be frank with you, I was there, not here,
for the time being."

" What figure ? " quickly asked Dora.

" That of the youth. He is like one of the
cavaliers in Orgagna's Triumph of Death."

Dora looked pensive.

" The triumph of death ! " she repeated ;
" what can that be like ? "

" Like life. Youths and ladies, with falcons
and dogs, sit beneath orange-trees. They have
been hunting and hawking, and they are tired.
A troubadour and a singing-girl entertain
them. Cupids are abroad, too, as they usu-
ally are in such company — but Death is
coming — Death, a terrible woman, with sharp
claws, bat's wings, and a scythe."

MACCHIAVEL'S " PRINCE."

" An impressive picture," said Dora, slowly
— it seemed to be painted for her on the thin
air as she spoke, and it was painful, exquisite-
ly painful. The thought of death was abhor-
rent to her then, and chilled her very heart.

" Yes, impressive enough," was his careless
answer ; " but so is that newspaper, Miss
Courtenay. Take it up, and you will find its
births, marriages, and deaths, as impressive
as any homily. Orgagna's merit is that he
just painted what he saw — all in his fresco is
real, save the figure of Death."

"When did you see that?" asked Mrs.
Luan.

She so seldom spoke, that they all looked at
her. Doctor Richard answered composedly :

" It was some years ago."

Dora rose and put away her portfolio, and,
as she did so, she wondered what had taken
him to Italy.

Mrs. Luan spoke again.

"From what part of Ireland do you come,
Doctor Richard ? "

The question was a natural one enough ;
the only wonder was it had not been put be-
fore this evening. Yet Dora saw just a shade
of annoyance cross Dr. Richard's countenance
as Mrs. Luan spoke.

" I come from Kerry," he briefly replied,
and with less than his usual courtesy he
turned at once from Mrs. Luan to Dora, and
said quickly, "We were speaking of the Irish
melodies, Miss Courtenay. Am I to conclude
that you prefer 'Eileen Aroon' to 'Gratna-
chree?"'

" ' Gramachree ! ' " repeated Dora, not un-
derstanding at first.

" Yes, that fine melody to which Moore set
his words of 'The Harp that once through
Tara's Halls.' "

Mrs. Luan was decidedly excited this even-

ins

"I hate Mr. Templemore," she said — "a
swindler, a cheat ! He cheated Paul, he

cheated John, he cheated Dora out of Mr.
Courtenay's money ! "

They all remained aghast at this unexpected
outbreak. Doctor Richard looked as sur-
prised as a well-bred man ever allows himself
to look. Mrs. Courtenay spoke at length :

" My dear," she said, " it was not cheating."

" It was," insisted Mrs. Luan, whose hands
shook over her patchwork.

" No, aunt, it was not," said Dora, quietly ;
then turning to Doctor Richard, she gave such
explanation as this brief scene required. " An
uncle of ours left his property to that Mr.
Templemore, and though he is not to blame,
there are such painful recollections connected
with his name, that it is never mentioned
among us."

Doctor Richard bent his head in token of
assent, and changed the subject. Painting
had led to questions, music to a scene — he
tried literature.

" How do you like Macchiavel's ' Prince ? ' "
he asked.

Dora gave him no direct answer, but look-
ing at him earnestly, she said :

" You surely do not admire that man, Doc-
tor Richard ? "

" I beg your pardon, I do — dear, candid old
boy ! Hear him on the subject of Conquest.
Do you wish to conquer a kingdom, Miss
Courtenay ? Why, then, take care to exter-
minate the native princes whom you rob. Or
have you injured your neighbor ? — a common
case — well, then, if you cannot conciliate, kill
him ! When you injure a man, do not leave
it in his power to be revenged. I declare I
admire the man prodigiously. It is quite
comfortable to hear murder, robbery, and so
forth, spoken of in that calm, impartial man-
ner."

"Then you do not admire him?" said
Dora.

"Not admire him!— why, one of his vol-
umes is never out of my pocket. I only la-

DORA.

merit the dear, good-natured fellow is dead,
and cannot write leaders in newspapers, or
make speeches in senates. The great differ-
ence between him and us degenerate moderns,
you see, is that, we have lost that beautiful
candor of his. Yes, I fear that is gone," added
Doctor Richard, in a tone of feeling regret ;
" but," he resumed, lookiDg at Dora with a
smile, " I preach in the desert. To tell you
the truth, I would never have suggested that
you should read ' The Prince.' It was your
own desire which you followed, not my advice,
you know."

" I hate Mr. Templemore," said Mrs. Luan,
again ; " he is a cheat, a swindler, a thief !
Why are we beggars and is he rich ? "

" Aunt ! " remonstratively said Dora, very
much annoyed at this second unseemly out-
break.

Doctor Richard smiled.

" That Templemore is a fool," he said ; " he
should, having injured Mrs. Luan, have taken
some Macchiavcl-like means to pacify her —
either a handsome slice out of the inheritance,
or if that should have been too expensive, a sed-
ative, a cooling draught of some kind or other."

Now Mrs. Luan did not always understand
irony, "being a woman of slow literal mind, and
all she now understood was that Doctor
Richard recommended poisoning her. She
could not speak, but her features worked, and
her hands shook with anger. Perhaps he was
aware of these signs ; perhaps, too, he felt
that he had commented too freely on a strictly
private matter. At all events, he looked at
his watch, and rose to go, like one who had
let an appointed hour slip by.

"I shall not see you for a few days," he
said, shaking hands with Mrs. Courtenay, " for
I am going down to the country to-morrow;
but I trust to find you still quite well when I
return. If an) thing should ail you in my ab-
sence, let me advise you to call in Doctor Le
Roux."

He handed her a card as he spoke. Mrs.
Courtenay looked at it with childish curi-
osity.

" I suppose he takes care of your patients
in your absence ? " she suggested.

" He would do so," carelessly replied Doc-
tor Richard, " if I had any patients to take
care of ; but, unluckily, that is not the case."

He spoke a little recklessly, as if the matter
were one of profound indifference to him. Dora
looked at him with involuntary compassion.
He was more than thirty, and yet his career
had done so little for him. It was a hard — a
very hard case.

Doctor Richard turned to bid Mrs. Luan
adieu, but Mrs. Luan, probably to avoid shak-
ing hands with him, had left the room. Doctor
Richard made no comment, and turned to Dora.
She had taken a candle to light him down the
dark staircase. Madame Bertrand was in bed,
and, moreover, would not have left her com-
fortable fireside for any such task. Doctor
Richard went down without saying a word,
but paused at the foot of the staircase.

" Do you like flowers ? " he asked, with his
hand on the banisters.

'i Yes, very much."

" Then you will allow me to bring you some
from the country ? " he said, quickly. " I
might have known that you liked flowers," he
added, without giving her time to reply ; " but
the doubt on my mind arose from the fact that
I never see any with you."

Dora colored, then said, without false
shame :

" Flowers — beautiful flowers especially — are
expensive at this time of the year."

" Just so. Well, the gardener at the house
to which I am going is a very good friend of
mine, and he shall give me flowers — beautiful
flowers, too, or I will have none of them."

Dora colored again, with pleasure this time,
and she gave him a happy, grateful look. They
shook hands, and he was gone.

MISS COURTENAY'S LOVE AND PIETY.

CHAPTER XVII.

" I wonder where he is going," thought Do-
ra; " or where his rich patient lives ? "

" My dear, how flushed you are ! " said Mrs.
Courtenay, as her daughter entered the sitting-
room again, and put down the light with a
pensive look. " Does your head ache ? "

" Oh ! no, I am only thinking how kind
Doctor Richard is. He is going to bring me
flowers — beautiful flowers from the coun-
try."

" He is the very kindest man ! " cried Mrs.
Courtenay, clasping her little plump white
hands, " is he not, Mrs. Luan ? "

Dora now perceived that her aunt had re-
turned to the sitting-room. She saw too that
Mrs. Luan looked herself again. Quite coolly
she answered :

" I am sure Doctor Richard is married."

An earthquake could not have inflicted a
more fearful shock upon Dora than did these
words, nor one to which every fibre of her being
was more terribly responsive. It seemed as if
the floor shook beneath her feet — as if the room,
with her mother and Mrs. Luan, went round
and round before her swimming eyes. The
revelation to herself of her secret hopes and
wishes was both violent and cruel. One word
she could not speak ; but she sat down pale,
breathless, full of terror, and covered with
shame.

Mrs. Courtenay's consternation, though not
equal to her daughter's in depth, was as great
in extent.

" Married ! " she said, in an injured tone,
which showed she did not think Doctor Rich-
ard could be guilty of such a crime ; " I do
not believe it."

" And I am sure of it," retorted Mrs. Luan,
with dark triumph at the sinner's iniquity.
" What did he go to Italy for ? Why did he
not like to say he came from Kerry? Why
does he never speak about himself? I am

sure he is married, and that he ill-uses his
wife."

" And I am sure Doctor Richard would ill-
use no one," quietly put in Dora. She had
recovered by this, and though rather pale, was
perfectly calm. " How late it is ! " she added,
as the old clock below struck the hour.

She left them still looking very quiet ; but
when she had entered her room, when she had
closed and locked the door, and was free from
intrusion, she flung herself on a chair near her
bed, and burying her face in her pillow, she
gave way to her humiliation and grief. She,
Dora Courtenay, a girl of twenty-three, loved
this stranger ! — and he might be married !
She had never thought of that — but had she
thought of anything ? She had known him a
few weeks, and how could she dream of dan-
ger? And there was nothing to justify this
terrible folly. He had been kind, he had been
courteous, he had shown that he admired her,
but no girl in her senses, and with the least
experience of life, could say that he had be-
trayed any of the symptoms of love. A mar-
ried man might behave to her exactly as Doc-
tor Richard had behaved. Kindness, cour-
tesy, and admiration are not prohibited to or
from the wedded. It was all her folly, her
own miserable folly. She told herself so again
and again ; but did it lessen the hardship of
her fate that she alone was to blame for it ?
Alas! the more- she looked into the past, the
deeper was her sense of abasement. She
knew nothing of Doctor Richard, literally
nothing. Of his family, of his antecedents,
of his fortunes, she was deeply ignorant. He
might be an adventurer, one of life's outcasts,
for all Dora Courtenay knew. That he was
poor, and led rather a useless, idle sort of
life, was certain. What had brought him to
Rouen? Debts, perhaps— debts, or trorse.
Dora's heart sickened 'and revolted at the
thought. No, she would believe nothing
mean, nothing dishonorable of him. The open

DORA.

manlinesss of his countenance gave her firm
security against all degradation. That clear,
frank look was the look of a man without fear
or shame. But he might be married, and the
thought was misery; he might have left his
wife in Italy or in Ireland — nay, he might
have gone to see her in the country. " But
surely in that case he would say it," thought
Dora; "it would be neither honorable nor
courteous to make a mystery of it. No, if he
is married, his wife is not here. I dare say she
is in Ireland." Suddenly a picture rose be-
fore Dora Courtenay's eye — a beautiful, heart-
rending picture. She saw a bright hearth, a
fair woman, with a child on her knee, and Doc-
tor Richard smiling happily. She sat up, she
clasped her hands tightly, she knit her brows
and set her teeth. " I must bear it," she
thought ; " I must. What right have I to
quarrel with his domestic happiness? Let
him be married or not married, what is it to
me ? "

But pride is a weak stay at the best. That
spirit of defiance with which Dora uttered her
'■What is it to me?" soon died away, and
left her desolate and weak. There is a well
of strength, however, which she knew of old.
To it she now turned, asking the Divine Mas-
ter for a cup of those sweet waters which the
Samaritan woman longed for. There were
many pious memorials in Dora's room — many
signs of man's weakness and God's mercy — al-
most all were also tokens of her lost brother's
love ; and as she now looked at them, each
had its own language. That pathetic little
image of the child Jesus sleeping on the cross
Paul had bought from an Italian boy, and
given her. That Saint Catherine borne by
angels she had found hanging by her bedside
on her sixteenth birthday ; and that divine
head cuowned with thorns she had taken away
from Paul's room after his death. From the
position of the picture, Dora had often thought
that her brother's last look had rested upon

that calm, sorrowful face — sorrowful for man's
sin, and not for the cost of redemption. The
tears rushed to her eyes, and her lips quivered
as sacrifice, suffering, death, and immortal
love, all thus admonished and condemned her.
She knelt and said her prayers, feeling both
stricken and humbled by her folly, and asking
for power to conquer, or for resignation to en-
dure it, if endurance must indeed be her lot.

But though prayer is ever heard in heaven,
we are not told that it is ever heard at once.
A long sleepless night did Dora spend — long
and cruel. She could not bear to go on loving
this stranger, and she could not help it. This
was her first love — the only love she was ever
to know, and it had come to her, like Minerva
from the brain of Jove, full grown and all-
powerful. She tried to strive against it, but
it seemed to her as if she only came out of
the struggle weak, helpless, and. beaten. A
sickening sense of her powerlessness stole
over her, then a vague, pitiful, yearning hope
closed the long contest.

Never did Dora forget the bitter suspense
of the next three days — three long, weary
days of impatience and heart-sickening ex-
pectation. Madame Bertrand knew nothing —
besides, Dora could put no plain questions,
and her open, ingenuous nature revolted from
indirect inquiry.

" Oh ! if he were but back ! " she thought —
" that this wretched suspense might be over
— that I might either be at peace with my-
self, or never see him again ! "

At length the hope of relief came. On the
morning of the third day Madame Bertrand
came up with a nosegay of flowers so exquis-
ite and so rare, that Dora remained mute as
they were put in her trembling hands, and Mrs.
Courtenay screamed with admiration, whilst
even Mrs. Luan stared.

" They come from a conservatory," thought
Dora, as she bent her flushed face over them.
He might be married, but she could not help

MRS. LUAN MAKES A DISCOVERY.

feeling happy at the gift. Yet she would not
indulge herself. She was dressed to go out,
and she went, and refused to linger and admire
these rare and beautiful flowers. "I must
not," she thought; and to her mother she
said, " I must work, you know."

She went to her task, but her mind, no
more than her heart, was in it. She longed
for the evening. She felt sure he would look
in, and that Mrs. Luan would question him,
and then a blank followed the thought.

"And then," thought Dora, after a while,
" all will be over, and I shall be at rest. It
is impossible that I cannot conquer this mad-
ness. I feel sure it is a sort of madness and
no more. It is impossible that I should care
— really care — for a man of whom I know
nothing. I do not believe it — I will not !
Besides, how can I, if he is married ? But,
then, suppose he is not ? "

Her hand slackened in its labor, her pencil
paused, then was still. Her heart beat, her
pulses throbbed. If Doctor Richard was not
married, might she not hope that he came to
her mother's house for her sake ? It was a
natural hope and a natural conjecture. The
young are allowed to indulge in such thoughts
and such feelings. Later, they are forbidden,
and none but the foolish can think and feel
so. Indeed, it is part of the wisdom of age
to put by and forget these fond badges of
youth. They are things to be pinned on, and
unpinned again, and left off early. The rosy
favors of love are apt to fade, and the gay
colors of pleasure have but a time. Truly it
is lucky that the old are allowed to grow wise,
to leave off their follies, and deny them grave-
ly. It would be sad if Phillis should wear her
shepherdess's hat and fluttering ribbons till
threescore, and if Corydon should pipe to his
sheep when the warm summer days have for-
ever gone by.

But Dora's early spring was scarcely over,
and her May was in all its sweet fervor. Love

to her was a hope, a mystery, and a delight-
ful promise. A poor life, a life of toil, fright-
ened her not, if this kind and true companion
would but share it with her. She believed
him honorable and good — what more was
needed ? For that is youth's glorious privi-
lege. It is equal to any folly granted, but
then it comes short of no heroism, no daring,
no sacrifice. For this, we all love it, and in
some sense we all honor it. We look at it as
we might look at some noble tree full of the
sap of life, its green boughs laden with flowers,
and birds making sweet music beneath the
leaves. We know, indeed, that they will be
mute some day, for winter must come; we
know that the leaves will turn yellow, and lie
dead on the sodden earth ; but all the sweeter
for that knowledge are this fair tree's brief
splendor and beauty.

Of that brevity youth is as happily uncon-
scious as the tree in the forest. If its sacri-
fices are to be boundless, so are its loves to
be immortal. It was not in Dora's power to
foresee an end to her present feelings, and
hence, perhaps, she surrendered herself to
dangerous conjecture. But she could be wise
too, for there is a wisdom which is not the
fruit of experience, a wisdom which springs
from the habit of self-subjection, and this soon
came to the rescue. With a guilty start she
banished the vision which turned the kind
and courteous visitor into a fond lover. No
modest girl who has had the misfortune to
give her affection unsought, willingly, and in
the first bitterness of the discovery, indulges
in such fancies. Later they may come with
hope, and be cherished, but surely not at
first.

"I must work," thought Dora, resolutely;
and she worked hard and conscientiously, till
a step behind her made her cheeks burn. She
knew well enough it was Doctor Richard, who
was coming to look at her drawing. She
turned round, trying to look calm, and she

DORA.

thanked him for the flowers with tolerable
composure.

" I shall bring you more next time," he
said, smiling. Then he asked after Mrs.
Courtenay.

" She is pretty well," replied Dora, quickly ;
" but I wish you would come in this evening
and see her."

How she hated herself for saying that ; but
she could bear the suspense no longer. She
knew that if he came Mrs. Luan would surely
get the truth from him. Doctor Richard
promised to look in readily enough, and he
proceeded to talk to her of her drawing. He
stayed long, advising, suggesting, and, do
what she would, Dora felt happy.

The evening came, that evening which
Dora longed for, and with it came Doctor
Richard, pleasant and genial. Mrs. Luan
glared at him, but, contrary to Dora's expec-
tation, she was mute. Would she let him de-
part without putting the momentous question ?
But when, in answer to Dora's thanks, Doctor
Richard said,

" I told the gardener's wife to choose such
flowers — "

" Tour wife ! " interrupted Mrs. Luan, pre-
tending to misunderstand him. " Is she in
France, Doctor Richard ? "

A deep silence followed this question.
Dora's breath seemed gone, and she looked
furtively at Doctor Richard. He colored, and
a few seconds elapsed ere he replied.

"I have no wife, Mrs. Luan. — I am a
widower," he added, gravely.

Mrs. Luan, who had looked triumphant for
a moment, now looked blank, and Doctor
Richard, turning to Dora, continued —

"Will you allow me to bring my little girl
to see you, Miss Courtenay, I shall have her
in Rouen for a day ? "

Dora scarcely knew what she answered.
She felt in heaven. She expected nothing,
but Doctor Richard was not a married man.

She need feel no humiliation, no shame. Her
reply seemed satisfactory, however, for he
smiled, and looked satisfied ; whilst Mrs.
Courtenay, though rather offended that Doc-
tor Richard did not want to bring his little
girl to see her, asked how old the young lady
was.

" Seven — but very delicate," he answered,
with a sigh.

Dora felt full of pity, and questioned eager-
ly. Was she tall, dark, or fair, and did she
speak French ? And Doctor Richard, like
most parents, answered readily. Dora thus
learned that Eva was the child's name — that
she was tall, dark, and spoke French fluently.

" And when will you bring her to us ? " she
asked.

He saw her eager eyes bent upon him ; he
read desire in her parted lips, and he smiled
a kind, pleasant smile.

" After to-morrow, if you like it," he said.

" Doctor^ what made you call her Eva ? "
inquired Mrs. Courtenay.

"It was her mother's name."

A cloud came over his face as he spoke,
which looked more like the shadow of a past
trouble than like the remembrance of a sor-
row.

" I wonder if he was happy with his wife ! "
thought Dora; "perhaps not, and perhaps,
too, he does not mean to marry again."

The thought gave her no pain. To love is
love's true happiness, and, in its early stage
at least, it looks for none other. Delightful,
therefore, was this evening to her. She spoke
little, but she felt happy ; and as she felt she
looked, though she sat in silent reverie. She
tried, indeed, to rouse herself, and at length
she succeeded. When she came back from
the world to which she had been wandering —
the pleasant world of a girl's fancies — and
was once more, both in body and in spirit,
present in her mother's sitting-room, she fouud
Mrs. Courtenay and Doctor Richard talking

LITTLE EVA'S DOLL.

gayly, and Mrs. Luan moody and sulky. Doc-
tor Richard was a free man — nothing could
atone for that calamity. Mrs. Courtenay
looked at her sister-in-law, then winked sig-
nificantly at Doctor Richard, adding, in broken
words, which Mrs. Luan was supposed not to
understand —

" Always was so — likes nothing — does not
mind me now — does not know what I am
talking of."

Doctor Richard was of another opinion,
and he succeeded in changing the discourse,
which referred no more to Mrs. Luan till he left.

Almost from the first moment that he had
mentioned the existence of his child, Dora had
been full of a project, which she imparted to
her mother as soon as he was gone, and Mrs.
Luan had retired to her own room,

" Mamma," she said rather eagerly, " Doc-
tor Richard has been very kind to us. Sup-
pose I dress a doll for Eva — the handsomest
I can find ? "

Mrs. Courtenay was charmed with the idea,
and added* confidentially —

"It is to you Doctor Richard wishes to
bring his little girl. Dora, depend upon it he
wants to marry you."

Dora turned crimson, and denied this — but
faintly.

M And I am sure of it," said Mrs. Courtenay ;
" but perhaps you do not like him ? Then,
Dora, do not encourage him. He looks as if
he would take such a matter to heart ; better
not give the child a doll, after all."

Dora did not think that to give Eva a doll
* was to encourage Eva's father in a hopeless
passion ; and she said so.

" And as my white silk dress would only get
yellow and old-fashioned," she added, " I shall
cut it up."

" Cut up your beautiful silk, Dora ! "

" I shall never wear it again ; and I do not
like dyed silks. Besides, it is better to save
money than buy."

Mrs. Courtenay gave in, but with a sigh.

"I shall dress her like a bride," resumed
Dora, " with a veil and orange-wreath."

Mrs. Courtenay screamed with delight.

" And she shall have a train ever so long,
and satin shoes, and white kid gloves. She
shall be the handsomest doll in Rouen. I shall
go and buy it to-morrow morning ; and, mam-
ma, you will not tell aunt? "

"Of course not," shrewdly said Mrs. Cour-
tenay, who liked a conspiracy of all things.

When Dora retired to her own room, she
took out the white silk dress, and looked at it.
She had looked well in this dress, and she
knew it. Were those days forever gone by ?
Was she never to go to a party again, but to
spend life in its present obscurity ? It really
was a pity to cut it up ; but then they could
not afford to buy, and Doctor Richard had been
so kind. There was no harm, however, in
putting on this doomed robe once more, and
seeing how she looked in it. So Dora slipped
it on, and looked at herself in the glass, and
bade a sort of farewell to life's vanities as she
saw her own image there. It is pleasant to
look well — it is pleasant to wear silken gar-
ments, with their folds to rustle as we inove —
it is pleasant to be clad in the hue which suits
our youth and its bloom, both, alas ! so fleet-
ing ; but it is scarcely pleasant to do so when
we feel that Pleasure has closed her gates upon
us, and will open them no more.

"And yet why should there not be some
wonderful story for me too ? " thought Dora,
sitting down to muse over her future ; " why
should dull commonplace be my lot ? I do
not feel as if the straight and beaten road
were to be mine. I seem to see many winding
paths before me. It maybe an illusion, but it
is a harmless one, and I will not bid it begone.
As to the dress, I care not for it."

She took it oft", and to prevent the possibility
of repentance, took two breadths out of the
skirt. This sacrifice being accomplished, she

DORA.

went to bed and dreamed of a marvellous doll
with a train half a yard long. Early the next
morning, Dora went out. She succeeded in
finding such a doll as she wanted, and brought
it home under her cloak, so that Mi's. Luan
might n<Tt see it. She set about her task at
once, and locked herself in to prevent a sur-
prise ; but Mrs. Courtenay, who, though she
liked a conspiracy, did not seem to understand
that secrecy was one of its most necessary in-
gredients, came and knocked for admittance
every five minutes, "just to see how she was
getting on." As Dora carefully locked the
door after her mother every time she thus
came, Mrs. Luan, had she been an observant
person, could not have failed detecting the ex-
istence of a mystery. Luckily, few things, un-
less when connected in a very direct manner
with her concerns, drew her attention, and all
she thought, if she thought at all, was that
Dora was engaged in some new drawing.

" What a pretty doll it is ! " whispered Mrs.
Courtenay, bending over the pillow on which
the doll lay carefully wrapped in tissue paper ;
" and, oh ! Dora, how it does stare ! "

This Mrs. Courtenay announced as a de-
cidedly singular fact, and as if the staring of
dolls were a new discovery of hers.

"Yes," gayly said Dora; "it was shut up
in a box, you see, and having just come out,
it is making the best use of its eyes. Besides,
it is fresh from Germany, and has a good deal
to learn, poor thing! in this new country.
Perhaps it is thinking of the Fatherland, and
lamenting the change from the Rhine to the
Seine."

"And, oh!" said Mrs. Courtenay, with her
little scream, " you have got shoes for it ! "
and she took and twirled on her finger a pair
of white satin bridal shoes, beautifully made.

" Yes," replied Dora, looking at them with a
little envious sigh ; " I knew I could not make
il.ru, so wcU, so I bought them, and stockings
and gloves. The rest I shall fashion myself."

And very cleverly did Dora set about her
task. Her eye and her taste were both cor-
rect, and ere the day was half over the bride's
attire was nearly completed.

" Is not Dora going out to-day ? " asked
Mrs. Luan, with some wonder.

Mrs. Courtenay winked several times very
fast, pursed up her lips, and uttered a mysteri-
ous " No."

" What is she doing, then ? "

" Nothing particular," replied Mrs. Courte-
nay, whose tone implied that Dora was doing
something very particular indeed.

" Is she not well ? "

" Dear me, Mrs. Luan, how many questions
you do put ! Cannot the child stay within
without your knowing why ? "

Now, if Mrs. Luan's inquisitiveness had not
been stimulated after this, she should have
had no such organ. But as she did possess
some share of this important faculty, she de-
termined to know what Dora was doing.
Very craftily, however, did she set about her
purpose. When Mrs. Courtenay leffthe room,
Mrs. Luan went and knocked at Dora's door,
and Dora, thinking it was her mother, opened
with a chiding smile.

" Is not your mother here ? " asked Mrs.
Luan.

" No, aunt," replied Dora, blushing with
vexation.

No change, no emotion, appeared on Mrs.
Luan's heavy face as she withdrew ; but she
had seen the doll standing with her back to a
chair, her white dress on, and the orange-
wreath and veil on the table; and she was not
quite so dull but that she knew what this
meant. Mrs. Luan had a spice of vindictive-
ness in her composition. She felt aggrieved
at Dora's daring act, and still more aggrieved
at having been excluded from all knowledge
of it. She resolved to be revenged, and
watched her opportunity so well, that when
Dora left her room after dinner, Mrs. Luan

DR. RICHARD'S EVENING VISIT.

stole into it unsuspected. But in vain she
looked on the bed, on the furniture — the doll
was not there ; in vain she tried the drawers,
Dora had locked them and taken the key.
Mrs. Luan's homicidal intentions against Eva's
doll were defeated, and she crept out of the
room unseen indeed, but none the less sulky
at having been baffled.

Doctor Richard came in the evening. He
had not intended doing so, but he had been to
the Gallery, and not seeing Dora there, he
concluded that either she or her mother was
unwell. He now called to ascertain the cor-
rectness of his suspicions.

Dora smiled demurely at his surprise, and
replied gayly,

" No, I could not go to-day."

Mrs. Courtenay pursed up her lips not to
laugh, and said, with a mysterious and puzzled
assumption of clearness,

" No, Dora could not go to-day."

" Dora was dressing a doll," put in Mrs. Luan,
who would not be quite balked of her revenge.
"A doll for your little girl, Doctor Richard."

Doctor Richard smiled, looked surprised as
well as pleased, and said, " Indeed ! " whilst
Dora uttered a remonstrative, " Oh, aunt ! "
and tried not to seem too much annoyed.
Mrs. Courtenay did not attempt to conceal her
indignation. ,

" Of all talkative creatures, Mrs. Luan," she
said, austerely, " you are the most indiscreet.
Tou might know Dora wanted to surprise her
young friend."

Mrs. Luan resorted to her usual defence,
and began to buzz.

" I don't know anything about that," she
said. " The doll was dressed like a bride,
which did not look like a secret. At least, I
know that when my aunt ran away with Sir
John Barry she went in a cotton dress, in
order to be taken for the cook. Though how
she could be taken for the cook, who was stout,
and forty-five, I don't know."

" There ! — there ! " superciliously replied
Mrs. Courtenay, " who ever heard the like ?
Do you suppose we mean to say the doll was
going to contract a private marriage, or to run >
away with any one, when the orange-wreath
and the veil tell as plainly as can be that she
is going off to church ? "

" My dear Miss Courtenay," said Doctor
Richard, pathetically, " do let me have a
peep at the bride. I shall be miserable if I
do not see her, and you may be sure I shall
not say a word about it to Eva ! "

Dora, nothing loath, rose, and went and
brought out "the Mariee." She placed her
standing safely against the wall, and having set
her off by putting a sheet of blue paper behind
her back, she withdrew several steps, and
looked rather anxiously at Doctor Richard's
dark face. This doll was a very pretty one —
she had blue eyes, pink cheeks, and red lips.
Somewhat deficient in figure she had been,
but, thanks to Dora's unscrupulous skill, she
had now the most delicate round waist.
These " natural " advantages were set off by
the loveliest bridal dress maiden ever wore on
her marriage morn. Her robe of long sweep-
ing white silk, looped up in front to show a

pair of fairy white feet r was exquisitely trimmed
with tulle bouillonne, as an article on the
fashions would have said. A long veil, through
which shone her fair hair, flowed around her.
The orange-wreath nodded over her snowy
brow ; pearls gleamed on her plump white
neck, and were twisted in rows around her
fair arms. Doctor Richard frowned.

" Miss Courtenay," he asked, " does a bride
wear jewels ? "

" I believe pearls are allowed," timidly said
Dora. " Besides," she pleaded, " they are sure
to please the child."

" Pearls, and no prayer-book ! " he con-
tinued, critically.

But Dora shut his mouth. She produced a
combination of white satin and gilt paper,

DORA.

which, when completed, was to be placed in
the hand of the bride, and to.be considered a
prayer-book. Doctor Richard smiled, and
made no further objection.

" Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, evidently
much gratified, " I cannot tell you how grate-
ful I feel for all the trouble you have taken,
and if Eva does not go crazy with joy, I know
nothing about her ! "

" I hope she will like it," remarked Dora,
with a smile. " I have done my best."

" You have done wonders — and the doll is
a beautiful doll ! Indeed, I feel bound to wish
her bridegroom joy, whoever he may be. This
Minna or Thecla — for who can doubt her
parentage ? — will surely make a good wife !
There is truth in her honest blue eye, and
good-humor iu her round, rosy face. She has
a good intellectual development too. In short,
I see a store of domestic bliss for the happy
man ! "

" Dear, dear ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay,
" to think you should see it all in the doll's face,
Doctor Richard ! I only saw that she stares."

" She does stare a lee-ttle — just a leettle
bit," deprecatingly observed Doctor Richard.
" In her maiden innocence, you see, she looks
at this wicked world, and thinking no harm of
it, forgets to drop her eyelids. Besides, this
bit of insolence shows her high birth and per-
fect breeding. Then how do we know but
that she is a specimen of the fast young lady !
These rosy lips may talk slang for all I can
tell to the contrary ; but oh ! if she does talk
slang, let it be German slang, I pray, and not
English slang, wherewith she might corrupt
my little Eva's vernacular."

" She shall not talk at all, Doctor Richard,"
gayly exclaimed Dora. " I am a fairy, and I
lay upon her the spell of silence."

"An Irish <;*'i>, such as used to be laid on
our kings and heroes," Bald Doctor Richard,
li-iiiL'. "Dear Miss Courtenay, your bride is
perfect now ; for as she can never say the fatal

' yes,' so can she never cease to be a bride.
Life to her will be a perpetual marriage morn-
ing, with orange-wreath ever in bloom. Time
is no more for her. Youth and beauty cannot
fade. Truly you are a fairy indeed ! "

" What, going so soon ? " cried Mrs. Cour-
tenay, as she saw him looking for his hat.

" Yes, I have an appointment. But I shall
bring you Eva to-morrow."

" Bring her to luncheon," warmly said Mrs.
Courtenay.

Doctor Richard seemed to hesitate.

" With great pleasure," he said, after the
pause -of a moment; "but though I by no
means presume to make the favor I am going
to ask a condition of my little Eva's coming
to-morrow, I hope you will grant it. I have
long promised Eva that she and I should have
luncheon together on the grass before the
weather got too cool. Will ■ you join us ?
The spot is pretty, and within five minutes of
Rouen by rail."

Mrs. Courtenay and her daughter were taken
by surprise. They exchanged looks, then Mrs.
Courtenay spoke and accepted.

" You see, my dear," she said to Dora after
Doctor Richard had left them, " it would really
have been unkind to refuse Doctor Richard ;
he would- have thought we were afraid of put-
ting him to some expense, and that would
have annoyed and humbled him."

CHAPTER XVIII.

Beautiful and bright shone the next morn-
ing when Dora opened her window and looked
out. A warm sunbeam stealing over the roof
of their low house lit the opposite church ; the
vine-leaves reddened in its glow, the air was
crisp and sharp, and every thing to Dora
looked enchanting.

"We must give Doctor Richard and his
little girl a good luncheon," said Mrs. Cour-

THE LUNCHEON.

tenay, who partook of her daughter's exhila-
ration ; " a pair of roast fowls, and a tart.
Thelittle thing is sure to like the pastry."

"And so is the father," suggested Mrs.
Luan, grimly ; " he eats our bread and butter
as if he were starving."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Luan," shortly replied
Mrs. Courtenay; "how can Doctor Richard be
starving when he has that large house to him-
self?"

"I dare say he pays no rent," said Mrs.
Luan, after a pause ; " they have put him in
to keep it aired."

" They '.—who ?— what they ? "

But to answer this question was beyond
Mrs. Luan. She replied, impatiently, that she
did not know their name ; and Mrs. Courtenay
had too much to do to spend more time in the
argument. A terrible deal of fuss and worry
had to be gone through before the luncheon
could be got ready for one o'clock, the ap-
pointed hour.

Mrs. Courtenay joined Madame Bertrand in
the kitchen, and a little squabbling, polite, of
course, but decidedly squabbling, was the con-
sequence of her appearance there. Dora, too,
had her share of preparation, though Mrs.
Courtenay would not hear of her venturing on
anything culinary, lest she should" soil her
clothes or spoil her hands ; and Mrs. Luan
alone sat idle, and in high dudgeon. Most
cordially did she hate these doings, and Doc-
tor Richard and Eva, and the expense and the
doll. But she was mute. She knew she had
no right to speak, and that her objection, if
she made any, would not be regarded. So she
was silent, and looked on — brooding over her
wrongs, and thinking them many.

And now the hour came round, and both
Dora and Mrs. Courtenay began to look anx-
iously at the clock. At a quarter to one steps
were heard coming up the staircase, and a
childish voice mingled with deeper tones.
Dora went and opened the door, and received

her young guest with a smile and a kiss. Eva
had her father!s dark eyes and his genial
smile, but otherwise she was not much like
him. She gave Dora a shy, wistful look, then
she returned her embrace, and was familiar
and free in a moment.

" You live here ? " she said, running to the
window and peeping out. " Oh ! what a queer
old church ! Do you like it ? Are these your
birds ? "

She looked curiously at Dora's sparrows,
who fed tamely on the ledge of the opeu win-
dow, looking sharply at Eva, however, with
their little keen black eyes, then suddenly flew
away twittering.

" Miss Courtenay prevails over every thing,"
said Doctor Richard ; " birds and children."

" Come to my room," whispered Dora. " I
have a young lady there who is waiting for you."

" For me ? " said Eva, looking interested.

Dora nodded, and, taking her hand, led her
away. They entered her room, and she there
probably introduced Miss Eva to the bride, for
Doctor Richard smiled as he heard a succes-
sion of rapturous screams from within. Pres-
ently Eva came out with the doll in her arms,
and ran to her father, her eyes sparkling, her
cheeks flushed with joy.

" Oh ! do look ! " she entreated ; " do ! "

Doctor Richard pretended to be greatly
pleased and surprised, and every thing would
have gone on charmingly, if Mrs. Luan had
not uttered a croaking note :

" That doll will not live — it is consump-
tive ! "

" Dolls do not die," pertly said Miss Eva ;
" they get broken, though."

She laughed, but no one else laughed. Doc-
tor Richard's -eye had an angry flash as it
lighted on Mrs. Luan, and Dora and her
mother looked shocked and distressed, for the
glow of health was wanting to Eva's dark
(.luck, and now and then a hectic flush ap-
I pcared there in its stead. She was a sickly

DORA.

child, too, and ate little. The chickens, though
done to a turn, did not tempt her; the tart
she would not touch. " Ah ! there is sorrow
in store for him there, and he knows it,"
thought Dora ; but conscious of future grief
though he might be, Doctor Richard did not
intrude his apprehension upon his friends. He
was as gay and cheerful as he could well be,
uttered some pretty nonsense about the bride,
and indulged himself in some of those flights
of speech which, if they entertained Dora, al-
ways saddened her, as showing how little
share the practical had in his life. Mrs. Cour-
tenay seemed struck with this fact too, and
she remarked in her innocence :

" Doctor Richard, what a pity you do not do
something ! Write books, I mean," she added,
a little confused at the uncalled-for advice ; " I
am sure you could write — oh ! so well."

"Papa does write," put in Eva, rather jeal-
ously ; " he wrote me out ' Cinderella,' and il-
lustrated it, with her glass slipper and all."

" Dear me ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay ; " are
you really an author, Doctor Richard ? "

"I am afraid having written out 'Cinder-
ella ' will scarcely give me a claim to author-
ship, Mrs. Courtenay," he replied, smiling.

" Oh ! but one can put a great deal of
originality even into an old fairy-tale," kindly
said Mrs. Courtenay ; " I am sure," she added
emphatically, " your version of ' Cinderella '
is charming. Is it published ? "

" T have taken some liberties with it,"
gravely replied Dr. Richard ; " and therefore
I dare not face the juvenile public, which is
apt to be cruel at times. For instance, I have
called ' Cinderella ' ' Rhodopis.' You are not
aware, perhaps, that Cinderella's prince was
one of the Pharaohs, and that she now sleeps
as a mummy beneath one of the Pyramids.
Now, how would the little men and .the little
women like that? Not at all, I dare say, for,
you see, Eva persists in calling poor Rhodopis
• Cinderella, and her sandal a glass slipper."

Mrs. Courtenay tried to look both knowing
and captivated, and was sure that the story of
Rhodopis, alias Cinderella, was mightily inter-
esting, and she reiterated her wish that Doctor
Richard would become an author. " I assure
you you would be successful," she added, with
much simplicity.

Doctor Richard seemed amused.

" I might, as you kindly predict, be success-
ful," he replied, " but then I should no longer
be Doctor Richard, which is, I confess it, the
character I prefer. If you were to know, my
dear madam, how many a fine fellow has been
spoiled, to my knowledge, by some such hob-
by ! I like to keep my identity, and feel as
sure as human frailty will let me, that I shall
remain what I am. Change is so dangerous.
History and daily life are both full of perplex-
ing questions bearing on this matter. Take
Robespierre, for instance, and put him on
horseback, and perhaps the man is a hero.
Take Napoleon, and make a disappointed law-
yer of him, and he sends all his friends to the
scaffold, as he sent boyish conscripts to death,
and follows them there, instead of dying like a
chained eagle in Saint Helena. Nay, even a
trifle — if there be such things as trifles, which
I doubt — can change the aspect of a country
and the character of a people. There was a
time when it was a capital offence to bum
coals in London. Fancy London without
smoke or soot, and just tell me if the London-
ers must not have been then a different people
from what they are now."

" Good gracious ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay—
" London without coals !"

"Dreadful! is it not?"

" And fame, Doctor Richard," said Dora,
rather earnestly — " do you not care for
that?"

" Fame for writing about Rhodopis," he
good-humoredly replied.

" There are other subjects," she urged.

" So there arc — ' Red-riding Hood,' ' Beauty

INDIGNATION OF DORA'S AUNT.

and the Beast,' and others ; and to tell you
the truth, I have written about them too. A
set of gypsies ! There is no knowing where
they came from. They are here, they are
there, in every point of the compass do we find
these pretty Zingari. A world of trouble they
gave me."

" And so you do not care about fame ? " re-
sumed Dora, who would not be balked of an
answer.

" Verily, Miss Courtenay, I do not. I ad-
mire the man who first said, ' What has pos-
terity done for me, that I should do anything
for posterity ? ' Think, moreover, how fragile
a good it is ! Think of poor Ptolemy and his
eleven ethereal regions. For a thousand years
and more he reigns supreme in astronomy,
then comes a Copernik, or a Galileo, and
Ptolemy may sleep in Egyptian dust for ever-
more." .

" Ah ! if one could rouse him out of that
apathy to generous ambition ! " thought Dora,
with a secret sigh.

But of that there seemed little chance.
Doctor Richard looked too good-humored, and
too well-satisfied with his poverty to be easily
roused. But however deficient these genial
natures may be, they have a charm which is
irresistible. When Doctor Richard, noticing
how languid Eva began to look, spoke of go-
ing, it seemed to Dora that his three hours'
stay had been too brief, and she longed to
join her entreaties to Eva's prayer to be
allowed to remain. But she did not — perhaps
she dared not. Doctor Richard looked, more-
over, as if he would have been inexorable, so
Eva submitted, threw her arms around Dora's
neck, and said, kindly,

" Do come and see me — do ! "

" Miss Courtenay has no more time to lose,
Eva," said her father. " She lost yesterday
in dressing your doll, and to-day in receiving
you ; it is out of the question that she should
sacrifice a third day."

Eva looked rather crestfallen, but Dora
whispered :

" Never mind ; you will come and see me
again," and the brightness returned to the
child's face, and with a look of intelligence
she nodded, adding in Dora's ear, " I love
you, Miss Courtenay. Oh! I do love you
so!"

A fond parting followed, and Dora went to
the window and looked out, and saw Doctor
Richard and his little girl walking down the
street. Ere they turned the corner, Eva
looked up at her, and gave her a last friendly
nod. «

When Dora drew her head away, and
looked in, she found her aunt in a towering
passion. Whenever Mrs. Luan w r as angry,
speech failed her utterly. She stammered
through her wrath, and became almost incom-
prehensible. Dora looked at her flushed and
agitated face, then glanced to her mother for
explanation.

" Your aunt is angry with poor Doctor
Richard," said Mrs. Courtenay.

." A low, vulgar upstart ! " stammered Mrs.
Luan — " how dare he ? — how dare he ? "

" Why, what has Doctor Richard done ? "
asked Dora, with a little indignation.

" No doctor ! " said Mrs. Luan — " not he.
I know a doctor."

"Aunt, what is the matter? "

" Don't tease her," whispered her mother.
" She is in a rage because she considers that
Doctor Richard has retracted his invitation."

" Oh ! aunt," remonstrated Dora, " is it
possible you do not see that Doctor Richard
spoke so to surprise Eva to-morrow ? He
looked at me quite significantly all the time."

This did not mend matters.

"Why does he look the beggar ? "

Poor Mrs. Luan ! she was nearly a beggar
herself, yet in her wrath she could find no
keener word of reproacli for the offender than
this. Dora blushed a little, but was mate.

DORA.

" Why docs be come here ? " angrily con-
tinued Mrs. Luan. " He is old, he is poor ! —
you can't want him ! "

Cora became crimson. "Aunt — " she be-
gan, but Mrs. Courtenay interrupted her a
little angrily.

" Nonsense," she said, " Dora wants no
one; but I must say that even if Doctor
Richard comes here for her sake — which I do
believe — Dora could not do better than to
receive his addresses. He is a most delight-
ful man," she added, emphatically ; " and I
should like to see my dear Dora provided for
» before I die."

Now, the idea of Dora being provided for
by " the beggar," as she called him, added
fuel to the fire of Mrs. Luan's wrath, and
there is no knowing to what a height it might
have risen if Madame Bertrand had not just
then made her appearance with a note, which
she handed to Dora. It was from Doctor
Richard, and reminded her of her promise to
meet Eva the next day. He also intimated
that, " in case they did not find ten too early,
the carriage of the lady with whom Eva re-
sided, and which had been placed at his
disposal, would come round for Mrs. and Miss
Courtenay and Mrs. Luan, at that hour."

Dora's bright face took a flush of pleasure
and triumph as she read this note aloud, and
it was with the mildest reproach that she
said,

" There, aunt ! "

Mrs. Luan was silent and sulky, and Mrs.
Courtenay lull of childish glee.

"A carriage!" she said. "Then I sup-
pose the lady is quite rich, I should not
wonder if she had really adopted little Eva.
Poor darling! It is an injudicious plan, I
think. ITow will she like poverty when she
has to go back to it? Parents should think
of these tilings."

She shook her head, and breathed a philo-
sophic sigh over Doctor Richard's imprudence.

Dora folded up her note, and went into her
room to read it again.

There is a rapid downward path in all things,
and Dora Courtenay was going down very fast
to the dangerous depths whence it is all but
hopeless to look up to the free level world
again. She knew it, and yet she went on and
never cared to stop or to look back. Doctor
Richard was free, that was enough for con-
science. He was free, and though it might be a
misfortune to love him, it could no longer be a
sin. Foolish girl, as if a misfortune to which
our wiil says " yes " were not almost always
guilt more or less deep, but guilt none the less.
Her aunt's jealous observation of Doctor Rich-
ard, her mother's fond comments on his fre-
quent visits, were as music to her ear, siren
music, wondrous and strange, that made her
reckless of the breakers and sand-banks to
which her poor bark was rapidly steering.
Oh ! if it were true ! If he really liked her !
If he came to the house for her ! If he had
brought his child because he wished her to be-
come that child's mother ! If he hoped to bind
her to himself by the closest and the dearest
ties known to man ! She was alone now, yet
at the thought she hid her flushed face in both
her hands. She was so happy that she could
scarcely bear it. It did occur to her, indeed,
that she might be mistaken — that Doctor Rich-
ard had no such intentions as her mother and
her own secret hopes attributed to him. But
even if he had not these wishes now, might
they not come with time ? Few women who
have the power to fascinate do not know that
it is theirs. Dora Courtenay had charmed
many hearts in her day. She knew she had
the gift to attract even those for whom the
cared little ; was it presumption to think that
she might win a heart so dear ? — was it wrong
to try and do so ?

"I will be good! "thought Dora. "I will
try and conquer my faults. If I reach his lik-
ing it shall be through his esteem, and then I

POVERTY NOT INCONSISTENT WITH HAPPINESS.

can at least look back on the attempt without
self-reproach or shame. Perhaps he is too
poor to marry. Perhaps, seeing aunt and mam-
ma almost dependent upon me, and having a
child himself, he will not be so imprudent. If
so, I cannot blame liim, surely. And yet peo-
ple can be poor and very happy ! "

As Dora came to tbis conclusion, she could
not help looking toward the lame teacher's
window. It was open, to let in the pleasant
autumn heat; and Dora's eye could dive down
into the clear dark room, dark not because it
was gloomy, but on account of the surround-
ing brightness of the street. It was yery neat,
though poorly furnished ; the beeswaxed floor
shone again, the distant bed looked snow-
white, and the lame teacher's wife sat mend-
ing linen with a work-basket on a chair by
her. Presently she put down her task to peep
out of the window. She gave a long, wistful
look down the street, then she glanced toward
a little clock on the mantle-piece. W as her
husband late? — was she getting anxious at
his delay? But there was no need — a door
opened, and Dora saw him coming in. He
went up to his wife and kissed her. She took
away his hat and books, made him sit down in
her chair, and brought him a glass of wine.

"Yes, one can be poor and be happy,"
thought Dora, turning away from the little
homely picture, " but I could be happy also
even though I should never marry him, or
though we did not marry till we were both as
old as that poor teacher and his wife. I could
wait twenty years for him and think it but a
day. It would be strange indeed to marry at
past forty, and yet I know I could be happy
still — very happy. His hair would be quite
gray, and mine would be turning fast. I should
be rather a faded old maid, such a one as peo-
ple say of, ' She must have been good-looking
when she was twenty.' He would be brown
and rather thin, and Eva would be a young
matron with children on her knees — but I

should be happy, very happy. We should
have a little money then — not much, but just
a little ; a cottage near Dublin, too ; and he
would be out all day, and would come home to
me of an evening a little tired, but cheerful.
' Dora,' he would say, as we sat and talked by
the fire, ' do you remember when you were
young ? You had bright hair and brighter
eyes, and a blooming face enough then, and
now they are gone.' I shall answer, ' You
should have come earlier, sir, and you should
have had them all.' Ah ! what will he say to
that ? "

Poor Dora ! Her dream from subjective and
contingent has become future, so swift is the
transition. She stands in her room with Doc-
tor Richard's note in her hand, and happening
to raise her eyes, she sees her own image in
the greenish glass above her mantel-piece. It
is a dull plate, tarnished and gloomy, but
Dora's radiant face shines from its depths with
the glorious light of hope and young love. And
Dora is not forty yet, but twenty-three, and
she barely looks beyond her teens. There is
not a silver thread in the rich brown gold of
her hair, nothing has yet dimmed the bright-
ness of her happy, radiant eyes. With that
pure, fresh bloom on her cheek, and that smile
of delight on her ripe lips, Dora looks enchant-
ing just then. Mere beauty would seem cold
near her, for beauty is not always a light from
within ; and the fervor of her dream, and the
consciousness that she is still young and pleas-
ant to look at, make Dora's heart beat with
secret rapture. She knows, too — how can she
help knowing it? — that she has more to give
than to receive in the exchange she is contem-
plating. How many women would care for the
poor widower of thirty-odd ? — and how many
men could help caring for the young radiant
girl?

"He is worth ten of me," thought Dora,
turning away from the glass ; " but most gills
would remember his half-shabby coat, and

DORA.

laugh at him if he came to woo. Perhaps he
knows it, and is diffident. Ah ! if lie knew
all — if he but knew it ! "

But on reflection Dora thought it was as
well that he should not know it. She opened
a drawer, took out a little inlaid mother-of-
pearl casket, in which she kept her choicest
treasures — memorials of her brother — and she
put Doctor Richard's note with them.

" Paul would have liked him," she thought,
the tears rushing to her eyes. " Oh ! if I
could but have seen these two together — if I
could but have sat and listened to them, how
happy, how very happy I should have been ! "

But sad and troubled are the dreams we
indulge in when we remember the dead. We
cannot, if we have truly loved them, let fancy
free where they are concerned. The gloom,
the sad austerity of the grave, its silence and
its hopelessness, ever come between us and
our reverie. The remembrance of her brother,
ever loved, ever lamented, fell like a pall over
Dora's happy imagining.

" I must not think of these things," she
thought, rather sadly; "if Doctor Richard
wished to marry he need not have waited so
long to do so ; and if he does not care for me,
why should I be ever thinking of him ? "

But she left his note where she had put it
with the treasures and the mementoes of her
youth.

CHAPTER XIX.

At ten exactly a handsome carriage drew
np before Madame Bertrand's door, and Ma-
dame Bertram] herself came up with the ti-
r both charmed and puzzled as
she delivered them.

"Such a pretty carriage," she said; "such
handsome horses, too ! "

Mrs. Courtenay smiled mysteriously; and
Dora went to the glass, tied her bonnet-strings,
and, without looking round, said :

" Are you ready, aunt ? "

Twenty times since the morning Mrs. Luan
had declared that she would not go, and twenty
times she had retracted and said she would.
As her last declaration had been one of denial,
her present one was naturally one of assent.
Rather shortly she answered that she was
quite ready. They went down at once and
entered the carriage ; whilst Madame Ber-
trand stood on the doorstep to see them drive
away.

The morning was one of perfect beauty.
Mrs. Courtenay's raptures were spoken ; but
though Dora was mute, never, it seemed to
her, had earth and sky been so full of happy
promises as they were then. Through the city
they went ; beyond the track of the railways,
through a green and fertile landscape, up a
winding road that overlooked the silver Seine,
till they came at length to a little wood, on
the skirt of which they saw Doctor Richard
and Eva waiting for them.

" I have called her Minna ! " cried Eva, dartr
ing forward to meet Dora as she alighted.

"And I have already broken her nose,"
added Doctor Richard, completing the infor-
mation.

" Why did she fall ? " argued Eva, looking
injured.

" Oh ! Doctor Richard, what a charming
place ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, looking round ;
" and we have a carpet too," she added, see-
ing one spread on the grass within the shade
of the trees.

" And partridges in the hamper ! " said Eva ;
" and—"

" Eva ! " Doctor Richard said no more ; but
Eva was mute and looked abashed.

The spot was pretty, sylvan and quiet. A
stone cross rose at the angle of the wood;
close by it a little stream murmured through

the grass ; below lay a wide and rich land-
scape, and the winding road up which they
had come passed through the wood and be-

OLD FIDO.

came an arched avenue. Dora watched the
carriage, which, after bringing them thus far,
now entered that shady path, and was soon hid-
den from her view, and she wondered whither
it was going. Doctor Kichard, who was read-
ing her face very closely, was soon by her side.

" Do you like this spot ? " he asked.

"How could I fail liking it ?" she replied,
smiling ; " it is charming ! "

" Yes ; and I brought Fido," said Eva, who
could not bear to be silent. " Oh ! do look at
him, Miss Courtenay ! "

A pretty King Charles, who lay licking his
paws on the carpet, now interrupted the task
in order to look at the new-comers. On Mrs.
Courtenay and Mrs. Luan he bestowed a lazy,
good-natured look; but Dora he eyed more
shrewdly. After a few seconds given to de-
liberation, he rose, came up to her, sniffed her
flowing skirts, then pawed her with a famil-
iarity that looked like recognition. Dora stoop-
ed and patted his silky head, whilst Doctor
Richard smiled significantly.

" Fido is a shy, reserved dog," he said ;
" and yet, you see, Miss Courtenay, he ac-
knowledges your power at once."

" Oh ! but they all like Dora ! " cried
Mrs. Courtenay; "Madame Bertrand's cat
dotes on her ; and it is a most intelligent cat,
and never could endure Monsieur Theodore,
who ran away without paying the poor old
thing! "

" What a remarkable cat ! " gravely said
Doctor Richard. " I hope it clawed Mon-
sieur Theodore and spit at him."

" Yes, it did," innocently replied Mrs.
Courtenay ; adding, whilst Mrs. Luan looked
daggers at her, " but it loves Dora so."

Doctor Richard did not answer that every-
thing and every one must love Dora, but his
look and smile implied it so plainly, that Dora
thought with secret joy, " Well, I believe it is
so — I do believe that everything and almost
everyone likes me ! "

" Come and look at yourself in the water ! "
cried Eva, impatiently; and taking hold of her
hand, she led Dora away.

The little stream flowed slowly, and proved
a fair mirror. It gave back the gray old
cross, all mossy with age, and a quivering
aspen-tree, and Dora's laughing face as she
bent over it ; and it soon gave back Doctor
Richard's face, too, for Dora remembered
later that he kept very close to her that morn-
ing. But a sudden breeze rippled the water,
and every image within it was broken.

" A pretty looking-glass, forsooth ! " said
Doctor Richard — " is it an image of life, Miss
Courtenay ? "

" I hope not," she replied quickly.

" You prefer a smooth, unruffled surface? —
so do I ; but who has it? So let us make the
best of the present time."

" It is time for luncheon," said Eva.

" Well, I believe it is, you little torment ! "

Mrs. Luan and her sister-in-law were al-
ready seated on the carpet. Dora and Eva
joined them — Minna was by Eva's side, and
Fido nestled on Dora's skirts — and Doctor
Richard unpacked the hamper, and laid the
cloth. Alas ! how extravagant that Doctor
Richard was ! This was not a sumptuous re-
past, indeed, but it was far too luxurious for a
man in his circumstances. Dora did not dare
to say a word, but Mrs. Courtenay assumed
the privilege of her years, and lectured this
prodigal entertainer. He heard her with his
usual good-humor, but attempted no justifica-
tion.

" Life is brief,", was all he said ; " let us
enjoy its happy hours whilst we may, Mrs.
Courtenay. This delightful morning required
cold partridges, a melon, champagne, and a
few et-cetcras. I contend that we could not
enjoy the landscape upon less."

Mrs. Courtenay tried to find an answer to
this argument, but failed. Doctor Richard's
geniality was communicative this morning.

100

DORA.

Even Mrs. Luan, perhaps under the influence
of such unwonted good cheer, relaxed from
the usual severity of her demeanor. Dora did
not care to hide her happiness. When the
meal was over, she went with Eva to sit by the
stream, and she there enjoyed herself silently.
The sweet autumn breath from the little wood
filled her with a vague delight. There was
music in the soft rustling of the trees, and to
sit thus, forgetting the world, and looking at
the dark though clear water rippling along,
and seeming to carry away in its waves the
woodland green and the blue sky, was en-
chanting. This little bit of Norman landscape
was Eden to her, and everything in her aspect
said so. Doctor Richard looked at her even
while he talked with Mrs. Courtenay, and as
he looked he thought :

" If ever a girl was made for happiness,
this is she. Happiness is her calling, her
vocation, just as ill-temper is her precious
aunt's."

Unconscious of this severe sentence, Mrs.
Luan, who could enjoy the good things of this
world when she had not to pay for them, was
wondering whether she had really done justice
to Doctor Richard's luxurious cheer, when a
fit of drowsiness that came upon her seemed
to answer the question satisfactorily. Doctor
Richard, who saw her struggling against sleep,
smiled and walked away to smoke a cigar,
whilst Dora rose and went away, with Eva to
wander in the wood.

"I shall stay and mind Mrs. Luan," whis-
pered Mrs. Courtenay to her daughter. "I do
believe she is overpowered with the cham-
pagne; you know how I was for just one
glass of cider."

Dora laughed, but willingly enough left
Mrs. Luan to her mother's care, and walked
away, as we Baid, with Eva, leisurely followed
by Fido. They wont along a narrow winding
path, where the shade was thick, and where
a sunbeam could scarcely pierce the heavy

boughs. Many yellow and withered leaves
already strewed the grass, and crackled under
their feet ; but the air was warm, and a gentle
breeze scarcely moved Dora's muslin dress.
She felt vaguely happy, and holding the
child's hand, hearing her chattering without
listening to it, she felt as if she could walk on
thus nor think of stopping, when she suddenly
stood still on seeing Doctor Richard. He was
leaning against a tree smoking, and throwing
away his cigar, he came toward them.

" Eva," he said, without preamble, " go and
put on your hat."

" There is no sun."

" Do as I bid you."

Eva pouted, but obeyed. Dora and Doctor
Richard remained alone. Dora felt tongue-
tied ; sudden shyness came over her, and
kept her mute. Doctor Richard did not ap-
pear to see her embarrassment. He only
smiled as he saw Fido standing in the path
looking after Eva, but remaining after evident
consideration of the matter, with Dora.

" Fido has decidedly given you his heart ! "
he said.

" Does he not stay with you, Doctor Rich-
ard ? "

" No. I have the slightest share of Fido's
regard. Yet he owes me much. A poor
English lady died here, and this little fellow
was her great trouble during her last illness,
for, as she said to me, ' No one will have him
for his own sake, he is too old, and no one
here can value him for mine.' I set her mind
at rest by promising to take him ; so when
the poor thing died, I put Fido in my pocket
and brought him to Eva. But there was
grief and trouble in Fido's little heart, and he
never could take kindly to us. He lies on
his cushion licking his paws, and sometimes
seeming to wait and listen for a footstep that
comes not, and will never come again ; and
he lives a good deal within himself, like a
philosopher. Poor old Fido ! There is some

AN TTNEXPEOTED REVELATION.

101

thing pathetic to me in the old age of animals.
We are still in all the early exuberance of our
youth when decrepitude steals upon them.
But all this Eva does not suspect, and she
petulantly wonders that Fido will not play
with her, and murmurs because he walks
instead of running along the' avenues."

" What avenues ? " thought Dora.

" How do you like this little wood ? " sud-
denly asked Doctor Richard, changing the
subject rather abruptly.

" Very much indeed ! "

" Yes, it is pretty enough ; but you and I,
Miss Courtenay, have seen spots more beauti-
ful by far in another land than this ! "

" You mean in Ireland ? " replied Dora.

" I do. We had not there indeed that clear
brightness, the attribute of the Continent ;
but there is a western softness which has its
charm, sometimes mysterious and sweet, like
what we imagine of fairy-land. If there be a
country in the landscape of which poetry has
chosen to become visible, it is surely Ireland.
In other lands — I speak of the most favored —
climate, ruins, and famous old names lend
their beauty to spots which otherwise might
not be much heeded ; but in Ireland it is not
so. There the spell is unalloyed. We need
no heathen temple to grace the waterfall. We
do not ask what poet's villa once stood by the
lake — what battle was fought on its banks.
We have a sad story which we would rather
forget than remember, so we look at this
beautiful Ireland, and think her a free virgin
still, for though many have been her masters,
she has preserved the grace and wildness of lib-
erty through all the bitterness of her servitude."

He spoke with some emotion, and tears
rushed to Dora's eyes as she heard him. A
vision of the past — not of her lost home, but
of Deenah as she imagined it, with its shining
lake, its white waterfall, and it3 sweet sylvan
landscape — rose before her as he spoke.

" I have pained you," he said.

" Yes," she answered, " for your words
made me think of places which I shall never
see."

" Oh ! how can you tell ? "

" I do not wish it," she very sadly said.

" Oh ! but I do," he ejaculated, with sud-
den fervor. " God forbid that I should stay
forever in this pretty Normandy — so pretty,
but so homely ! "

" He does not mean to stay in Rouen,"
thought Dora, with a pang. " I might have
known it. What brought him here ? "

Doctor Richard unconsciously answered that
question by saying :

"I came for Eva's health. She required
this keen air — for a time, at least. This is a
very elevated spot."

They had reached a narrow platform be-
yond the wood. On their left stood a little
brick chateau, of gay and cheerful aspect. Its
high slate roof and tall . chimney-stacks were
cut sharply in the blue air. Its many win-
dows were framed by white stone carvings.
Behind it spread a green mass of trees, with
many an autumn tint softening their verdure.
In front a blooming flower-garden sloped from
the flight of stone steps that led to the porch
down to the handsome iron gates that closed
the entrance to the pleasant domain.

The flowers, stirred by a soft breeze, were
dancing in the sun, the window-panes shone
again in its western glow ; the whole place
looked so gay, so airy, so cheerful, that a
smile broke over Dora's face as she went up
to the gates, and stood still to look at it
through the iron bars.

" Oh ! what a place to live in ! " she ex-
claimed. " What sunny rooms those must be
within it, rooms in which it is delightful to sit
and read by the open window, and alternate
every page with a look ! "

" Say but sesame, and the gates shall open,
and the whole place bid you welcome," gayly
exclaimed Doctor Richard.

102

DORA.

Dora turned round with a startled look.

" It is mine," he said, quietly.

" Yours ! "

" Mine, at least, on a long lease."

Dora's blooming face grew ashy pale, and
her hand grasped one of the bars of the iron
gate with unconscious force. Who? — what
was Doctor Eichard ? He answered the ques-
tion she was unable to put, and said, gravely :

"My name is Templemore — Doctor Richard
Templemore."

If he had led her mind back to Ireland,
that this revelation might prove less startling,
Mr. Templemore failed in his object. The
name he uttered seemed to tear her heart
asunder. This man who stood by her side
was her lost brother's happy rival. His suc-
cess had been Paul Courtenay's death ; his
triumph had helped to fill the lonely grave in
Glasnevin, She clasped her hands together in
a mute agony, and looked at him with such
passionate reproach in her eyes, that Mr. Tem-
plemore colored deeply. His lips parted to
say something, but Dora did not give him
time to speak.

"You are Mr. Templemore!" she cried,
stepping back from him; "you are Richard
Templemore ! " And she uttered the name as
if it were of itself sufficient denunciation.

" I am," was his brief reply.

" What had I done to you that you should
inflict tbis upon me? " vehemently exclaimed
Dora, speaking with mingled sorrow and amaze-
ment ; " could you not be satisfied with your
triumph over my brother? Is he not dead,
and forever out of your way ? What had I
done to you to deserve this ? "

Her passion confounded him. He looked
at her pale, troubled face, and vainly attempted
to fathom its meaning. Was this auger caused
by bis long concealment of his identity ?

" Believe me,'.' he said vehemently, " I never
meant to deceive you — never ! I have long
known what your feelings toward me were,

and if you had not sought me as Doctor
Richard, I would never have intruded myself
upon you. Tbis mistake was involuntary on
my part ; and since I have seen how painful
it would be to you, it has become insufferable
to me !"

Dora grew more calm as he spoke. But she
turned her head away, for her heart was full —
full almost to breaking. This man, this
Richard Templemore, her brother's successful
competitor, was also a wealthy man, who had
practised on her credulity. She had been his
toy, his plaything, and when she remembered
the fond dreams into which her ignorance had
led her, dreams which had haunted her this
very morning, and given common pleasures
the sweetness of Paradise, she could almost
have wished to die, so keen was the sorrow of
that moment.

" Ah ! you are angry — very angry indeed,"
said Mr. Templemore, in a tone full of concern.
" And yet you must hear me — you must in-
deed ! I could not bear to relinquish your
regard ! "

" There is nothing to be heard or spoken,"
sadly answered Dora, walking away from the
gates of the chateau ; " nothing, Mr. Temple-
more — you succeeded, my brother failed, and
failure was death ! You were called Doctor
Richard by people who seemed to know you,
and you never said, ' I am that Mr. Temple-
more to whom you owe a bitter grief. ' "

" Will you hear me ? " persisted Mr. Temple-
more, walking by her side, and entering the
wood with her ; " surely in justice you must."

She was silent — he continued :

"Allow me to ask if you considered Mr.
Courtenay's decision an unjust one ? "

Dora colored, and turned upon him almost
angrily.

" I consider the competition to have been
an unjust one," she said, with ill-repressed in-
dignation ; " I consider that my brother hav-
ing done nothing to forfeit, but everything. to

MR. TEMPLEMORE EXPLAINS HIS HEIRSHIP.

103

deserve his uncle's good opinion, ought not to
have had this stigma thrown upon him."

Mr. Templemore looked at her keenly.

"And perhaps you think," he remarked,
" that I, a stranger as it were to Mr. Courte-
nay, took advantage of an old man's weakness
to deprive the lawful heir ? "

"Mr. Courtenay's legal right to give away
his fortune, .and yours to accept it, I do not
question," replied Dora, with a touch of bit-
terness in her tone, and without looking at Mr.
Templemore as she spoke.

" Then that was your impression of the
case," he said, very gravely ; " a severe one,
Miss Courtenay, but which I can bear, for I do
not deserve it. You knew that I was the
nephew of Mr. Courtenay's wife ; but are you
aware that his ■ fortune — all his fortune," he
added, emphatically, " was derived from that
wife?"

Dora turned upon him with a startled,
amazed look. " No," she said, quickly ; " he
made it in the Funds. He told Paul so."

" He may have increased it by lucky hits,"
composedly replied Mr. Templemore ; " but
I say it again — he derived it from my aunt."

" Then it was yours, after all ! " exclaimed
Dora, confounded.

" It should have been mine," he corrected,
" but my grandfather's caprice bestowed it on
my aunt, in preference to my father. She
promised to make amends to me, and I was
brought up in that belief. Mr. Courtenay
himself helped to deceive me. The catalogue,
the competition were therefore an injustice to
me, which I felt and resented. I won the
race, indeed, but I only won back what I
should never have risked to lose."

Dora heard him with mingled mortification
and shame. So her long resentment was
groundless. There was no foundation for that
passionate dislike which she had nursed up
against Mr. Templemore. Her past disap-
pointment rested on an error, and was both

futile and childish. Neither she nor Paul was
the wronged one, as far as money went, since
that which they had received at Mr. Courte-
nay's death had been actually taken from Mr.
Templemore's legitimate inheritance. There
was something in the thought which Dora
could not endure. She turned upon Mr.
Templemore, and exclaimed in the bitterness
of her heart —

" If Paul and I had known this, we would
not have accepted Mr. Courtenay's legacy.
Paul would never have competed with you,
Mr. Templemore, and I should have him
still."

She could not utter the last words without
a quivering of the lip, which betrayed the
keenness of her sorrow. He took her hand
and pressed it between both his own with
mingled tenderness and respect.

" Heaven alone knows how much I feel for
your grief," he said with much emotion, " but
surely you must see now that I am guiltless
of it ? Surely Mr. Templemore may hope to
be as much your friend as was Doctor Rich-
ard ? "

But the question awoke a new storm in
Dora's heart. Let it be that her resentment
had been groundless, that Mr. Templemore
was innocent of all wrong to her dead brother,
that Paul had been the victim of an old man's
whim and a selfish girl's ambition ; let all this
be — and Mr. Templemore spoke with a manly
frankness which her own integrity forbade
her to doubt — let all this be, we say, stili
something was left — something that made her
snatch her hand from his, and turning upon
him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes,
exclaim almost passionately :

"Mr. Templemore, who bought my draw-
ings from Monsieur Merand ? "

He blushed, but he was too honest to deny.

" I did," he said.

That, too, was gone — that dear illusion of
her little pride in her own worth ! That, too,

104

DORA.

was gone, that fond belief in her little skill —
that innocent joy over gold won by labor both
pleasant and beloved. She had been living
on Mr. Templetnore's bounty all the time !
She, Paul Courtenay's sister, had been eating
Mr. Templemore's bread ! The bitterness, the
humiliation were both too much for her pride.
She buried her face in her hands, and even
through her slender fingers her tears fell fast.
Mr. Templemore was dreadfully shocked.

" My dear Miss Courtenay," he said, eagerly,
" do not wrong us both — do not ! "

By a strong effort Dora compelled her tears
to cease flowing.

" I beg your pardon," she said, looking up
again, and trying to speak calmly, " but that
was too much for me."

" Indeed — indeed ! " said Mr. Templemore,
earnestly, "if you think that I bought your
drawings simply to oblige you, you wrong me.
I value them highly — more than I can tell.
Their merit is of the highest order. I hope
jou believe me?"

Dora was silent, but she did not believe
him. She had some talent, of course she had,
but her drawings had found but one pur-
chaser, and he was Mr. Templemore ! Oh !
bitterness — bitterness that could not be put
into words !

" Mr. Templemore, you meant well," she
paid, at length, "but you are a rich man, and
you cannot understand how your kindness has
given my poverty a bitter and needless sting."

"Miss Courtenay, do not upbraid me with
my money. It is not so long ago since I was
a struggling man, with a sickly child, in Lon-
don — it is not so long ago since I had to see
her wasting away before my eyes for the need
of that pure air which I was too poor to pur-
chase for her. It is not so long ago since I lost
her two little sisters, and felt, as I buried them
on one day, ' May God give me the grace not to
hate the rich ! ' Ah ! you have never known
what it is to sec a loved creature die, and to

lack the means that could save it. These
means have come, indeed, but, Miss Cour-
tenay, I often fear that even for my last child
they have come too late. Pity me ! — spite all
my money, pity me ! "

The sorrow in his looks, the pathos in his
voice, went to Dora's heart. Amazement had
given place to resentment, that had yielded to
wounded pride, and now this melted away as
she heard him remind her of his past poverty
— that poverty which seemed to make him
Doctor Richard once more. It vanished as he
bade her pity him, spite the wealth which had
come too late. She forgave him freely, fully,
the past and the present all in one moment.
She forgave him, and forgot, for a while, at
least, that she loved him, and what she had
felt keenly in the first moment of the dis-
covery — that since Doctor Richard had not
wooed the poor girl, Mr. Templemore surely
never would.

" God save you from such a sorrow ! " she
said, fervently.

"Amen!" he no less fervently replied;
then, with his serene, genial smile, he added :
" I knew you could not cherish resentment
against me, and of Mrs. Courtenay, I believe,
I am sure."

Dora was silent; she felt languid and de-
pressed. It seemed to her as if Mr. Temple-
more had given her a chance of liberty, and as
if she had voluntarily cast it away.

" Doctor Richard," she began — " Mr. Tem-
plemore, I mean."

" No, do call me Doctor Richard," he in-
terrupted — "I like it dearly. I was forced
into my profession by a severe father ; I hated
it years, and now that I have relinquished it I
love it, and I regret it. Often, when I am
seated in a warm room, with every comfort
around me, I remember some of the scenes I
witnessed in London when I was obliged to
reside in the neighborhood of St. Giles's, and
I feel a longing upon me to go back amongst

LES ROCHES.

105

those starred, squalid wretches who are the
pariahs of civilization. There are plenty of
them in yonder old Gothic city down below
us. Vice, woe, disease are there, asking for
mercy, and getting it, and alas ! deserving it
very rarely. There, I am Doctor Richard,
Miss Courtenay ; and do you wonder that,
having been a poor man almost all my life, I
like a name which helps to remind me of a
port safely reached after a long, bitter jour-

ney

Dora did not answer. They had reached
the end of the path, and they stood once more
within view of the spot where they had spent
the morning. Eva was there, between Mrs.
Courtenay and Mrs. Luan, talking volubly ;
and Mr. Templemore, seeing the amazed faces
of the two ladies, had no difiSculty in guessing
that the little chatterer had been unable any
longer to keep his secret.

"Are you, too, a true woman, Eva? "he
said. " Well, it does not matter now. I have
been making my peace with Miss Courtenay,
and I trust Mrs. Courtenay will likewise be
good enough to forgive my unintentional cheat-
ing."

Mrs. Luan's forgiveness Mr. Templemore did
not solicit. Mrs. Courtenay looked at her
daughter's face, and seeing peace and good-
will there, though with the traces of recent
tears, she frankly accepted Mr. Templemore's
extended hand. Indeed, she looked delighted
with the change in his circumstances, for if
he was Dora's admirer, was it not all the better
that he should be a wealthy man, and not a
poor doctor ? Mr. Templemore promptly fol-
lowed up his advantage with a request that the
ladies would spend the rest of the day at Les
Roches ; and Mrs. Courtenay, understanding
this was his abode, candidly expressed her will-
ingness to see it, for, as she innocently added,

" I am so glad you do not live in that dread-
ful tumble-down old place in our street, Doctor
Richard ! "

" I keep it as a storehouse for my purchases,
Mrs. Courtenay, but I seldom sleep there. I
reside here with Eva and my sister-in-law, Miss
Moore. Eva, go first and tell your aunt we
are coming."

Eva, who looked much happier since she was
no longer bound to secrecy, obeyed gladly, and
vanished down the path. In a few minutes
they had all reached the chateau ; the gates
were open, and a lady with a green parasol,
who was walking in the flower-garden, came
forward to receive them.

Some secret apprehensions which Mrs. Cour-
tenay had conceived on hearing of a sister-in-
law vanished as she saw that lady. None save
a strictly Platonic friendship could exist be-
tween this homely-looking, middle-aged woman
and the genial, imaginative Mr. Templemore.

"I am so glad the sun is shining ! " was her
welcome, " because Les Roches wants sun, you
know. Which will you see first, the house or
the grounds ? Is it not a hot day ? "

Her face was plump and foolish, and her man-
ners were awkward. She blundered through
speech in a silly fashion, very like the flight
of a reckless butterfly, so heedlessly were the
words uttered and constructed into sen-
tences. Mrs. Courtenay, who longed to scru-
tinize Mr. Templemore's domestic arrange-
ments, asked to see the house first. Dora
felt no such curiosity. Every new proof of
Mr. Templemore's wealth only reminded her
of the distance which separated him from poor
Doctor Richard.

The chateau of Les Roches was, however,
as pleasant an abode as she had conjectured
it to be from its external appearance. It had
large, sunny rooms, some still hung with tapes-
try, and all bearing tokens of Mr. Temple-
more's tastes and purchases. Many a relic
which she had seen in Monsieur Mcrand's shop
Dora recognized, and in Mr. Templemore's
own sitting-room, or study, she saw her copy
of the Music-Lesson hanging in the frame

106

DORA.

which had lf>rl to the exposure of the Dubois.
Bu't she felt no pride, no joy in seeing it there.
She remembered the little comedy Mr. Temple-
more and Monsieur Merand had acted about
that drawing; she remembered how he had
helped her to pick up the five-franc pieces, and
how his dark eyes shone with pleasure as she
gathered her little hoard. But she could not
bear to recollect these things — they seemed to
put her on a level with little Catherine and
his other proteges ; and when Eva, pulling her
skirt for the twentieth time since they had
entered the house, whispered again, " Do come
and look at the rocks," she gladly yielded.

Scarcely had they entered a winding path
behind the chateau, when Mr. Templemore
was by their side.

" This place was laid out a hundred years
ago," he said ; " and it has false ruins and
artificial rocks, which have grown old and
venerable, and in which Eva believes im-
plicitly."

" Here they are ! " cried Eva, springing for-
ward.

Bora heard a sound of water, a few steps
more showed a green bank, against which rose
brown rocks, covered with ferns, ivy, and a
world of creeping plants and flowers. From
a gap above came a silver thread of water,
which was broken in its fall by a projecting
stone, and bubbled away in light white foam
in a marble tank below. Blue forget-me-nots
and white daisies were set around its edges,
and formed a flowery wreath to the crystal
waters. Beyond this the shady path they had
followed wound away through a green and
tangled wilderness of underwood, with tall
trees shooting out. Not a sunbeam pierced
the leafy dome, or fell on the brown earth.
The wild vine went from tree to tree, and
led with the honeysuckle and the ivy;
and in a hollow of the path appeared an old
stone bench, mossy and broken ; it looked
ages old, a relic of the past surviving midst

the eternal freshness of nature. Dora felt
troubled, languid, and depressed. Everything
she saw said too plainly, "You must not
hope. This is the home for love, but not for
you ! "

But it is very hard to resist the magic of a
loved voice. Mr. Templemore was bent on
winning back Bora's lost favor, and Bora was
not quite so heroic as to remain obdurate.
Something of her cheerfulness returned, and
when they joined the rest of the party, and
Mr. Templemore persuaded them to stay to
dinner, she yielded almost as willingly as her
mother.

The meal, though not sumptuous, was lux-
urious enough. It had plate, and crystal, and
every attribute of wealth. Bora remembered
with a swelling heart how much her simple
mother had thought of the couple of fowls
and the tart she had provided for Boctor
Richard and his child. She remembered her
own little folly about the doll. Alas ! what
was Minna's bridal finery to the rich man's
indulged daughter ? What she herself had
been to the father — the amusement of an
hour — no more. Yet she compelled herself
to talk, to laugh, to look happy and pleased.

After dinner Mr. Templemore drove them
home. As he parted from them he wrung
from Bora the confession that, though she
wished to cherish no resentment against him,
yet something remained which she could not
conquer.

" Then I must," he said, looking a little
vexed, yet smiling good-humoredly — " I must
prevail over that something ; we must have a
lasting peace ! "

The warmth and earnestness of his manner
sent the blood to her heart. They might
mean much or nothing, and hope and reason
alternately inclined to either surmise.

" Oh ! what a delightful day ! " cried Mrs.
Courtenay.

Bora, who sat with her elbow resting on

AN INVITATION TO TrTE CHATEAU.

107

the table, and her cheek on her hand, was
mute. Mrs. Luan had been remarkably silent
all day ; but she now spoke :

" Dora, when is Mr. Templemore going to
marry you ? "

" What !" cried Dora, turning crimson.

" Has he really asked you ? " eagerly said
her mother.

" No," answered Dora, looking displeased.

" He will, then," muttered Mrs. Luan, nod-
ding grimly.

If she had said "he shall" instead of "he
will," Mrs. Luan would have been nearer to
her meaning.

"Aunt, you are mistaken," impressively said
Dora.

Mrs. Luan never argued ; but she was tena-
cious, and never disheartened. She had parted
from John to separate him from Dora ; and
when Dora had grown rich, she had reunited
these two, then parted them again, still faith-
ful to John's interests and her own ends.
Doctor Richard was giving her a world of
trouble, for she did not want him to have
Dora, when, by turning into Mr. Templemore,
he had set all right. He was in love with
Dora, no doubt, and he should marry her.
Her niece would have a rich husband, which
would be a good thing for the family ; and
John would not marry a poor girl. He had
talked of coming to Rouen, " but it would be
all over then," coolly thought Mrs. Luan.

Dora little suspected what an ally her aunt
meant to prove ; but her mother was more
candid.

" I think I shall get out the cards, and have
Louis Dix-huit's patience," she said, signifi-
cantly. " I could not sleep, so I may as well
do that, may I not ? "

Dora did * not answer. But when Mrs.
Courtenay began to deal out her cards, and to
exclaim triumphantly, " It is going on beauti-
fully ! Well, I never had so many twos and
queens all at once ! It is quite remarkable,

and so encouraging ! " When we say she
gave vent to such exclamations with an em-
phasis and an eagerness which betrayed that
she was secretly indulging in a wish the suc-
cess of which the cards were to tell, Dora
would hear no more. " And yet such things
have been," she thought, as she retired to her
room, and looked at the patient Griselidis on
her bed-curtains ; " such things have been in
song and story, a long time ago, when the
world was younger than it is now ; but even'
then they were not always blessed. Poor,
patient Griselidis, you paid dear for your hon-
ors." But need that price always be paid ?

Dangerous question, which came like a temp-
tation, and to which, in her pride, Dora would

not even listen.

• > ■

CHAPTER XX.

We cannot live without hope. It is the
very condition of our being. Dora was haunt-
ed by Mrs. Luan's words, and her mother's
questioning look was as the token of a great
coming joy. The thought haunted her dreams,
and she found it on wakening, though some-
what shorn of its glow ; but the spell was
broken when her mother said at breakfast:

" Come back early from the Musee, will

you

Dora put down her cup and turned pale.
The Musee! — what should take her there?
Were it but for pride's sake, she must finish
the drawing she had begun, take money
for it from Monsieur Merand, and pretend
nothing to the dealer ; but after that, what
should she do ? A blank followed this ques-
tion. Mr. Templemore was the real purchaser
of her drawings, and now that she knew it,
could she live on his generosity ? In a mo-
ment pride was in arms, and uttered as fatal a
" never " as was ever spoken. But unluckily
pride failed to say how Dora was to live.
Hope, so strong with the young, might have

108

DORA.

lent her some illusions concerning labor and
its rewards ; but the fact that her little inde-
pendence had all rested on a rich man's kind-
ness, silenced such pleasant dreams. The will
to work no longer implied success ; and as
Dora put down her cup, it seemed to her as
if the shares in the Redmore Mines were lost
anew.

But as Mrs. Courtenay evidently had no
suspicion of the truth, and still believed in
Monsieur Merand, Dora smiled, looked cheer-
ful, and went to her task as if nothing had
occurred. Yet her heart was very heavy. Her
pencil flagged, her hand seemed to have for-
gotten its cunning. She leaned back in her
chair, looking at the picture she was copying,
and seeing it not. Every now and then, in-
deed, she woke from her dream, and started
at the sound of a step, and felt her cheek flush
if the door opened ; but there was no need for
these signs. Mr. Templemore did not come
to fill up Doctor Richard's vacant office. Dora
was glad of it ; she did not wish for or expect
it, and yet, if she had questioned her heart
very keenly, she might have found disappoint-
ment there.

But Mr. Templemore had called on her
mother during her absence. He had come
with an invitation for a week's stay at Les
Roches, which Mrs. Courtenay had accepted.

" The carriage is to come for us next Mon-
day," resumed Mrs. Courtenay.

Dora was silent. She was happy, and she
could not help it. But when Mrs. Courtenay
resumed, as a matter of course, " When you
are Mr. Templemore's wife," Dora rebelled
and interrupted her hastily.

" Mamma, you must never say that! "

"Nonsense! You never can do better —
and any one can Bee that he wishes it !"

The truth wa<J, thai Mrs. Luan and Mrs.
Courtenay had so talked the matter over dur-
ing Dora's absence, that had any one told Mrs.
Courtenay Mr. Templemore had no thought

of marrying her daughter she would have felt
both indignant and aggrieved. Of the three
Dora was by far the least sanguine ; for, after
all, such was the thought that ever came back
— if Mr. Templemore wanted her, why did he
not speak ? He could have spoken as Doctor
Richard, and he had been mute! Was not
such silence significant ? Was it not also
very significant that he neither came near
them nor dropped in upon Dora at the picture-
gallery ? He came not to cheer or to inter-
rupt her with his comments. She went on
with her drawing, she finished it, she took it to
Monsieur Merand, and was paid for it, without
having once seen Mr. Templemore. Ah !. how
heavy her heart felt as she left that quiet gal-
lery, and thought, " I shall need to come here
no more ! " How sad and depressed she was
when Monsieur Merand put the money in her
hand, and looking at the gold, she no longer
felt, " I, too, have a gift, and, lo ! it has
brought me in this ! " He had meant well, no
doubt ; but how sadly it had ended ! And
next Monday they were all going to his house !
What for? Doctor Richard had been their
friend, but there was, there could be, nothing
between them and Mr. Templemore.

" Does not Monsieur Merand want any more
drawings?" asked Mrs. Courtenay, when Dora
came home.

" No, mamma, he does not — and how are we
to live ? "

Mrs. Courtenay looked bewildered, Mrs.
Luan's sallow cheek flushed as she said,

"Mr. Templemore will make him take
them ! "

" Aunt, you know Monsieur Merand was no
one."

" My dear," airily said Mrs. Courtenay, "I
feel quite sure of Mr. Templemore's intentions !
Never mind about the drawings ! "

Dora would not argue. She went to her
room. The lame teacher's window was open.
She could see him and his wife taking their

NANETTE'S DEATH BED.

109

frugal dinner. There was a look of calm con-
tent about them, too, which stung Dora, and
made her think —

"Oh ! why have I been mad? Doctor
Richard is dead, and comes no more ! "

But she would not be weak, she would not
remember that there had been a time when
she had watched this domestic happiness as
something that might one day be within her
reach. She glanced up toward Nanette's
window.

" I, too, may live a poor lonely woman like
you," she thought. " I, too, may need a pound
of candles to cheer me through the long dark
night. Well, another pound, the last, perhaps,
I can afford to give, you shall have."

She slipped out unseen, made her little pur-
chase, then stole up to Nanette's room. The
door was ajar, Dora pushed it open and looked
in. Neither welcome nor token of recognition
came from the low bed on which Nanette lay.
With a doubtful look at the pale, sunken face
resting motionless on the white pillow, Dora
said gently,

" Nanette, I bring you candles."

" Nanette needs none, Miss Courtenay," re-
plied Mr. Templemore, whom the half-open
door had concealed from Dora's view. " A
brighter light will soon, let us hope, be shining
before those poor wearied eyes of hers."

Dora, who had given a nervous start on
hearing his voice, now entered the room.
Nanette lay in a sort of stupor, and Mr.
Templemore stood by the bed, looking down
at the sick woman with a grave, attentive gaze.

" Has she long been ill, Doctor Richard — I
mean Mr. Templemore ? " asked Dora.

" Call me Doctor Richard here, Miss Courte-
nay. Nanette has been ill two days. She sank
into this stupor an hour ago. Till then she
was quite conscious. Poor old Nanette ! That
woman had a fine, proud nature, Miss Courte-
nay. Her incessant lament all night was that
she had not been able to work to the last.

But she had her weakness too. She begged
hard not to be taken to the hospital, and
when I gave her my word of honor to save
her from this calamity, her gratitude knew no
bounds. She actually gave me that fine enamel
which is so like you. Do you know if she has
any relatives to whom I can make compensa-
tion for a gift so valuable ? "

"No, she has none. But Doctor Richard,
is she dying ? "

"She is, Miss Courtenay. You surely do
not regret to see the prison gate opened, and
the poor captive set free ? Think of her sad,
lonely life, and say if it be not an act of God's
mercy to call her away to liberty ! "

" Why did I not come near her all this
time ? " thought Dora with keen self-reproach
— " why was I absorbed in my own thoughts,
and did I forget this poor creature whom God
seemed to have thrown on my kindness ? "

" I might perhaps have saved her," resumed
Mr. Templemore, after a pause; "though ill-
ness at her age is too often fatal ; but Petit
had been with her. Petit," he continued, »,
answering Dora's questioning look, " is a man
whom science has licensed to kill. In plain
speech, he is a doctor by his diploma only,
but in nothing else. Miss Courtenay, I do
not exaggerate when I say that this man deals
out death. I have seen his handiwork, and I
have often thought with horror that my little
Eva might fall into his hands. It is not likely,
to be sure ; but I once saw a child — a beautiful
child whom that man had murdered, lying dead
before me in this very city, and the mother's
cry of agony I never shall forget."

" And is there no means to prevent that ? "
asked Dora, horrified.

" What means ? He is well known to med-
ical men ; but, like all false prophets, he has
his disciples, chiefly amongst the iguorant and
the poor ; and as the man is not really cruel
or bad-hearted, but simply stupid and ignorant,
he cheats himself as well as his adherents."

110

DORA.

"And did be kill this poor creature too,
Mr. Templemore ! " indignantly exclaimed
Dora.

" That I dare not say, but I should not
wonder if be did. However, he affronted ber,
and so she sent for me ; but I am powerless."

There was a long pause, which made Na-
nette's heavy breathing very distinct. The
sun was near its setting, a gorgeous glow
from the west filled the poor little room, and
a rosy flush fell on the dying woman's face.
From the spot where she stood Dora could
look down at Madame Bertrand's house, and
see her own room tbrougb the window, wbicb
she had left open. That room was still
haunted with fond dreams and sad regrets
and struggles for self-subjection, and what
did they all seem now when she looked at
Nanette? Seventy-three years of care and
poverty and bitter trials were written in that
thin worn face before ber; but the story
would soon be blotted out by the hand of
death, and what trace, what token woidd be
left of it then upon earth ? Did it matter so
much to be blest or wretched when this was
the end ?

Happy are they who can take such lessons,
and who --do not feel, like the French king,
that he must change the site of a palace, be-
cause the spires of Saint Denis, where bis
predecessors were buried, are in view. The
haughty Louis Quatorze rebelled under that
mcm<»/<> tnori. Was it not enough to know
that he must go down some day to those chill
dark vaults, and sleep there with all the
and queens of his race? — was it not
igh to know this ? — must a young sov-
ereign, with La Vallieres and Montcspans,
dreams of conquesl to boot, be forever
that be was mortal, and must die? It
not to be endured
• by some ascetic or careless monarch,

full of heaven or reckless of death a

Saint Louu or a Henri Quatre.

But not so felt Dora. Every deep, earnest,
and religious impulse of her nature rose and
was strong within her as she stood by this
death-bed. She scorned ber own dreams as
she looked up at Mr. Templemore. She tri-
umphed over them and trampled them with
a ruthless foot. From that hour forth there
was a change in her both strong and deep.
Something she could not conquer, because
even self-subjection has its limits, but all that
will can rule she mastered, and the power
then acquired she let go no more.

Mr. Templemore, too, bad bis thoughts.

" And this is the end of youth and beauty ! "
he could not help thinking, as he looked at
Nanette, and from her to Dora with her
blooming face and ber pensive gray eyes, and
that hair of brown gold which a blue ribbon
tied back in the graceful Greek fashion.
" Ah ! what folly, then, it is to forget the
brevity of life, and the treacherous power of
Time ! "

And Mr. Templemore, too, was right ; for
surely Death reads the two lessons. Surely
it teaches us masterdom over self, and preach-
es th'e wisdom of happiness. Blessed are
they to whom the task of reconciling those
two does not prove too hard !

Madame Bertrand now came in, and Mr.
Templemore, saying, " I shall call in again,"
went away.

" There goes an angel," emphatically said
Madame Bertrand, taking a chair, and settling
herself down, by the bedside in the attitude
of a professional nurse. "He sat with Na-
nette all last night. Doctor Richard would
do anything for me," she continued, with a
certain complacency, and taking as a personal
compliment his kindness to the sick woman ;
" but it is wonderful how every one, save
Monsieur Theodore, has always liked me. Na-
nette, who could endure no one, doted on

me.

" She was religious," said Dora, following

DORA READS THE HYMN FOR THE DYING.

Ill

her own train of thought — " I am sure she
loved God. I remember how she once said
to me that as she lay awake at night, and
saw the stars shining in the sky, she used
to feel full of wonder and delight at the
Almighty's greatness."

" Oh ! yes," said Madame Bertrand, nod-
ding ; " she was so pious, and so cross," she
added, in a breath. " She asked for the Cure
at once, poor soul ! He wanted to send some
one to sit up with her, but Nanette would be
alone. Luckily she took a fancy to Doctor
Richard, who stayed with her to oblige me."

" Are you staying with her now, Madame
Bertrand ? "

" Yes, my cousin will cook madame's din-
ner."

The words recalled Dora to the necessity of
going home. She was silent concerning Na-
nette's story. Mrs. Courtenay could never un-
derstand how people could be ill, and got
irritable when they ventured on dying. Be-
sides, she now indulged in such bright antici-
pations concerning their visit to Les Roches —
everything was to be so happy, and so delight-
ful, and so charming — that Dora could not help
smiling as she listened to her.

" My dear little mother," she thought, with
a half sigh, " how happy I shall be, spite of it
all, if I can but make you happy ! "

Mrs. Courtenay went to bed early, and thus
Dora could go and see Nanette again without
saddening her mother's cheerful mood. Mrs.
Luan, indeed, stared, and looked up from her
patchwork as Dora left, but she put no ques-
tion. Her niece often went and prayed of an
evening in Notre Dame before it was closed
for the night, and such, Mrs. Luan concluded,
now was her errand.

But the divine presence of Him who came
to suffer with and for the afflicted is not con-
fined to temples and tabernacles built by man's
hand. Dora knew that we find Him in the
homes of the needy, in the lazar-house, in the

prison, and that it is the weakness of our faith
and the coldness of our hearts that will not let
us seek Him there.

Madame Bertrand had lit a candle, but she
had forgotten to snuff it, and its long wick
and dull yellow light looked dismal in the nar-
row room.

" It is melancholy here, mademoiselle," said
Madame Bertrand, as Dora came in; " poor
Nanette cannot say a word. Then I do not
like to think that she is going to die. Look
at her bit of a body — does it not seem hard
there should be no more room for her ? But
there is not. Some one else is being born just
now, and Nanette must make way. I shall
miss her. I used to like seeing her go by
leaning on her stick, scolding the children.
Now, poor soul, she cannot help herself."

No, she could not, indeed. Nanette had
already entered that shadowy region where
human will is weak, and Dora thought, as she
looked at her, that she was travelling very
fast indeed toward that deeper darkness in
which it becomes powerless. Something in
Dora's face told Madame Bertrand the nature
of her thoughts.

She rose and looked at the sick woman, and
shook her head.

" I believe it will soon be over, mademoi-
selle," she whispered beneath her breath.
" Will you read the prayer to her ? "

" What prayer ? " asked Dora, rather star-
tled.

" Wei!, it is not a prayer exactly, I mean
the ' Go forth, thou Christian soul ! ' She
wanted me to read it this morning, and I said
she was not to think of these things ; but to
get well again. And still she wanted it, but
you see I — I could not — and will you read
it?"

She put a prayer-book in Dora's hands, and
Dora, though very white and pale, said not
nay. Yes, she would read to the dying and
unconscious woman that solemn and pathetic

112

DORA.

adjuration which had been appointed for the
dying Christian. Her brother had passed
away to his rest — not unprepared she hoped —
but without the tender and holy rites of the
Church, without a sister's loving voice to call
down Heaven's aid for the traveller on that
last trying journey; but Nanette had been,
and should be still more favored. She had been
strengthened with the bread of life, and even
though she heard it not, Dora could now bid
her go forth to her eternal home in holy Sion.
She would summon every choir of angels to
receive her, she would bid holy saints and
martyrs, and the greatest and the purest,
welcome their poor mortal sister to the house
of the one Father; she would ask for this
little despised old woman such honor and such
reverence as kings themselves never get upon
earth.

She knelt, and opening the book she began
reading, in a voice which, though tremulous
and low at first, grew in power as she pro-
ceeded. Far away in the heart of the city, a
French soldier's drum was calling in the men
to the barracks. In the street below a work-
man was singing as he came home from work,
and still Dora's clear voice went on holding
forth heavenly promises, and bringing down
the Divine presence to that humble sick-room.
And so whilst poor Nanette's soul was passing
away, all the sounds blended around her, as
in the old mediaeval chorus, where the tenor
or the soprano sang of love, the barytone of
wine and glory, and the bass uttered a solemn
Latin hymn, and the three produced a strange
simultaneous harmony.

All wafl over, and as Dora uttered the last
prayer, and closed the book, a voice behind
her Baid,
"Amen."

She was not startled — she had heard Mr.
Tcmplemorc enter the room whilst she read,
and was prepared for his appearance.

ard the bed ; " well, I could have done noth-
ing."

He spoke with the gravity which the pres-
ence of death commands, but also with the
composure which habit gives to men of his
profession. Dora looked sad and thoughtful,
and Madame Bertrand was crying, not exactly
through grief, poor soul, but because tears
came easily to her. This was all ; there was
no one else to lament that a lone woman had
gone to her rest, and, as Madame Bertrand
philosophically remarked, made way for some
one who was now being born.

Dora's presence was no longer needed. So she
left, after Madame Bertrand had gone to fetch
a neighbor, who agreed to sit up with her. Mr.
Templemore took a candle and lit her down
the dark staircase. He looked thoughtful, and
before they were half way down he stood still.
"Miss Courtenay," he said, impressively.
" You knew Nanette for some time ; you kindly
took her candles, as she told me. May I ask
if she lamented to you, as to me, that she could
not work ? "

" Very often, Doctor Richard." The name
came quite naturally.

" Strange, is it not ? Nanette was no lady,
you see. A born lady, a real lady dies if she
must use or soil the hands God gave her for
ornament — not for use ; but a plebeian like Na-
nette thinks herself wretched if she has to eat
the bread of idleness and charity. W< 11, I
knew a weaver who, in his way, was as great
an oddity as our poor little friend up-stairs.
That man's passion was to pay the old debts
which a series of misfortunes and troubles had
bequeathed to him. He stinted himself, his
wife and his child, for that. The end was al-
most won. The weakness of coming prosper-
ity was creeping over him. His wife actually
bought him a woollen jacket, and though he
grumbled at her prodigal deed, he grumbled
gently. The evenings were getting chill, and

"So I come too late," he said, looking tow- | comfort is pleasant at fifty-three. This piece

VISIT TO THE GOTHIC CHURCH.

113

of extravagance was perpetrated on a Satur-
day in October. On that same day the man
gave an old coat to the village tailor, in order
that it might be made a new one of. ' I shall
want it for All Saints,' he said. Glimmerings
• of pleasure were in that man's mind, and fol-
lowed him at his loom. Over that bright dawn
came a sudden darkness — the darkness of
death. On the Monday evening he was taken
ill ; on the Tuesday morning he was a corpse.
Within that brief space he tasted the greatest
bitterness which his heart could kn^w. ' I
shall die like a rogue ! ' he said to me again
and again; 'I shall die without having paid
my debts ! ' Miss Courtenay, when I think of
that man, with his nice honor, and of the hun-
dreds who cheat and swindle in the very jaws
of death, I feel a sort of grief and pity stronger
than I can tell. I grieve that some should be
so pure, and others so foul : that of coins all
from the same Divine mint, some should be of
metal so sterling, and others, alas ! so base."

He spoke gravely and sadly, with one hand
resting on the banisters, and the o^her holding
the old brass candlestick he had brought with
him from Nanette's room. The pleasure he
found in thus imparting his passing thoughts
to Dora, made him forget that he was detain-
ing her on the old staircase. It was not the
first time she had noticed how favorite a listen-
er she was with him ; how he liked to think
aloud when she was by. That link of sym-
pathy, one of the purest which can exist be-
tween two human beings, did certainly exist
between them ; perbrps because Dora had that
quickness of intuition which makes a good
listener. She now said, with a wistful look :

" But that weaver did not die broken-hearted,
Mr. Templemore — you paid his debts."

"How do you know?" he asked, coloring
slightly.

" I do not know — I only guess."

" "Well, I did, Miss Courtenay," he resumed,

lighting her down the staircase as he spoke ;
8

" with fourteen pounds sterling I relieved that
man from a sense of disgrace, but he groaned
heavily under the burden of the gift. The
poor fellow longed with his whole soul to pay
me ; from that bitterness I could not save him,
you see."

Dora did not answer. They had reached the
foot of the staircase, and went out silently
into the street — there they parted quiet'.y.
Dora found Mrs. Luan sitting up for her. ,

" Were you in the church all that *,ime ? "
she asked.

" No ; I was with a sick woman."

" Was Mr. Templemore there '? "

"Yes, he was."

Mrs. Luan's face almost brightened; but
Dora was too full of her own thoughts to see
it. She was not sad, she was not unhappy ;
but it was long, vei-y long, indeed, before she
could fall asleep that night.

CHAPTER XXI.

It would have been hard to guess, from Mr.
Templemore's dark, genial face, as he wel-
comed his guests to Les Roches, that lie and
Dora had followed poor Xanette to her grave
that morning. She, too, looked bright and
gay, but when Mr. Templemore said, "Eva
has been dying to see you — she has fallen in
love with you, you know, Miss Courtenay," —
when he spoke thus in his most friendly tone,
and Mrs. Courtenay looked beaming and tri-
umphant, and whispered, as, she glanced
around her, " The mistress of all this will be a
happy woman," no voice within Dora said,
Maybe you will be she. " The wife of Doctor
Richard would have been the happier woman
of the two," was all she thought. She would
not think of Mr. Templemore save as her kind
and courteous host ; and, indeed, friendly
though was his manner, there was nothing in
it to justify the belief that he, had lured Dora-

114

DORA.

to his house for the purpose of love-making.
The attraction which kept Eva and Fido by
Dora's side existed for Mr. Templemore too.
He certainly liked to sit, to walk, to talk with
his bright and genial young guest ; yet no
more than Eva or Fido could he be said to
show symptoms of love, and Mrs. Courtenay
and Mrs. Luan, who had at first put a mean-
ing in everything, began to perceive this, and
to /eel disappointed. Their expectations rose
every morning, and fell every night. But
Dora to^k each day's pleasure and happiness
as it cami\ and in her careless pride looked
for no more.

On the fourth day of their sojourn at Les
Roches, Mr. Templemore took them all to visit
a pretty Gothic church, which was but a short
distance from them b7 rail. The little house
of God stood on a height above the village to
which it belonged, in the cantre of a narrow
churchyard, and surrounded by trees, that
gave it a lone and sylvan aspect. Miss Moore
kept very close to Dora and her brother-in-
law ; but if she felt any uneasiness, nothing in
Mr. Templemore's conversation on Gothic
architecture and stained glass justified it.
Dora saw her aunt watching them with evident
eagerness and interest. Miss Moore, feeling
perfectly secure, had left them for a few min-
utes, and she thought, with mingled scorn and
amusement,

"Poor aunt! she little suspects it is all
about that old window ! "

Indeed, Dora would have been very blind if
she had not discovered by this that the pleas-
ure Mr. Templemore took in her society was
fly an intellectual pleasure. She had both
judgment and knowledge. She could under-
stand and appreciate as well as listen, and
Mr. Templemore was fond of talking, not for
its own sake, not to say anything, but as one
of the modes in which thought can best be
called forth. Moreover, and whatever his
feelings for her might be, he liked a listener

none the worse for wearing "Dora's bright
youthful aspect. She seldom answered him,
save in monosyllables, but she had an eloquent
face, across which meaning passed with the
suddenness of light, dark-gray eyes, deep and
earnest, and a serious yet naive grace of look
and attitude, when she listened, which gave
her something of the irresistible charm of
childhood. There were subtle distinctions,
and though some of them escaped Dora, her
perceptions were too fine not to tell her much
which those around her did not suspect.

But Mrs. Luan, whose feelings were neither
keen nor delicate, saw matters very differently.
She watched her niece and Mr. Templemore
with the utmost eagerness, and her face dark-
ened when Miss Moore suddenly joined them.

" Oh ! Mr. Templemore," eagerly said this
lady, as if to account for her abrupt approach,
" do tell us the legend of this church — about
the devil, you know."

" Oh ! pray tell it ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay,
joining them — " I do so like legends about
him!"

"Oh! this is the old story. The devil
helped the architect to build this church on
the usual terms, but instead of fulfilling his
contract, the shabby architect applied to a
holy monk, who released him, and sent the
devil away discomfited."

Mrs. Courtenay looked disappointed.

" Poor fellow," she said a little plaintively,
" how they do cheat him ! "

" Yes, it is too bad," replied Mr. Temple-
more, gravely.

There was no more to be seen ; they left the
church, and Mrs. Luan seized the first oppor-
tunity she could find to join her niece. She
took her arm, held her fast, and with some
sudden force compelled her to stand still in
the path whilst the others went on.

" Well ? " she said, staring eagerly in her
face.

" Well, aunt ? " composedly replied Dora.

EVA BECOMES MISS COURTENAY'S COUSIN.

115

" You know my meaning ! " excitedly re-
sumed Mrs. Luan.

" Yes, aunt ; and here is my answer : he will
as soon make love to you as he ever will to me."

Mrs. Luan heard her in some consternation,
and Dora availed herself of the feeling to dis-
engage her arm from her aunt's hold, and join
the rest of the party.

" We are to dine at the sign of the ' White
Horse,' " breathlessly said Eva, running up to
Dora. " Papa is sure you will like dining
once at a French village inn."

" I shall like it of all things," gayly replied
Dora.

The " White Horse " stood at the entrance
of the village. It was such an inn as painters
delight in ; an old, low, straggling house, with
heavy gable ends, beneath which lurked deep
shadows. Its once red brick had been baked
by time into a mellow brown tone ; its small
irregular windows had greenish diamond panes,
that now gave back the sunset brightness ;
and its tall chimney-stacks sent forth wreaths
of blue smoke, which drifted gently in the
westerly wind.

Everything about this quiet house wore a
peaceful and friendly aspect. It stood by the
roadside, shadowed by two broad trees, facing
the south, and looking strangely snug and
homely. Hens cackled in front of the open
door, through which you saw the fire burning
brightly on the kitchen hearth ; ducks swam
in a shallow rippling pond, and an old gray
donkey was tied to one of the trees, and vainly
stretched his neck to reach a bundle of hay
tantalizingly thrown on the green sward before
him. A warm and rather stormy sunset glow
came streaming from the west, fighting up the
winding road with its level rays, giving Vene-
tian splendor to the brick front of the inn, and
turning into misty gold the deep purple of the
Undulating background of wide plain.

The landlady came out all smiles to meet
her guests, and show them into a broad low

room, with windows looking over the strag-
gling village street, and across which vine-
leaves made a chequered screen. The cloth
was laid, and a tureen full of rustic but deli-
cious soup was smoking on the table. Eva
asked to be lifted up to peep at its brown con-
tents, and Fido turned up his nose and snuffed
with evident approbation.

" Oh ! how charming ! " cried Mrs. Courte-
nay, clasping her hands with rapture.

Dora, too, looked gay and merry. A hard
future enough lay before her, and she knew it ;
but she was young and buoyant, and she could
snatch its delight out of the present time, nor
darken the bright to-day with the gloom of to-
morrow. Mrs. Luan, however, was black as a
thunder-cloud, and Miss Moore had something
to do not to look surprised and bored. It was
just like Mr. Templemore to bring them back
to the ways of that old poverty which they
had both gone through, and of which she so
disliked — hated would be too strong a word,
Miss Moore hated nothing — the very remem-
brance. But spite these two, the dinner — a
very good one — was a merry meal. Mr. Tem-
plemore was as joyous as a schoolboy, and
Dora as gay as a lark. Did she really feel in
such high spirits, or did she want to convince
her aunt that she was heart-free ? There
might be something in this, and yet it was im-
possible to look at her bright face, and hear
her clear ringing laugh, and not believe in the
sincerity of her mirth. A doubt on the sub-
ject never came near Mr. Templemore; and
when dinner was over, and they all left the
inn and walked slowly toward the station, Eva,
as usual, clinging to Dora's side, and Fido
wagging slowly behind her, he purposely lin-
gered by her to say —

" I wish, Miss Courtenay, you would let me
consider myself a sort of relation of yours ; I
am your uncle's nephew by marriage, you
know. I wish you would let my little Eva
have cousinship with you."

116

DORA.

"With great pleasure," replied Dora, smil-
ing ; but her look unconsciously added, " why

BO?"

" Perhaps she might acquire with the title
some of your happy gift of enjoyment," he
said, answering the question ; " you have it in
a rare degree, even for the daughter of an
Irishman and of a Frenchwoman."

Dora smiled again, but this time there was
triumph and pride in the smile. Yes, she had
so far prevailed over herself, she had so deeply
buried every pining hope, every vain regret,
that he could say this.

And thus Eva called her Cousin Dora, to

Miss Moore's amazement and Mrs. Courtenay's

delight. But Mrs. Luan was not satisfied.

This man was enjoying her brother's fortune.

no explanation of Dora's could remove this

impression from her narrow mind ; he was

rolling in wealth, whilst John, poor John, who

had written to her that morning that he was

coming to see her — or Dora, perhaps, but he

did not say so — was toiling in London. Should

he then be allowed to go on trifling thus with

her niece, leaving .the great peril of a marriage

between her and John still impending, like a

sword of Damocles ? Again and again the

stubborn voice which often spoke within Mrs.

»
Luan said " No."

To ask an agreeable girl to be adopted
cousin to one's little daughter is a very remote
step on the road to courtship. Sanguine
though Mrs. Courtenay felt, she, too, thought
so when she exchanged comments with Mrs.
Luan on this incident. So a consultation was
held by these ruling powers, and therein it
was ordered that Mr. Templemore's backward-
ness — for Mrs. Courtenay had not the faintest
doubt of bis intentions— all lay to Miss Moore's
account. How could Mr. Templcmore speak
when Miss Moore showed an affection for
Dora's society, which rivalled Fido's ? It might
be politeness, but Mrs. Courtenay thought it
downright planning.

Mrs Luan was silent; she did not complain
of the enemy, but she acted, and Miss Moore,
who looked on this stupid, heavy woman with
the most complacent contempt, fell into the
first snare spread before her. Nothing was
more easily done.

Miss Moore objected to raw starch, and had
said so in Mrs. Luan's hearing ; and so Dora's
aunt, with a stolidity which defied penetration,
declared, as they were all sitting in the gar-
den one afternoon, admiring the last autumn
flowers, that she bad just seen Marie, the
French maid, throwing water on the starch
instead of boiling it. Miss Moore heard, be-
lieved, and was gone. But unluckily little
perverse Eva at once came and took the place
her aunt had left vacant on the bench by
Dora, and rested her head on the young girl's
shoulder, evidently intending to remain thus.
Starch boiled or unboiled would not lure Eva
away, and Mrs. Luan was like Moliere's Mar-
quis, her impromptus were all most leisurely
concocted ; so she stood looking on bewil-
dered, till Mrs. Courtenay fortunately, but most
unconsciously — she was too thoughtless for a
plot — came to her assistance.

"Eva, my dear," she said, "you have not
shown me your flower-garden."

"This way," cried Eva, jumping down with
great alacrity, and showing Mrs. Courtenay
the way. Mrs. Luan followed ; we need not
say how strong an interest she took in Eva's
garden, and thus Dora remained alone with
Mr. Tempkmore. She rose at once. A nerv-
ous emotion always seized and mastered her
when she was alone with Mr. Templemore.

They stood on the edge, and within the
shade of the green world which enclosed the
little chateau and its flowery garden. The
red sunlight lit up the brown front of the
building, and gave gorgeousness to its walls,
flights of steps, vases, and flowers. The glass
window-panes were tinned into sheets of fire,
I the weather-cocks on the turrets were rods of

MR. TEMPLEMORE'S PROPOSAL.

117

solid gold. Every thing looked enchanting
and splendid, and the thin, yellow leaves on a
tree beyond the house quivered on a back-
ground of blue air as softly and as tenderly as
if fanned by breezes of spring. Dora admired
the beautiful picture, but she admired in si-
lence; she now cared to praise nothing that
belonged to Mr. Templemore.

"Miss Courtenay," he suddenly remarked,
" would you like to live at Les Roches — I
mean all the year round ? "

He spoke earnestly, but quite frankly, his

eyes meeting hers in all honesty of purpose.

Dora felt her face burn, but she replied quietly :

"Les Roches must have winter as well as

summer attractions."

Mr. Templemore did not seem satisfied.
"Would you like it?" he urged; then,
without giving her time to reply, he added,
"Pray hear me before you say yes or no."

Was it possible ? Had the moment come ?
Were her aunt's predictions, and her mother's
wishes, and her own secret ill-conquered hopes
and desires so soon to be fulfilled ? She stood
still, listening so intently that her breath
seemed gone. But it fared with her as with
the Arab maiden whose story she had once
read. Whilst her pitcher was filling at the
well, she was borne to a delightful island,
thence removed to a dreary wilderness, im-
prisoned in an enchanted tower, and after un-
dergoing every happy and sorrowful variety
of adventure, brought back to the well before
her pitcher was full.

" It is impossible to know you and not ad-
mire you, Miss Courtenay ; impossible not to
appreciate the extraordinary mixture of origi-
nal talent and good sense — for one often ex-
cludes the other — which is in you. Do not
therefore think me too selfish if I wish in some
measure to appropriate gifts so rare. Will
you undertake the charge of my little Eva's
education ? "
Whilst he spoke, Dora, like the Arab girl,

went through every vicissitude. Hope soared
on happy wings to empyreal heights, then
sank down prostrate, a chained captive.
Whilst he spoke, and the sound of his words
fell on the air, a splendid vision faded into
darkness, a palace of delight ^vas laid low,
and by the shock of the ruin Dora felt how
deep in her heart its foundations had been.

Mr. Templemore took her silence for that
of consideration, and he respected it ; but he
looked at her anxiously.

There was not a particle of foolish senti-
ment about Dora. She carried a clear posi-
tiveness in her feelings, though they were so
warm and ardent. Romantic she was in her
love of the strange and the wonderful ; she had
also a touch of poetry that lingered around
her, and gave her the fresh fragrance of a wild
flower ; but sentimental she was not. Bitter
and cruel though was the shock she had re-
ceived, she rallied from it almost at once;
and what was more, she indulged in no illu-
sions. The man who wanted her to be his
child's governess was not a lover, and never
would be one. She turned to Mr. Temple-
more, and she answered with a smile :

" I am not qualified — I have never taught."

"And it is that which helps to make you
so invaluable, Miss Courtenay."

" I cannot leave my mother," said Dora,
gravely ; " besides — "

"Excuse me," he interrupted, "I never
contemplated that you and Mrs. Courtenay
should part. To tell you the truth, I have
had an apartment prepared for her, and an-
other for you and Eva. I was not so presump-
tuous as to feel sure of you, but the illusion,
if it was one, was so pleasant that I could no't,
or rather that I would not forbear indulging
in it."

" You forget my aunt, Mrs. Luan."

" Is not Mrs. Luan going to England to join
her son ? " asked Mr. Templemore. " She
I told me so this morning."

118

DORA.

But Mrs. Luan had told Dora nothing of the
kind. She had, as with a presentiment that
her ungracious presence might mar all, spoken
to Mr. Templemore ; but to her niece, to her
sister-in-law, she had not so much as read a
line of John's letter. Dora was taken by sur-
prise, and her heart, too, felt heavy and sad.
It was natural that when means failed, Mrs.
Luan should go and join her son ; but it was
also a token that Dora's fortunes were very
low indeed. No doubt Mr. Templemore
thought so too. No doubt not caring to em-
ploy her any longer at the Musee, he had hit
on these means to be useful to her. Dora's
color deepened at the thought, and there was
a sudden light in her eyes, as, looking up, she
said —

" No — it cannot be."

Mr. Templemore looked so disappointed that
Dora could not think he had simply meant to
oblige her.

"Dear Miss Courtenay," he urged, "do
think over this, and consult with Mrs. Cour-
tenay."

Dora assented, and half smiled at the thought
of Mrs. Courtenay's indignant amazement when
she should hear the news. And yet why be
angry with him? It was no crime of his that
they were poor, and that Dora must work to
live. In making such a proposal he only as-
sumed the privilege of friendship. If he had
been her cousin, indeed, he could have done
it, and neither her aunt nor her mother would
have wondered.

" I will not be proud," thought Dora, tak-
ing herself to task at something which rose
within her and made her heart swell. " I
will remember his goodness to us all, and
refuse or accept his offer from no mean or
ungenerous motive ! "

Eva now ran to meet them, exclaiming in
great glee,

" Mrs. Luan says my garden is beautiful !

beautiful ! "

" Beautiful ! " repeated Mrs. Luan, coming
up.

She gave Dora a furtive glance ; her niece
looked flushed and pensive — Mrs. Luan liked
these signs. Dora, indeed, was both grave
and quiet during the rest of the evening, but
she was scarcely aware of it her«elf, and she
had retired to her room for the night, and
sat by the window thinking over Mr. Temple-
more's proposal, when the sudden entrance
of Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan made her
look up in some surprise at this joint visit.

" My dear, we are come to know," said
Mrs. Courtenay, sitting down. " We saw Mr.
Templemore talking to you so very earnestly,
and though we can guess what it was all about,
still we want to know."

" Know what, mamma ? "

" Did not Mr. Templemore propose to

you

" He made a proposal ; but — "

"My dear," almost screamed her mother,
raising her shrill little voice, and clasping her
hands in alarm, " don't say that you have not
accepted him ! "

" Mr. Templemore made a proposal which
I did not accept," began Dora ; " but — "

Mrs. Luan groaned, and sank down on a
chair.

" The idiot has refused him," she said ;
" a man who has a thousand a year ! "

Mr. Templemore had more ; but Mrs.
Luan's imagination could not go beyond a
thousand. Dora looked at her aunt with just
a touch of quiet disdain.

" Mr. Templemore has asked me to be
Eva's governess," she said, " and I have not
accepted." \

Mrs. Courtenay opened her mouth, and
stared in blank dismay. Mrs. Luan turned
crimson, and said sullenly,

" I don't believe it !— I don't believe it ! "

" You must believe it, aunt ; it is so."

" Eva's governess ! " faintly said Mrs. Cour-

A GOVERNESS FOR EVA.

119

tenay. " He has not asked you to be his
wife ? "

"No, and he never will," firmly replied
Dora. " The only question is, shall I accept
or not? He would give you an apartment
here, and as aunt, it seems, is going to Eng-
land to join John, the plan is feasible enough."

" He is a very rude man ! " cried Mrs.
Courtenay, feeling extremely angry with the
delinquent. " Did you ask him for a situa-
tion ? "

" No, I did not ; but I did not ask bim
either to draw for Monsieur Merand, and be
paid handsomely for it. Mamma, we must
look our future in the face, and not quarrel
with our only friend because he wants to
make our lot les^ hard than it would be with-
out him. I want to work, but work I have
not got. I have already thought of taking
a situation."

" And leaving me ! " screamed Mrs. Cour-
tenay, in horror.

" Ay ! there it is ! " replied Dora, much
affected. "We love each other, and cannot
bear to part."

" You always said that even if you married
we should remain together," resumed Mrs.
Courtenay, looking injured.

" What am I to do ? " asked Dora, despond-
ently. t,If girls, poor superfluous creatures
as they are, were only drowned like kittens
at their birth, there would not be this terrible
difficulty to provide work for them when
they are grown upJ you see. I am clever
enough, I believe I can do twenty things, but
for all that, a situation is the only door open
to me. The drawing made me happy, oh !
so happy ! but it was a delusion, a dream,
and Mr. Templemore himself dare not suggest
it again — it is so patent ! "

She sighed, and Mrs. Courtenay burst into
tears. Three kittens, the offspring of Ma-
dame Bertrand's cat, had been ignominiously
drowned in a tub of water a, fortnight before,

and on hearing Dora lament that she had not
undergone such a fate at her birth, Mrs.
Courtenay was fairly overpowered by her
feelings.

"Dear mamma," exclaimed Dora, much
concerned, " you must be brave, you must ! "

" And how can I be brave ? " asked Mrs.
Courtenay, " when you talk of drowning and
kittens in that dreadful way, and want to
leave me ? "

" I do not want to leave you, but — "

" Well, then, why not take the situation
Mr. Templemore offers you ? " asked Mrs.
Courtenay, wholly forgetting how angry she
was with that gentleman — " that way we need
not part, and Les Roches is a delightful place,
and I am sure he would give a liberal salary."

Dora was silent. Yes, she too could see all
the advantages of this scheme. It would be a
haven instead of a stormy journey, peace and
rest instead of trouble and toil ; but are not
these good sometimes, and is there not danger
often lurking in the smoothest lot ? Danger !
— what danger ? asked Pride, and at once an-
swered : " I fear none such. I stand secure
from all such peril. There was a folly once,
but I have thrust it back so deep, that it will
never rise to light again — never ! Then speak
not of danger to me."

But the very thought Dora thus repelled
came back from Mrs. Courtenay's lips.

" My dear," she exclaimed, suddenly bright-
ening, " depend upon it, Mr. Templemore
means to ask you to marry him, after all.
Only he wants to see how you can get on with
Eva first."

" Mamma," answered Dora, coldly, " I have
no wish to think of him in that light — it is not
right ; besides, I am proud, and do not like it.
Let the only question be, shall I, or shall I
not, be Eva's governess ? "

" My dear, I do not think you can do better
than to say yes — don't you think so, Mrs.
Luan ? "

120

DORA.

But Mrs. Luan had slipped out of the room
unperceived.

" I need not give an answer at once," said
Dora, looking a little irresolute, " so I shall
think over it."

But Mrs. Courtenay, whose brightest hopes
had suddenly revived, though she saw the ex-
pediency of not expressing them to Dora, could
not help urging her daughter r.ot to hesitate
about such an offer. In her opinion, such
hesitation was almost wroDg. Dora heard her
with ber cheek resting on her left hand, and
her eyes bent on the floor. She thought, with
a sigh of regret, of those days when she worked
at the Musee for Monsieur Merand, cheered by
Doctor Richard's counsel and approbation. She
remembered them, and with them some idle
fancies in which she had then indulged —
dreams in which she was Doctor Richard's
wife, and they worked together, he writing, she
drawing, in the same room, both poor, yet
both happy. What were Les Roches, and
servants, and a liberal salary, to that tender
but now lost folly ? For could she doubt that
to make her his child's instructress had been
his object all along ? That had been her value
and attraction in his eyes.

" And that shall be all I will now look at,"
thought Dora. "Never, if I accept, shall I
forget that position — never ! "

" Well, my dear, I suppose you will have
made up your mind to-morrow ? " said Mrs.
Courtenay, rising, with a sigh of apprehension.

" I dare say I shall say ' yes,' mamma," re-
plied Dora, gravely.

"Do," eagerly said her mother — " do, my
dear. Good-night. God bless you! "

But the blessing did not seem to leave peace
behind it. Dora thought of her little inde-
pendence, of that dear liberty for which the
luxurious comforts of Les Roches could offer
no compensation, and she sighed. Restless-
ness followed her to her pillow, and chased
away sleep.

" Oh ! if I could but say no ! " she thought,
with a yearning, passionate wish for the sweet
freedom which a little money gives.

But even as she thought thus, her room
door opened, and some one entered the apart-
ment.

" Who is there ? " exclaimed Dora, in some
alarm.

" It is I," replied Mrs. Luan's voice in the
darkness. She approached Dora's bed, and
standing there, she said, " You must accept
Mr. Templemore's offer, Dora ; and if you do,
you will assuredly become Mr. Templemore's
wife."

" Aunt ! " cried Dora.

" Hush ! do as I say, and I will answer for
the end. When he sees you daily he will love
you ; and when he loves you, he will marry
you."

" Aunt, I cannot — "

" Hush ! I know you like him."

Dora was mute, and whilst her face flushed
and felt hot even in the darkness, whilst her
heart throbbed so that her breath seemed
gone, Mrs. Luan groped out of the room. Dora
sat up in the bed, and clasped her burning
head between her hands. No, she could not
say yes — she could not stay in Mr. Temple-
more's house with such predictions* to haunt
her.

" I will not ! — I will not ! " she thought again
and again.

Once more her room door opened.

" Aunt ! " she exclaimed, agitatedly.

But it was not Mrs. Luan, it was Mrs. Cour-
tenay, with a light in her hand.

" My dear," she said tearfully, "" you must
say ' yes ; ' promise me that you will say ' yes.'
We shall all starve if you do not ! You must
say ' yes.' "

She was quite hysterical, and the sight of
her emotion calmed Dora as by magic.

"Dear mamma," she said cheerfully, and
kissing her as she spoke, " it shall be yes.

MR. TEMPLEMORE ON PROGRESSIVE SCIENCE.

121

And that yes, spoken for your sake, will be
like a spell — it shall conjure away every snare
and every peril."

She spoke resolutely, but not presumptu-
ously. That "yes" did prove a spell. It
silenced at once and forever the dangerous
wishes which Mrs. Luan's words had awakened
anew from their rest. They fled, to return no
more. No more did Hope whisper, though
ever so faintly, " Why should he not learn to
care for me?"

CHAPTER XXII.

" Make Eva like yourself, Miss Courtenay,"
said Mr. Templemore to Dora, the next day,
as they stood alone in the garden — he had
plainly asked Miss Moore to leave them there.
" Even my paternal ambition can hope for no
more."

But, spite this complimentary remark, Dora's
face remained grave.

" I have said ' yes,' " she replied ; " but
pray remember how inexperienced I am, es-
pecially in the modern system of teaching."

" My dear Miss Courtenay, is there magic in
that word modern ? Is the present so very
different from the past ? "

'* We have made progress in science, Mr.
Templemore."

" None to speak of. What are all the visions
of political economy, for instance, to that
grand thing, the transmutation of the baser
metals into gold ? You will stop me with
modern unbelief, but I say it can be done, and
has been done. You can make gold or silver,
I forget which, only it is too expensive — it
comes dearer than the natural thing. Well,
our ancestors had the cheap process, and we
have not — that is all. Then what are all our
beautifiers, and enamellings, and Macassar
oils, to the fountain of youth ? Do not tell
me it never existed unless in the brain of
poets. Juan Ponce de Leon fitted out an ex-

pedition, and went to seek it. Would he
have done so if it were an imaginary foun-
tain ? "

"Did he find it? " asked Dora, demurely.

"No, Miss Courtenay; but do you doubt
the existence of the North Pole because Sir
John Franklin perished in going to it ? Shall
we call that band of heroes and martyrs,
dreamers ? — and shall we think that people in
the sixteenth century, which saw such splen
did discoveries and such stirring deeds, were
more foolish than they are in the nineteenth ?
And then the fancy, the playfulness of inven-
tion in those days ! No black smoking rail-
way engines hissing through a landscape, but
enchanted cars, that flew through the thin air ;
or wooden horses, with pegs under their right
ears, that conveyed you wherever you wished
to go! Why, the theme is endless — its fer-
tility is bewildering. Take garroting and Bill
Sykes. Five hundred years ago, Bill Syke3
would have been a magician — a cruel one, no
doubt ; but look at the superiority of these
ancient times over ours. Bill Sykes, who now
knocks you down, half strangles you, and after
plundering your pockets, parts from you with
a kick of his brutal heel on your prostrate
face, Bill Sykes, I say, would have ' enchanted
you.' Oh ! delicious days, lovely days of the
olden time, when you were ' enchanted ' by
your enemies — when romantic forests, or fairy
palaces, or green islands were ever ready to
receive you — when, if you belonged to the fair
sex, knights and princes strove to release you
from durance vile ; and if you were some rosy
young knight, a benevolent fairy, a Gloriaua,
ever beautiful and young, was sure to deliver
you in the end."

" But all enchantment was not mesmeric,
Mr. Templemore," gayly said Dora; "there
was transformation, you know."

" Ah ! you have me there, Miss Courtenay.
I am too candid to deny that the mere thought
of bcins turned into a bird or a four-footed crea-

122

DORA.

turc, or a stupid fish, of being liable to be
snared by the fowler, trussed and roasted by
the cock, or even simply fried in a pan, is odi-
ous to me. It would almost reconcile me to
Sill Sykes, but for Huon of Bordeaux's ivory
horn. That is my weak point. All my life
long I have hated bores with a silent, deadly
hate ; but I have been powerless against them.
I have met them on Vesuvius, in Eegent Street,
on the banks of Killarney, and they have ever
prevailed against me. The bore is clad in
mail, which is sword and dagger proof. But,
oh ! if I had that gold-mounted ivory horn
which Oberon gave to Huon, and which set all
sinners spinning, how I could settle the bore
once for all ! Suppose the bore comes and
buzzes in my ear his foolish inanities concern-
ing scenery, suppose he tells me about his chil-
dren, or, what is just as likely, gives me the
bill of fare of that capital dinner which he ate
last year at the Freres Provencaux — instead
of listening to him with secret pangs, instead
of flying like a coward, I should just look at
him quietly so, take my ivory horn, well se-
cured to my side by a patent chain and Bramah
hook, blow one blast, and leave him there spin-
ning."

" You would not have the heart to do it, Mr.
Templemore."

"Miss Courtenay, as there is no spot, no
season, no hour sacred to the Bore, so none
should save him from my revenge."

Dora looked at him wistfully. It was very
pleasant to listen so to Mr. Templemore in that
blooming garden, with the old brick chateau
in the background ; but it reminded her too
strongly of the happy days when Doctor Rich-
ard and she used to vie in such fanciful para-
doxes, and she would rather forget that time.
She was to be the governess of Mr. Temple-
more's child, then let her sink into the posi-
tion, with all its advantages and drawbacks,
and be nothing else;

" But to return to Eva," resumed Mr. Temple-

more. " Since the sad day on which I lost her
two little sisters, she has been too much in-
dulged. She has faults, which she must out-
grow, and so we must part for awhile. I shall
leave her here under your care, and spend the
winter in Deenah."

Dora started, yet she had wished to be noth-
ing but the governess, and she had her wish.
She need fear no dangerous sweetness in her
lot. He was going to Deenah, and she would
remain in Les Roches, almost alone with the
child, in that large silent house. Yes, it was
well, but how far the days in the Musee, and
at Madame Bertrand's, now seemed — how re-
mote ! Something, too, there was in her mind
which she could not help uttering.

"Mr. Templemore," she said, turning upon
him with much earnestness, " you throw a great
responsibility upon me."

" I do," he replied, gravely ; " I feel I do.
But I cannot leave the child to Miss Moore's
care — nay, I will leave her to none save you.
Eva loves you, and that love, joined to your
happy nature, will do more to cure her of her
faults than all my preaching. I have no fear
for the result — none."

He spoke so confidently, that Dora felt si-
lenced. She had but to submit. Her mother
longed to stay in Les Roches, and to enjoy its
comforts, and Mr. Templemore was bent on se-
curing her. His will and her necessity were
both too strong for liberty.

" Be it so," she said, a little wistfully.

But Mr. Templemore was too much pleased
to see it. He looked perfectly happy at her
final consent, and with a boyish eagerness
which gave the ardor and the freshness of youth
to all he said or did, he asked to show her at
once the apartments he had prepared for her
and Eva, who now joined them. The child was
all alive witli curiosity and excitement.

For the last month these mysterious rooms
had been locked up, but now their secrets were
going to be disclosed.

MISS COURTENAY'S REMOVAL TO LES ROCHES.

123

" And I shall know all about them," said
Eva, exulting.

They entered a room on the ground-floor.
Books, globes, maps, and a large slate in a
frame, said plainly this was the school-room.
Thence Eva ran into the next apartment.

" Oh ! what a pretty room ! " she cried ; " is
it for me ? "

'•' No. This sitting-room is destined to the
lady who will have the goodness to teach
you."

Eva pouted, and Dora looked around her.
Her future sitting-room was very graceful and
elegant, and overlooked the flower-garden.

"This is a delightful apartment," she said,
gayly ; " but where is Eva's ? "

Eva had already opened a door, and gone
up a private staircase, which gave access from
the sitting-room to the first-floor, and thence
she eagerly summoned " Cousin Dora."

Dora went up and found three bedrooms —
Eva's, the servant's, and her own. It was a
handsome room — handsome, yet pleasant ; but
it seemed to Dora that it had a grave, sober
aspect, which made it a very different apart-
ment from the graceful room she now slept in,
as Mr. Templemore's guest. The furniture was
ancient, valuable indeed, but somewhat solemn-
looking.

It was a corner room, and each of its two
windows commanded a different prospect.
Standing in the deep embrasure of one, you
saw the gates of the chateau, and you looked
down the long road delving deep into the city.
That view Dora had from her present apart-
ment. But this, her future room, if she be-
came Eva's governess, had another window
looking down into a quiet court, around which
the chateau was built. In the centre rose a
bubbling fountain, and though the aspect of
all she saw was Norman, and not Germanic,
Dora thought of Undine, when she had wedded
Knight Hildebrand, and went home with him
to his castle.

"When I feel foolish and unhappy I shall
sit here and look at that court and fountain,"
she thought. " Even as that water is enclosed
everywhere by cold stone walls, and must be
satisfied with its life of domestic usefulness, so
must I not repine or think myself ill-used be-
cause others go forth and wander in lovely
spots and happy liberty, whilst I bend over
books, teach a wayward child, and forget that
I too might have had a story ; and yet — yet
oh ! how can I forget you, my brother ? How
can I forget that if you had triumphed that
man would have been poor, and would scarcely
have hit upon me to be the governess of his
child ? How can I forget that, poor or rich, I
should still have liked your conquered enemy,
as I now cannot help liking your successful
rival?"

"I don't like this," said Eva, peeping out
of the window, and drawing back. " I don't
like that court and the fountain ; do you,
Cousin Dora ? "

" Oh ! so much," replied Dora, with a smile.
" This is mine, you know."

"Are you the governess, Cousin Dora?"
cried Eva, amazed.

"Yes, Eva," answered Dora, with quiet
pride ; "lam the governess."

Thus it was decided. Miss Moore, on learn-
ing the news, or seeming to learn it, be-
came wonderfully kind to Dora — so kind that
Mrs. Courtenay was almost tempted to ex-
postulate ; but the quiet indifference of Miss
Courtenay's manner soon silenced Miss Moore
effectually. Coldness is the strongest weapon
of defence. It is a shield of adamant, which
nothing can pierce.

Great were the laments of Madame Bertrand
on hearing that her lodgers meant to leave
her ; but great, too, was her amazement when
Mrs. Courtenay informed her that Doctor
Richard and the tenant of Les Roches were
one. Her questions, Was Mr. Templemore
very rich ? — was he married ? — and the shrewd

124

DOEA.

looks she gave "Dora all the time, were very
hard to bear.

" Yes," she thought, " all that might have
been, but it must never be now — never."

Mrs. Luan went to England the very day
after they left Les Roches. Her haste struck
Dora, though she was so far from guessing its
real motive, that, as they parted from her at
the station, she said —

" Aunt, tell John I am very angry that he
did not come to see us."

Mrs. Luan nodded. Yes, she would tell
John — she would be sure to tell him.

" Eow odd aunt looked ! " said Dora, as she
walked home with her mother.

But Mrs. Courtenay had seen no particular
oddity about Mrs. Luan ; she always was odd,
she said ; and in the same breath she expressed
her relief at leaving Madame Bertrand's mean
little rooms, and going to inhabit the broad
lofty chambers of Les Roches. But when
Dora entered her room to bid her adieu, she
looked at that quiet room with fond regret.
She glanced at the prim Griselidis, at the
shabby furniture, at the gray church opposite,
with the vine-leaves turning red beneath the
cold breath of autumn winds, and she sighed.
At the lame teacher's window she would not
look, but she glanced up to Nanette's. The
friendly beacon she had once seen shining
there was gone forever, and with it had de-
parted some bright visions, not of love or hap-
piness, but of pleasant labor and sweet inde-
pendence.

" My poor little fairy," she sadly thought,
" I used to fancy you had brought me in luck
in exchange for my milk and eggs; but I
know now it was such luck as one reads of in
story-books, where the gold turns into withered
leaves, and the fairy palaces you sleep in at'
night are gone in the morning."

"Dora!" called her mother's voice in the
outer room, " are you ready ? "

" I am coming," answered Dora ; but the

sparrows she used to feed, seeing her stand
by the open window, went fluttering past, ex-
pecting their little pittance, and Dora would
not disappoint them. She covered the window-
ledge with bread, then, with a last look and a
last sigh, she bade adieu to her room, and, for
the first time in her life — to liberty.

And yet she looked happy and gay when
she entered Les Roches. For, after all, hers
was a happy lot, and she knew it. It was
pleasant to be valued so highly by the father,
and to be loved so dearly by the child. Even
Fido's greeting was grateful to her ; and then
it was something surely that when one door
closed upon her, another should open so
readily and so soon. It was a relief to Mr.
Templemore to read the brightness of all this
in her face, as she arrived with her mother.
Yes, he felt it keenly ; he could trust his child
whilst he was away to this fine joyous nature —
so joyous, and that, too, Mr. Templemore
knew, though not to what extent, because it
was so brave.

And now Dora entered thescbool-room, and
became queen absolute there. Eva's love for
her governess partook of adoration. There
had never been so perfect a being, in her
opinion, as Dora. Miss Moore looked puzzled,
and scarcely pleased, at this ardent affection ;
but Mr. Templemore was both amused and de-
lighted, and took evident pleasure in watching
and fostering its growth. He would jestingly
ask Dora to tell him which of the two, Eva or
Fido, loved her most, or could do best without
her society. And when Dora would leave the
room, or the garden, and Eva, howsoever ab-
sorbed, would soon look up from her book or
her playthings, shake her curls, and ask,
" Where is Cousin Dora ? " Mr. Templemore
would reply, with a smile :

" Come, Eva, I see it is Fido's affection
which is the stronger of tire two, after all ; he
never lets Cousin Dora out of his sight, pru-
dent dog, and you do."

wsmmfigsBSsm

1 f'Wy. 'tf-p,.,

DORA AND llll. CHILD i:\UK III.M ADIEU AT THE GATE.

p. 125.

MR. TEMPLEMORE REVISITS DEENAH.

125

•' But Fido does not love Cousin Dora half
so much as I do," Eva would cry, in hot indig-
nation ; and throwing down her book or her
doll, she would go in pursuit of this much-
loved cousin, to Mr. Ternplemore's evident sat-
isfaction.

Mrs. Courtenay put only one construction
upon all this, and felt both amazed and indig-
nant when Mr. Teinplernore suddenly went
away one morning. Before going he spoke to
Dora.

"You have bewitched Eva," he said, with a
kind smile, " so I need only ask you to go on
with that magic, the secret of which I will not
attempt to fathom. I shall only trouble you
with two requests : be so good as to teach
Eva to wait on herself as much as possible,
and not to grow up into a helpless young lady ;
also, if she should be unwell, to send for Doc-
tor' Le Roux 'first, then to telegraph to. me.
The rest I leave to you ; and now, before we
part, forgive me to have laid this task upon
you— I sometimes feel I have been selfish ! "

"How so?" composedly asked Dora. " I
really could not expect a better situation than
that I have in your family, Mr. Templemore."
" Pray do not talk of it as a situation," he
said, looking slightly disturbed.

" What else is it ? " she replied, with a smile
of quiet pride. " Of course you do not look
upon me merely as a person to whom you
give a certain amount of money — nor do I
think of myself merely as one who receives it;
but for all that, Mr. Templemore, I ajn the
governess of your child, and I am paid for
being so."

Mr. Ternplemore's dark cheek flushed, and
he bit his lip, but he said nothing.

" I hope you are not displeased with my
frankness?" composedly resumed Dora, who
saw very well that he was.

" Oh ! not at all," replied Mr. Templemore,
but he thought : " Miss Courtenay is a proud
woman — a very proud woman ! "

And now it was time for him to go. He
would not let Eva accompany him to the sta-
tion, Dora and the child bade him adieu at
the gates of Les Roches. The day was bleak
and very dreary — such, at least, it seemed to
Dora, as she gave him her hand, .and wished
him a happy journey. - But if the sweet sun-
shine of spring had been in the sky, Mr. Tem-
plemore could not have looked brighter and
more genial than he looked as he bade them,
farewell. He kissed Eva two or three times,
indeed, and with evident grief, but grief under
which seemed to flow a strong current of joy.
Dora stood and looked at the carriage which
bore him away, like one in a dream. She felt
no wish to lament his departure, no tempta-
tion to regret his presence, but there fell a
coldness upon her like that of a shadow which
suddenly shuts out a strong sun. She felt
both lone and chill,' and 'turned back to the
house in silence, till Eva's sobs and tears
roused her to the effort of consoling the
child.

But Eva's grief was a childish grief — it did
not last. When she had got all the comfort
she could out of Dora, she raised her head
from her young governess's shoulder, dried
her tears, looked about her, and said, with a
little tremulous sigh,

" Cousin Dora, I think I shall go to aunt
now."

" Very well, my dear, do so."

She put down the child, who jumped lightly
on the floor, shook her dark curls, and with
them, no doubt, some portion of her sorrow;
then opened the door of the school-room, slip-
ped out, and left Dora alone.
■ She could not help going back to the past,
and to some of the dreams by which that past
had been haunted. She could not help com-
paring the romance of life with that of reality.
How fair a beginning she had had ! She had
read novels very like it. A rich man in dis-
guise discovers a poor girl in some obscure

126

DORA.

nook, and removes every thorn from her path.
He holds a magic wand, and life becomes
sweet and easy before the unconscious maiden.
Then, having won her heart, unaided by the
prestige of wealth and rank, he takes her
some day to a noble dwelling, and says, " 'Tis
mine." How pretty ! And it was her story.
That pleasing commencement she had had,
and to make its romance more complete, the
rich man in disguise was a sort of feudal
enemy. But alas ! the fair ending of the tale
was wanted.

" Life is not a ballad or a novel, after all,"
thougbt Dora, amused at her own disappoint-
ment, and glancing round at the maps and
globes, which showed her how wide a gap
lay there between the first and the last pages
of her book ; " the rich man is very kind, but
it is not a wife he wants, 'tis a governess. He
has a foolish sister-in-law, whom he cannot
trust his child with, and as the poor girl is a
lady, and cheerful, and can teach what she
knows, he is pleased to have her with his little
daughter, whilst he goes and spends the winter
in a house which is his, but might have been
her brother's. That is life, and that is why,
too, biography is so disappointing. The first
pages are always full of wonderful promise,
but the last have lost the charm ; the beauty
of the talc departs with youth, and returns no
more."

Here a black-and-tan paw, gently scratch-
ing Dora's knee, drew her attention. She
looked down smiling, and saw a pair of full
• eyes mutely begging for a lap.

" Yes, Fido, you shall be petted," she said,
taking him up ; and as Fido luxuriously made
a ball of himself, and soon snored with pleas-
ure, Dora' thought, "God bless him ! — he has
a good kind heart. It was like him to cheer
a dying woman by removing this Bad thought
from her mind. She died, knowing that the
creature who loved her would not be
forsaken. God bless him ! he was kind to me

too. I am sure it made him happy to see me
drawing at the Musee, and thinking myself a
bit of a genius. I can remember many a smile
and many a look in which, if I had read them
rightly, I might have detected the pure, heart-
felt joy of a good man. I can pay him back
now, and I will. I will be happy, and I
will be cheerful — were it only for his child's
sake."

The opportunity for fulfilling this resolve
came almost immediately. The door opened,
and Eva entered the room, with a sad, long
face.

" Cousin Dora," she said, with a profound
sigh, " aunt is busy, and — and I am very mis-
erable."

Miserable! Dora laughed the declaration
to scorn. Miserable ! — why, Mr. Templemore,
if he knew it, would be quite angry. Be-
sides, was he not coming back ? Miserable ! —
she would not hear of such a thing. But, un-
fortunately, Eva thought herself bound to be
miserable, and Dora soon found out that she
owed this idea to Miss Moore, who had taken
some pains to impress on the child that she
must in duty make herself unhappy, because
of her father's departure. Dora did not con-
tradict openly — there was no need to do so —
but she swept the morbid fancy away ; then,
putting Fido on his cushion, she sat down to
the piano, and began to play ; whilst Eva so
far forgot her grief as to dance, waving her
arms as she had seen little girls do in panto-
mimes^and making some erratic and abortive
attempts to stand upon one toe. As she was
in that picturesque attitude, the door opened,
and Mrs. Court enay entered the room. She,
too, came to be miserable, for she thought
Dora very ill-used by Mr. Templemore; but
on seeing Eva thus dancing to her daughter's
music, she looked so bewildered, that Dora,
who had turned round, asked with a smile :

" What is it, mamma ? "

" I am glad you are both co cheerful,"

MRS. LUAN'S RETURN.

127

replied Mrs. Courtenay, still looking bewil-
dered.

" Yes, we are cheerful," said Dora, with a
bright, proud smile, " and we mean to go on
being cheerful, too, mamma."

Mrs. Courtenay's countenance beamed again
on hearing this.

" My dear, I am so glad ! " she exclaimed,
raising her voice — " so glad ! "

Dora laughed, and turned back to the piano,
and Eva waved her arms, again and again
Stood on her toe, whilst Mrs. Courtenay ut-
tered little screams of delight, and Miss Moore,
who heard these doings from afar, felt shocked
and scandalized.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Time bad passed, and brought few changes
in Dora's life. She had done with Eva one
evening, and stole up to her own room, as she
often did at that hour. It was very cold, but
a bright moon shone in the wintry sky, and
standing in the deep recess of her window,
Dora looked at the sharp icicles which hung
from the stone angles of the fountain in the
court.

" So am I," thought Dora.
She did not feel dull, she did not feel un-
happy, but she felt torpid like that . frozen
water.

" My dear, here is a letter for you," said her
mother, coming in.

Dora turned round quickly ; John Luan had
written a week ago, the letter might be from
Mr. Templemore. It was from him — a friendly
letter, as usual, and enclosing a check.
" My quarter's salary," she said.
"How nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay;
" and then that pretty English maid Mr. Tem-
plemore sent for you and Eva. Dora, you had
a fairy for your godmother."

" Had I ! " asked Dora ; for memory flew
back with a sort of passion to Madame Ber-

trand's rooms, and the old church, with its
gal-den high up in the buttresses, to the Musee,
with its pictures, and to long happy evenings,
which must return no more. " Have I not
buried my dead yet ? " she thought, scorning
her own weakness.

" My dear, you will tear that check," un-
easily said Mrs. Courtenay, as she saw her
daughter crushing the paper in her little ner-
vous hand, with unconscious force.

Dora laughed, and who that heard her girl-
ish laugh would have guessed how much
strength and how much pride lay within it.- -
clear ringing sound ?

" Are you coming to the drawing-room ? "
resumed Mrs. Courtenay ; " poor Miss Moore
does prose so when we are alone."

" I shall join you presently," said Dora,
cheerfully, " but I must go down and look at
some drawings first. I shall not be long,"
she added, gayly, on seeing Mrs. Courtenay's
blank face.

She went at once, and on her way down she
met that pretty English maid, whose preseuce
was, in Mrs. Courtenay's opinion, one of the
glories of her daughter's lot.

Fanny curtsied, and stood by respectfully
whilst Miss Courtenay passed.

" Fanny is very civil and very pretty, and I
have not a fault to find with her," thought
Dora, looking at the girl's blooming face and
smiling blue eyes ; " but I suppose I am hard
to please, for I do not like Fanny, and would
rather be without her."

Mr. Templemore, before leaving, had placed
his library at Dora's disposal, and she had
spent some pleasant hours with its silent ten-
ants. But now she was not inclined for a
book, she wanted something more vivid, some-
thing to charm the eye as well as to feed the
mind, and she found it in one of Mr. Temple-
"j more's many portfolios. The hours Dora
spent thus were very hippy hours in their
way. Surrounded by mementoes of Mr. Tern-

1'28

DORA.

plemore, she could not help thinking of him
now and then ; but the old illusions, the old
friendship even, she forgot, or thought that
she did forget. She might be mistaken. Her
self-subjection was not, perhaps, so complete
as she imagined it to be — but she was far too
proud to be unhappy.

Perhaps love does not makes its victims so
very wretched, after all. Perhaps it is rather
a state of mild and bearable suffering than
one of distracting pain. There are many rea-
sons why the patient's pangs should be con-
cealed ; and when they are revealed, it is gen-
erally because they have become intolerable.
It is then that the world sees despair, and the
agony of grief, and draws its hasty conclu-
sions concerning the tragic nature of love.
"We may be sure there are many calm lulls to
that sorrow, many hours when it is forgotten,
and life and its blessings are prized in their
fulness. Love in itself can never be a curse ;
though it may be in love's destiny, and no
doubt is to lead to some of the sharpest tor-
ments which a human being can experience.
But when there is and can be no hope, there
can be no acute suffering, and so it was with
Dora. So she now lingered over a view of
Tompeii, and as she looked at the lone and
desolate streets and roofless houses, and lis-
tened to the stormy wind blowing around Les
Roches, she thought how time with the same
resistless force had swept away man and his
generations from the (lend city. " Yes," she
eaid-to her own thoughts, " we are before that
mighty conqueror as dried leaves on the path
of a strong gust, and surely it is impossible to
think of these things, and indulge in vain il-
lusions or dangerous reverie."

Dora felt very calm just then, full of phi-
losophy and of that wisdom which comes
from thought, and has not stood the test of
experience. The wind was strong, as we said,
and it did not let her hear the wheels of a
carriage on the gravelled path outside. She

did not hear unaccustomed sounds in the
house at that hour, she heard nothing till the
door of the room in which she sat opened,
and Mrs. Luan stood before her.

" Aunt ! " cried Dora, starting to her feet in
much surprise. " Is it really you ?— are you
really come ? "

" Yes," replied Mrs. Luan, nodding ; " Mr.
Templemore asked me. He knew it would
please you, he said."

" How kind ! " exclaimed Dora in glad sur-
prise. " Do you stay long, aunt ? Is John
coming ? "

"No," shortly replied Mrs. Luan. "Mr.
Templemore did not ask him."

" Of course not," said Dora with a gay
laugh ; " but he could go to Madame Ber-
trand, you know, and I long to see John
again."

"And Mr. Templemore," said her aunt,
" when is he coming ? "

" Really, aunt, I don't know ; " and her
face, bright as sunshine, seemed to Jidd,
" Really, I don't care."

Mrs. Luan's brain was not a clear one. A
dreadful fear now seized her. Had Dora's
heart turned the wrong way? She gave her
so strange and moody a look, that her niece
was startled.

"Aunt, what is it?"

" Xothing, but I wish I had not lost the let-
ter — Mr. Templemore's letter ; it was beauti-
ful — and all about you."

Dora's deep blush did not speak much in
favor of poor John ; and Mrs. Luan, whom
her one idea could render clear-sighted, read
its meaning.

" I must go and see Miss Moore now," she
said, prudently leaving Dora to the powerful
auxiliary of her own thoughts. " Will you
come ? "

"When I have put away this portfolio,"
answered Dora.

But she did not follow her aunt at once.

INDIGNATION OF DORA'S AUNT.

129

She stood with a smile on her lips, and a
happy light in her eyes, forgetting the easy
wisdom of five minutes back. Ah ! what a
thing is the present moment, that subtle por-
tion of time which is either past or future,
and which is gone before we can say 'tis here.
In vaiu Dora had read and looked. Neither
book nor picture now gave her their lesson, or
yielded her their homily. In vain they had
told her how generations had come and gone,
how creeds had changed, how the sun of some
nations had set in the darkness of an eternal
nisrht, and that of other nations had arisen
and reached its meridian glorious and splen-
did — there was something stronger than it all
in the heart of the dreaming girl.

" What could there be in that lost letter ? "
she thought, as she closed the door of the
study behind her.

She stood in the darkness of a narrow pas-
sage, but thence she could see the square
stone hall brightly lit, and the broad staircase.
Suddenly the front door opened, and Jacques,
the servant, showed in a tall handsome young
man. For one moment Dora remained amazed
and mute, the next she eagerly came forward.

" John ! " she said, joyfully ; " John Luan ! "

He turned round quickly and took her ex-
tended band, and looked at her with a happy,
beaming face.

" God bless you ! " he said ; then he added,
"you are as pretty as ever."

"Of course I am," gayly answered Dora.
"But what a cheat aunt is to say you were
not coming ! "

John Luan changed color, and looked so-
bered at once.

" Is my mother here ? " he asked.

" She has just arrived, and is up-stairs with
mamma and Miss Moore. Did you not travel
together ? "

"No," sulkily replied John. Before Dora
could make any comment, a door above open-
ed, and Mrs. Luan, who had probably heard

her son's voice, appeared at the head of the
staircase.

There was a moment's silence, and during
that interval, brief though it was, Dora saw
and guessed much. She saw the brightness
which her aspect had called up pass away
from John's face, and a strange sullen like-
ness to his mother appear there in its stead —
a likeness which grew deeper and stronger as
Mrs. Luan and he exchanged looks. She saw
this, and she guessed that mother and son
had deceived each other ; though how far the
deceit had been carried — how John had said
he was going to Scotland, and Mrs. Luan that
she was going to Dublin ; how John had come
to ask her to become his wife, and Mrs. Luan
to prevent her from consenting; and, above
all, how she had come to Les Roches without
the slightest invitation from its master, Dora
could not divine. She had always thought
that the Obstacle to John's suit rested with
herself; she had never suspected that it lay
with Mrs. Luan.

" And did each of you not know that the
other was coming ? " she could not help ex-
claiming.

" Come, come, I see we have caught and
surprised you," gayly replied John Luan, re-
covering his composure. " And is aunt caught
too ! Where is aunt ? "

" Why, John, I thought you were in Scot-
Iand!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay's voice up-
stairs ; " what a shame of Mrs. Luan to im-
pose upon me so ! "

John laughed, and went up to Mrs. Cour-
t-nay, who, in the same breath, introduced
him to Mi.-'s Moore, and informed him that he
would be delighted at Madame Bertrand's,
who was the dearest old thing, an 1 would
take such care of him. John's reply concern-
in -r the shortness of his stay, and the advan-
tages of hotels, did not reach Dorn. Sh
not believe that this was a concerted plan be-
tween John and his mother, and she stood

130

DORA.

amazed and perplexed at the foot of the stair-
case, with her hand on the banisters, and her
eyes downcast. On looking up, at length, she
Baw Mrs. Luan standing alone, almost in the
same attitude as herself. Dora looked at her
steadily as she went up the staircase ; but Mrs.
Luan never moved nor raised her sullen eyes.
" How moody she looks ! " thought Dora.

"Aunt," she said, on reaching her, and
gently touching her hand as she spoke, " why
did not John tell you he was coming ? — and
why also did you not tell him ? "

Mrs. Luan looked up, and there was a con-
fusion in her gaze which did not seem to come
from Dora's question — the confusion of a dull
mind, to which even light and clear matters
appear perplexed and strange.

" He can't stay," was her only answer ; " he
can't afford it, you know."

There was nothing else to be got from her.
Dora saw it, and thought, "Poor John, he
came to see me, and his mother tells me he
cannot afford to marry; as if I did not know
it — and as if I wanted him ! " This much she
understood — this much and no more.

It was quite true that John could not stay ;
his time was not his own — he too said so.
He was very full of his prospects, for he
had been promised an appointment of a
hundred a year, which he seemed to con-
sider a small fortune. He was to be the
medical attendant of a wonderful society
for the improvement, or the benefit, or the
perplexity of young women ; he was to have
a cottage and a garden, and plenty of time,
for the young women were only to be invalids
when they could not help it ; so that, as every
one else in the neighborhood was, on the con-
trary, to be in delicate health, Doctor John'
Luan would enjoy every opportunity of estab-
lishing a large practice, and of earning a
handsome income. He seemed so sure of

• :il this, he In 1I..1I . h.ni :.,::, ■ v.Iih his
blue eyes and bis florid complexion, there

was something so young and yet so per-
fectly manly about him, that Miss Moore,
spite Dora's reserved manner, had no doubt
but John Luan was a favored admirer. How
could he be otherwise ? Surely Miss Courtenay
never thought she could do better !

Some vague suspicion of the same kind
lurked in Mrs. Luan's mind. Either she was
not quite convinced of Dora's secret liking
for Mr. Templemore, or she doubted its depth
and durability, for she never left her son's
side. But spite all her watching, John found
means to see Dora alone. He would not
mind her gravity, or read its meaning. He
knew she did not love him, for love gives
keenness even to the dull ; but John was not
exacting or romantic; let Dora marry him,
or promise to marry him some day, and he
was content. He was matter-of-fact in love,
as in most things, and considered that to have
the woman he was fond off, was the great
point in matrimony. "The rest will come
with time," was his philosophic conclusion.
And as he meant to be kind, affectionate,
and devoted, he may be excused if he was
also easily satisfied.

" I wish I could like him," thought Dora,
who knew better than John himself how good,
how kind, how true was her cousin. But she
could not, it was not in her power, and never
had lover's wooing less chance of success
than John Luan's, when he suddenly came
upon her the next morning in the garden.
The day was mild and gray. One of the
last days^of winter, with something of spring
softness in the air. John found Dora in the
flower-garden, near the house, with Eva
trundling her hoop. Mrs. Luan, unconscious
of her danger, was in the dining-room at the
other end of the chateau.

Dora availed herself of the opportunity to
urge on John a matter which had long lurked
in her mind, and which the preceding day's
occurrence had brought back very forcibly. '

HIS PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

131

" John," she said, " how has aunt been
whilst she was with you ? "

John stared, for his mother enjoyed perfect
health.

" Why, well, of course," he answered.

Dora hesitated.

" You were never struck with anything ? "
she asked.

" Struck with what ? "

" With any oddity or peculiarity ? "

John stared again. His mother had always
been peculiar.

" In short," said Dora, with a strong effort,
" you have no fear that her mind is at all
affected ? "

If John could have been angry with Dora,
he would have been angry then. He was so
indignant, and so much pained, too, that his
cousin stammered an excuse. This pacified
him at once.

" You must think nothing of the kind," he
said, good-humoredly ; "and you must listen
to what I have to say, please. I have liked
you all my life. • Whilst you had money I
was silent. We are both poor — I can speak.
You know my position. I can afford to marry
now. Will you share my lot ? "

" No, John, thank you," replied Dora, with
a grave smile. " I like you dearly, but not
as I should like you for that."

But John, who had expected this, would
not be disheartened, and he said so.

" No, Dora, I will not take your denial. I
have thought of it years, and I am sure I
could make you happy — very bappx ! I knew
you would say no, but I believea, and still
believe, that you will end by saying yes ! "

He spoke resolutely, and Dora looked at
him in perplexity. Was John a prophet?
Was she really to conquer the present so far
as to become, some day, the wife of the good-
humored friend and cousin she now gazed on ?
The prospect almost appalled her. Yet it
might be. She, too, might — like many a girl

before her — reject her first lover, then turn
back to him, and be glad of the refuge of that
true, faithful heart. But integrity would not
allow her to indulge John Luan in an illusion
which, whilst it bound him, would leave her
free, and she said so.

" And what need you care if I do not mind
it ? " he answered, impatiently. " I tell you
stranger things than this have come to pass.
Just tell me if it be not strange that you, Mr.
Courtenay's niece, and Paul Courtenay's sister,
should now be governess to Mr. Templemore's
child ? Did you not detest the man's name ?
Did you not always vow that, if poverty struck
you, you would be a seamstress, and not a de-
pendant in a rich man's house ? And yet here
you are, to all seeming pleased and happy in
your position. According to your account, Mr.
Templemore is white as snow, and we were to
blame — not he. That little girl dotes on you,
and you dote on her, and you look very happy
and contented — all of which, if I did not see
it, I should deem incredible. Yet so it is.
Why, then, tell me that I must not hope ? "

Dora, who had turned red and pale repeat-
edly whilst he spoke, felt silenced by his blunt
and not unreasonable argument. Yet she ven-
tured on one objection.

" I am happy here, as you say, John ; and
as my task is one which will take years, why
should I leave it ? "

" It is a long lane that has no turning ! " re-
plied John, a little sulkily.

Again Dora felt silenced, and Eva, by coming
up, and leaving her governess no more, did
not allow either to renew the subject. John,
indeed, no more cared to speak further than
Dora to hear him. He had said his say, and
not being an eloquent man, he could add
nothing to his blunt wooing. It satisfied him
that Dora should know he loved her, and
wished to marry her. The rest would come.
Her rejection he would not consider as final.
He was his mother's son in many things — in

132

DORA.

obstinacy, not to say stubbornness, as well as
in abrupt, inelegant speech. And Dora would
rather not pursue a theme which ' grated on
her ear like a discordant note in music. She
thought highly of her cousin, she was sure of
his affection, but she also felt that to be loved
thus could never make her happy. She re-
quired that something more which, to exact-
ing youth, is like the crown of love, the grace,
the poetry, the touch of romance, which mast
exist, whether they be merely in a girl's feel-
ings, or really in the man she loves.

John could waken no admiration, no en-
thusiasm in her heart ; he appealed to none of
these faculties which attend on every strong
feeling, and deepen its intensity, or add to its
force. He was plain John Luan to her, and
with a sigh Dora felt he must remain so ; her
cousin, her early friend, but no more. She
had felt almost certain of it before he spoke —
she was sure without a doubt now that he had
spoken. The man who, in so deep and urgent
a matter, could find no more persuasive ac-
cents than poor John had found to plead his
cause, could never rule her heart. The fault
might be hers, but the fact remained, and it
was clear and strong, and not to be disputed
or resisted.

With such feelings upon her, Dora welcomed
the child's presence as a Godsend ; she was
glad even when Mrs. Luan came down. That
lady, indeed, looked confounded on seeing her
son with Dora, but on perceiving that Eva
was with them too, her brow cleared ; nothing
could have taken place, and lest anything
should take place she left them no -more.
Her task of watchfulness was soon over.
John went away that same afternoon, and he
bade Dora adieu in Les Roches, and his
mother accompani..! him to the station, and
came bach looking sulkily triumphant, as was
her wonl whenever she had achieved some
little success.

There is always something momentous to a

young girl in an offer of marriage, whatever
may be her feelings toward the man by whom
it has been made. It almost always marks a
crisis in the story of her life ; it is an epoch in
her youth, toward which she looks back some-
times with amusement, sometimes, too, with
regret, but which she cannot well forget. In
vain Dora had known for years that she was
dear to John Luan's heart, in vain her only
source of wonder was that he had taken so
long to speak, in vain too his wooing had
been both plain and brief, something of that
wooing, such as it was, remained behind him
when he was gone, and made Les Roches
seem cold and dull. She did not repent her
refusal, she could not believe she ever should
regret it, and yet she felt that one of her
chances of happiness as a woman was gone.
John Luan was not the right one, but it is not
always the right one who comes in life, he
often goes elsewhere or he dies early, or lives
unwedded, or has a wife anfl three children
when one sees him first; in short, even a
beauty has and can have but a certain amount
of lovers, and even a beauty must make up
her mind to the sad and unpleasant fact that
amongst- these the right one may never be.
Some secret voice told Dora this, and though
she was too brave and proud to fear the lone-
ly life which would probably be her lot, she
was too honest not to feel that if she could so
far have conquered her feelings it might have
been well for her to have become John Luan's
wife.

Some gJgvity, therefore, appeared on her
countenance, and Mrs. Luan, unaccustomed
to see such a sign there, grew uneasy, and
watched her niece both closely and stealthily.
But if Dora spoke less than usual on the day
that followed John Luan's departure — if she
looked, as she was, abstracted and thoughtful,
the little cloud soon passed away, the bright-
ness returned, the happy, smiling eyes got back
their light, and the rosy cheek its bloom.

RETURN OF EVA'S FATHER.

133

" My dear, how well you look ! " Mrs. Cour-
tenay said, admiringly.

"Because I am well," was the gay reply —
" well and happy."

She felt so well aud so light, that she won-
dered at it herself, and never guessed the cause.
There is a great, a powerful renovator, who
visits us every year, giving back to the old the
dreams of youth, and to the young sweet and
restless illusions — one whose breath clears the
sullen winter sky, whose steps cover the green
earth with flowers, whose mere aspect is as the
beauty of lost paradise — Spring, the youth of
nature, the divine messenger of love, the en-
chanting promise of joys that never come in
their fulness. It was not in Dora's power to
resist the voice of this sweet deluder. He
came one day in a soft shower, and birds be-
gan to sing, and buds broke forth into foliage
on the boughs. Violets blushed in the shade,
cowslips and primroses followed the cold-look-
ing snowdrop. The gardener let in the sun
to the fair captives in the green-house, and
every thing about Les Roches looked sweet
and enchanting.

If the little world around Mr. Templemore's
chateau was restricted in extent, it was full of
beauty. A narrow but pleasant river flowed
through it with a soft murmur, tall trees grew
on its banks, and bent over it with sylvan
grace ; reeds, grasses abounded there. Farther
on a path wound in the shade, and here, near
the rocks and the waterfall, was the spot which
Dora loved. The little green reces.?, with
many a tangled weed, and many a trailing ivy-
bough, in which stood the stone bench, old
and gray. A hundred years and more had that
bench stood there. It had seen the ancien
regime, _ and gay gentlemen, and powdered
ladies, with long trailing silk skirts; it had
heard the love-making of two or three genera-
tions. Mademoiselle Scudery's Clelie had been
forgotten upon it, then Florian's pastorals, then
the grim Moniteur of the stern Republic and

Napoleonic bulletins of wonderful victories.
And, ancient though it was, its days were not
numbered yet. More love, more reading, more
pleasant or fond converse it was yet to know,
whilst the trees gave it their shade, and parted
in a bright view of the sunlit chateau on its
airy height.

On the bench Dora and Eva sat, tired with
wandering, one delicious afternoon. The child
rolled herself up in a ball, and leaned against
her young governess. She looked at the cha-
teau through half-shut eyes, and talked in the
dreamy, rambling fashion of imaginative chil-
dren. Dora heard, but did not listen. Now
and then, indeed, she caught something about
Fanny, and Jacques, and Minna, all mingling
together in strange confusion, but her thoughts
were far away. This spring day had sent her
back to other springs already lost and gone,
young though she still was, and their pale
spectres and faded verdure came back to her
with mingled joy and sorrow in their as-
pect.

" Oh ! if one could forget ! " she thought,
with something like passion — "if one could
but forget ! "

A cry and a bound from Eva roused her.
She started, and looking up, saw the child in
her father's arms.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Dora was surprised, and scarcely felt more
than surprise. Perhaps the image of Paul
had been too recently with her for Paul's sis-
ter to forget at once that this was her lost
brother's rival. Perhaps absence and time
had not been ineffectual. With something
like triumph she returned Mr. Templemore's
greeting, and thought, as she looked at him,
aud felt her own coldnes?,

" I am cured ! — I am well ! "

" How well you both look ! " he said, glan-
cing from her to Eva.

134

DORA.

" And I know so many things ! " cried Eva,
ardently.

" Do you ?— well, I hope your temper is
improved."

" But Eva has a very good temper," seriously
said Dora.

He did not reply, but looked at Eva, who
shook her curls, and seemed unconscious, as
children can seem when it suits their purpose,
this being one of those weapons of defence
with which we are all provided, from the beetle
upward. Once more Mr. Templemore be-
stowed his attention upon Dora ; he was full
of courteous inquiries, and still rejoicing at
her calmness, and thinking, " Is it so ? — is it
really so soon over ? " she heard him with
grateful composure. Little did Dora suspect
that Mr. Templemore was full of resentment
and wonder, in which she had some slight
share. Mrs. Luan happened to be the first
person he" had seen on entering Les Roches.
He found her established in his house as a
guest. Had she come self-invited ? It seemed
unlikely. Miss Moore disliked her — he knew
it. Had Dora — had Mrs. Courtenay taken so
great a liberty ? He did not wish to question,
still less to make Mrs. Luan feel that she was
no welcome visitor. She was a low-browed,
sulky woman, but she was Dora's aunt, and
the late Mrs. Courtenay's sister, and for a
while, at least, he must endure this unbidden
guest, and unless chance favored him, not even
know through whom she had been forced
upon him. But this was not Mr. Temple-
more's only cause of annoyance. Miss Moore
had written to him and told him of John
Luan's visit, and, according to her account,
the young man was a poor but favored ad-
mirer. Was he therefore threatened with
losing his governess, just when he felt' least
inclined to part with her ? Of this, too, Mr.
Templemore betrayed nothing. He spoke
very pleasantly, as was his wont, and gave
Dora some good news — there was a chance

of the 'Redmore Mines paying dividends
again.

" It is only a chance," he added, smiling ;
" but even a chance of money has something
golden and pleasant about it."

They parted on reaching the house. Dora
went up to her room, and found her mother
waiting for her.

" Well ? " she said, excitedly.

" There is a chance of the Redmore Mines
paying dividends."

"Is there? — how nice! And Mr. Temple-
more ? "

" He is coming to the school-room this even-
ing, to see how Eva has got on."

And as she said this, Dora's grave look,
added so plainly, " I am the governess, you
know," that her mother's face fell a little,
spite the news of the Redmore Mines. " Yes,
I am the governess," thought Dora, as she sat
with Eva in the school-room, waiting for Mr.
Templemore ; " let us hope my patron will be
satisfied."

The evening was mild, the window was
open, and through it the eye caught a dark
glimpse of the flower-garden, and beyond it
of the trees by which it was enclosed. The
scent -of a bed of wall-flowers rose strongly on
the air, and a long silver streak of moonlight
came into the room, and fell on that part of
the floor which the light of the lamp did not
reach.

" There's papa ! " cried Eva, joyously ; " I
smell his cigar. Now, what will you question
me in ? " she added, eagerly, as Mr. Temple-
more entered the room ; " history, geogra-
phy-"

" You overpower mc," he interrupted ; " I
am not learned, you know."

" I am," declared Eva, shaking her dark
curls.

" Then I think I shall take you upon trust.
It will spare us both trouble."

Eva looked so disappointed, that Mr.,Temple-

AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS. LUAN.

135

more relented, asked to know the date of the
Norman invasion, and had half a dozen centu-
ries added to it by his little daughter. lie
laughed, but Dora blushed, and uttered a re-
proachful " Eva ! "

" Dear Miss Courtenay, that is nothing," he
said, gayly ; " I consider dates a trifle in his-
tory. But, alas ! for facts, who can get hold
of them ? I was reading about the gunpow-
der plot the other day. Well, it seems that
yise King Jamie and his minister, Sir Edward
Coke, took the trouble to garble and alter the
written confessions of that wretched Guy
Fawkes and his accomplices with their own
royal and ministerial hands, and that account,
thus altered, they published to the world, who
was allowed to have none other. It is de-
plorably hard to get a true thing, and not
more so in history than in anything else. I
am not fond of snuff, but if I were, what
should I feel on learning that guano is sold
for it in London ? The king and the trades-
man are cheats, both of them, and what are
we poor customers and students to do ? "

But Eva did not like all this. " Do ques-
tion me, papa," she urged ; " I know geog-
raphy — "

" No, I will have nothing to do with that. I
am in the carping mood — let us stick to plain
English, and try and not wander thence."

Accordingly, an examination beginning with
the parts of speech, and ending with syntax,
took place. It proved highly satisfactory.

"So far the child is all right, thanks to
you, Miss Courtenay," said Mr. Templemore ;
" but," he added, with a sigh, " how shall we
guard her against the perils of choice elocu-
tion on the one hand, or the equal dangers of
slang on the other? I mean as she grows up
to the critical age when maidens have to steer
between this Charybdis and that Scylla. We
must trust her to Providence, I s.uppose —
poor little Eva ! how she stares, unconscious
of the snares lying before her ! There, child,

that will do — go to bed and sleep — go to bed
and sleep."

But he had to hear Eva's waltz, to praise it,
to thank Dora, and pay her some compliments
before he left. He went, though it was early
yet; but of course he could not spend his
evening with her. Yet it seemed hard he
should go so early. Doctor Richard used to
stay till it was eleven, and not think it late.
" But then I was not the governess," thought
Dora.

Yes, that was it — her position was changed,
and, with all his courtesy, Mr. Templemore
could not treat his daughter's governess as he
had treated Miss Courtenay 5 he could not, in
justice to her, spend a whole evening in the
school-room, and indulge in her society, much
as he liked it. The world and its laws and
proprieties divided them not merely then and
thus, but at every other time and in every
other way. At the same time, if he left her
thus early, it was to take an active interest in
her welfare, which Dora would scarcely have
appreciated had she known of it.

Mr. Templemore wanted to speak to Mrs.
Luan about her son, and he had asked her to
meet him in his study. She came, as stolid-
looking as ever. Mr. Templemore declared
his purpose at once.

" My dear madam," he said, kindly, " you
must excuse my troubling you at so undue an
hour, but I greatly wish to speak to you on a
subject which interests us both. Is there not
an attachment between your son and Miss
Courtenay ? If so, I shall only feel too happy
to favor it by forwarding his views in life.
Might I not, through my influence here with
some of the companies in which I am a large
shareholder, for instance, procure him some
appointment which would enable him to
marry?"

Mrs. Luan had listened to him thus far in
mute consternation at this strange perv.
of all her plans ; but when she heard the omi-

13G

DORA.

nous word '■ many," all her suppressed anger
and fear broke forth.

"No, no I " she cried, aghast at the danger,
"there is no attachment; and, please, you
must not do that— you must not '. "

••I hope I have not distressed you?" he
said, gravely.

•• Xo, no ; but you must nc

She was less excited, but still much moved.
Mr. Templemore looked at her quietly, though
keenlv. " It is that sullen, stupid woman who
opposes the marriage," he thought. But he
-ilenced, and only renewed his apologies
at his interference. Mrs. Loan heard him
lien rose to go. When she stood at the
door she paused and looked back.

" John must not come any more," she said.
•• You will not bring him, will you "r "

■• Certainly not," he replied ; and he thought
— -What an idiot'. "

Alas ! how often we fling on others that re-
proach of folly ; and if we but knew the
truth, and read the future, how often we
should be mute.

He had spoken gravely and positively, yet
Mrs. Luan was disturbed. She did not want
John to marry her niece. Xo appointment
could reconcile her to the fact of Dora's penni-
less condition. If John got a good appoint-
ment, why, he should also get a wife with
money, and not take one without it. So there
was a heavier cloud of sulkiness on her brow
than usually sat there when she went up to
the drawing-room. She found Mrs. Courtenay
seated before a table, with cards spread before
her. Patience, rather neglected of late, had
resumed its attractions on Mr. Templemore's
return. She nodded significantlv to Mrs.
Luan, and said, with a profound assumption
of mystery,

• I did it three times — for a wish — and
three times I succeeds

. Luan did not answer, perhaps she did
not even hear her. She had a magic more

certain than that of her credulous little sister-
in-law, and she could rely upon it.

There is many a happy lull in the affairs
of men ; days follow Jays in delicious monot-
ony, and one is so like the other, that, look-
ing back upon them, they lose their separate
existence, and blend in one calm image of the
past. But of these serene intervals, history,
public or private, can take no account, and it
is a pity. For hence springs a strange look
of unreality. Catastrophe comes quick on
catastrophe. Empires seem to perish faster
than we can read of their destruction, mighty
revolutions are accomplished before we well
know whence they sprang, and battle suc-
ceeds battle, till we grow callous, and read
of thousands killed with happy equanimity.

In the history which deals with one human
life we have the same effects and the same
results. Existence there seems made up of
keen sufferings or ecstatic joys ; the medium
world, in which even the most fortunate or
the least happy must move now and then,
vanishes from our view, lost in the dark shade
or the strong light of the picture. It is so,
and we cannot help it. The subtleness of
daily life eludes us ; its evanescent charm is
one we never can secure in its fulness.
Glimpses we may have ; but glimpses are not
the whole truth, that is beyond our reach, and
ever remains thus, divine and unapproachable.

There came a great repose over Dora Ccitr-
tenay's life about this time. It lasted one
week — no more, but it was sweet, and she
never forgot it. She saw little of Mr. Temple-
more, but that little sufficed her. His friend-
ly and open manner, that said so plainly,
" Friends we are — friend, and no more," did
her good. It made her feel brave and strong,
and at the same time secure in her strength.
His society, also, broke on the dulness of her
life. It gave food to thought, and yet it
nursed up no fond and dangerous illusions.

"I know this will not last," she often

THE INTENDED MARRIAGE.

137

thought, " I know some change must come ;
but whilst it lasts I feel happy — is not that
much •'. " '

It was much indeed, very much ; but the
change, however, came more quickly than
Dora had expected.

Mr. Templemore had joined her on§ even-
ing in the garden. He never did so, and
though Eva was with him, Dora felt intuitive-
ly that he had something particular to say.
If such was the case, he began very wide the
mark.

" Miss Courtenay," he said very gravely,
"has it ever occurred to you to regret not
having been born in antediluvian times ? "

•■Never,'' replied Dora, smiling, and she
thought " he has nothing to say, after all ; he
is only going to indulge in one of his usual
flights of fancy. "

'• Then let me inform you that I bitterly
regret belonging to these degenerate days,"
resumed Mr. Templemore. "Now, do con-
sider, Miss Courtenay, what delightful crea-
tures there were fomerly : lizards thirty feet
long or so. Everything was on so grand a
scale then ! Think how entertaining it would
be to see that light and graceful bird, the
Epiornis, pick up a live crocodile and fly off
with it ! Such grand battles on land and sea
there must have been, too. We have lost all
that now."

" Thank Heaven ! "

"No — no, I must convert you; Eva, run
and get me the paper on the table in my
study. I must show Miss Courtenay a draw-
ing of the Epiornis."

Eva went readily, and Dora, looking at Mr.
Templemore, thought :

"Now he is going to say it."

And she was right — he began at once.

" Dear Mi;s Courtenay, I have sent away
Eva because I wish to say a few words to you
out of her hearing. To begin at the very
uning: I am going to get married."

Dora felt stunned. She had suspected I
she had felt it coming on all along, and yet
when it came it found her helpless. All her
strength, all her bravery, yielded to that blow,
and there ran through her such a thrill of
pain that it made her turn sick and cold.

" I have been engaged for the last year,"
continued Mr. Templemore, " and I am almcit
ashamed to say that Eva has delayed my mar-
riage all that time. She was very, very deli-
cate then, and she took so violent a dislike,
founded on jealousy, to the lady I was going
to marry, that her health was endangered.
Since then I have tried to conquer her un-
reasonable aversion — I have always failed;
but she is strong and well now. I neither
can nor will sacrifice my happiness, and that
of another dearer by far than my own, to the
caprices of a child. I have for the last half
year weaned myself from her society, and
accustomed her to live without me, and be
happy. I hope that she will learn to bear
with what is inevitable, and I must now ask
you to use your influence over her, which is
great, in order to teach her submission, should
she be inclined to rebellion."

<; I shall do my best," replied Dora, in a
low voice.

Alas ! she too needed that lesson.

" As yet Eva knows nothing," he resumed ;
" she does not know, for instance, that I was
to marry Mrs. Logan."

He went on, but Dora heard no more.
Mrs. Logan l-r-it was Florence — Florence
Gale, her brother's faithless love, who was
to marry her brother's happy rival ! It was
she ! Oh ! she could have raised her hands
appealingly to heaven, and asked if this was
just. She could have done it in the dreary
bitterness of that hour.

He did not perceive her emotion — the \
ness of the evening concealed it from his
view. He went on talking, and after awhile
Dora heard him again. She returned to that

138

DORA.

sense of actual existence which had been sus-
pended in her for a few moments. Again she
saw the garden, and a starry sky, and again
he stood by her, and his voice spoke and told
her calmly what it was so hard to hear.

" Mrs. Logan and I are cousins — rather far
removed, indeed, but cousins still. When I
came home after my wife's death, I found her
at her father's house near Deenah. Her hus-
band had just died, and she looked such a
child in her weeds. But you know her, Miss
Courtenay — I need not tell you what a delight-
ful, ingenuous creature she is. Apart from
the affection I feel for her, it does me good
to be near her. She takes ten years away
from me. But I must not trust myself with
that subject. Suffice it to say that we met
daily, that we became strongly attached, and
that but for my perverse little Eva, we should
now be married. Mrs. Logan has endured
the child's caprices with the patience of an
angel ; but I cannot allow this strange state
of things to go on any longer, and — we are to
be married next month."

" And what am I to do, Mr. Templemore ? "
asked Dora, after awhile.

" Will you kindly break the news to Eva to-
morrow, and tell me how she has borne it ? Not
that it will make the least difference," he added,
quickly ; " but it will be a great relief to me
if the child will only be reasonable and good."

Dora was silent. She felt too desolate and
heart-sick to say a word.

" You have great influence oyer her," he re-
sumed. " Will you kindly use it for this pur-
pose, and also to prevent her, if this unfortu-
nate dislike still exists, from displaying it to
Mrs. Logan when she comes ? "

" Here ? " abruptly said Dora.

''Not here," he answei-ed, "but near here.
Her husband, poor fellow, died in a little villa
down the road, which he bought two years ago.
It was in coming to see Mrs. Logan that I was
smitten with Les Roches, and took it on a long

lease for Eva's sake. It is in order to give her
temper one more trial that Mrs. Logan is kind-
ly coming. She will stay a month in her villa,
then return to Ireland, where we are to be
married. I have been preparing Deenah the
whole winter, and I trust we shall have the
pleasure of seeing you there some day, Miss
Courtenay ; but I dare say that my little Eva
will have to remain here a long time yet."

It was plain, though he did not say so, that
Mr. Templemore did not expect Eva's dislike
of his bride to be conquered at once. But
Dora did not think of that. She thought that
when he had asked her to become Eva's gov-
erness, and given her mother a home, he had
never contemplated that these two strangers
should intrude on his family circle. Eva's
jealousy was the key to the mystery. With
Miss Moore to watch over her health, and Dora
to educate her, he could marry, be happy with
his young wife, and yet not feel that he had
sacrificed his child entirely.

" He will visit Les Roches now and then,"
she thought, " and see Eva, as he could never
see her if she were in a school, for instance ;
and when other children are born to him he
will care less for her jealousy, and Eva must
bear her fate, or be forever an exile from her
father's house. Poor Eva ! our case is pretty
much alike ! "

"Where are you? " cried Eva's voice at a
little distance. "I cannot see you — and — "

" I am afraid," suggested her father, going
toward her.

" Allow me to put a question, Mr. Temple-
more," said Dora ; " when is Mrs. Logan com-

ing?"

" To-morrow," he replied, hastily. " Well,

Eva, did you find the Epiornis ? "
" I did ; but how can you see it ? "
"By going in to look at it, of course."
They entered the school-room, where a lamp

was burning with a mild radiance, and Mr.

Templemore showed the print of the Epiornis

MRS. LOGAN AND EVA.

139

to Dora, and again wished he had been born
in antediluvian times ; and seemed so happy
and so light-hearted, that Dora would have
been very blind indeed if she had not known
it was because Mrs. Logan was coming the
next day. She was not jealous, she had no
right? to be jealous, and some natures are too
proud to be jealous, but she suffered keenly.
If it had been any woman but that one — the
false, light mistress of her lost brother ! But
it, was she, and Dora must a second time see
manly love bestowed on that little bit of pretty
flesh and blood, so brainless and so heartless.
She must see it. She could not fly from her
torment. It would meet her daily and hourly,
till they left to get married, and Les Roches
returned once more to its dulness and its si-
lence.

All this Dora thought and felt, whilst Mr.
Templemore, happy man, went on talking of
the Epiornis, and indulging in flights of fancy,
which made Eva laugh till she was tired.

" Poor Eva ! " thought Dora, as she listened
to her — " your trouble is yet to come."

She felt for the child, and when Mr. Temple-
more left them at length, she resolved to tell
her the news.

" She will sleep upon it," she thought, " and
waken with her grief half spent to-morrow;
whereas, if I tell her in the morning, she will
fret or sulk all day."

Accordingly, Eva, instead of going to bed
at once, was summoned to her governess's
room, and, imwo/ited familiarity, taken on her
knee, and pressed to her breast in a tender,
though silent embrace. Eva, far from guess-
ing that these were tokens of coming calamity,
felt delighted — not, to be quite frank, at the
unusual fondness she received, but at a long-
coveted and long-denied privilege — the en-
trance of Cousin Dora's room. How beautiful
looked that rather austere apartment to her
childish eyes ! The lofty, square bed, the old
carved prie-dieu, the Spanish pictures of devo-

tion, all dimly visible by the light of a lamp
placed on the toilet-table, impressed Eva.
Through the open window the court, with
other windows with lights in them, was partly
visible, and in the stillness of the evening the
little gurgling voice of the fountain, which
household noises covered all day, could be dis-
tinctly heard.

" Eva," began Dora, " I have something to
tell you. I have news — good news," she
added, with a sigh — " Mrs. Logan is coming
to-morrow."

Eva looked very sulky.

" She is coming," continued Dora, ignoring
that look and its meaning, " and Mr. Temple-
more told me this evening that he was going
to marry her. I hope you are glad, Eva, for
of course this will add to his happiness."

Eva showed neither grief nor gladness at
the tidings, but she looked more sulky than
ever. At length the truth came out with an
impetuous burst of tears.

" I hate Mrs. Logan ! "

" Hush ! " said Dora, severely — " let me
never hear such words again."

Eva stood in great awe of her governess.
She did not dare to persist in her declaration
of hatred toward Mrs. Logan, but threw her-
self back upon weeping.

" There, there, that will do — I am not so
very angry," remarked poor Dora, with a sigh ;
" but you must be good, you know, and I shall
expect you to behave unexceptionably to Mrs.
Logan to-morrow."

Eva made no promise, and Dora asked for
none. She could not in her heart blame Eva
for her dislike of Mrs. Logan ; moreover, she
knew her power over her pupil, and that she
could insure external obedience at least to any
reasonable command ; perhaps she scarcely
cared to ask for more. This matter being over
much more quickly than Dora had expected,
she rang for Fanny, gave Eva to her care, and
remained alone.

140

DORA.

" I suppose there are plenty of women in
my case," she thought, with a sigh, "only
they do as I do — they keep their secret, and
they bear with their fate."

She sat, as Eva had left her, leaning back
in her chair, and listening to the murmur of
the fountain below. She felt languid and
listless, rather than very wretched ; for, after
all, we must endure our sorrows, and fight our
battles. We cannot desert that grim captain,
Grief, and enlist under other colors. Dora's
present mood dealt not so much with Mr.
Templemore as with that past which he had
so darkly influenced. She thought of Paul,
and his lost love, and his early death ; she
thought of the light, faithless creature who
had urged him on to exertions beyond his
strength, then quietly and carelessly put him
by. She went over that sad story, and brought
to life that buried past, and something between
bitterness and sorrow filled her heart as this
question rose within her :

" Why are the prizes of life ever granted to
some, and ever denied to others ? "

Dora Courtenay was in one of those moods
when we forget time, and take no account of
its course. She sat thus, dreaming very sadly,
and very uselessly, when her door opened, and
Mrs. Luan entered the room. She locked the
door, came up to her niece, and stood before
her speechless, but her sallow face inflamed
with passion.

" Dora," she at length stammered, " is it
true ?— is it ? "

" What ? " asked Dora, doubtfully.

"Is he going to marry her? — that silly
black-eyed chit — is he ? "

"Why, how can you know that?" asked
Dora, much startled.

" You have told Eva— she said it to Fanny
— I heard them."

Dora had sometimes thought that her sullen,
Bilent aunt went about the house eavesdrop-
ping — she was sure of it now. She blushed

with displeasure and shame, and could not
help exclaiming,

" Oh ! aunt, how could you do that ? — how
could you ? "

" How dare he tell you ? " asked Mrs.
Luan, stamping her feet and clinching her
hands in her passion ; " how dare he ? He
shall never marry her ! " she added, taking
off her cap and flinging it on Dora's bed ;
" never ! Do you think I have forgotten how
she treated Paul ? I say, he shall never marry
her ! "

As idle as the wind which now rose and
swept around the house sounded this threat in
Dora's ear. But she shut the window, for her
aunt might be heard, and this was surely to
be avoided, if it were possible.

" Dear aunt," she said, soothingly, " what is
it to us whom he marries ? Our position here
is not changed. She is his cousin, and they
have been long attached ; we have no sort of
right to object to his choice."

She spoke kindly, as if Mrs. Luan were a
child who required soothing ; and Mrs. Luan
let her speak, and neither revolted nor remon-
strated. Her useless passion was over, and
she was already thinking how to act. Dora
easily persuaded her to go to her room, and
even accompanied her to the door. " Poor
aunt ! " she thought, as she came back to her
own apartment ; " even she cannot forget
Paul and his wrongs. Ah ! it is hard ! — very
hard ! "

It was hard, and in her prayers that night
Dora put up a petition, asking that she might
not dwell on the past to the verge of sin.

Whilst she strove and wished to forget, Mrs.
Luan, who, to do her justice, had about as
much religion as an atheist — not that she
knew it, poor soul ! but her mind was so con-
stituted — sat in her room meditating on her
plans. Oh ! if Dora — if any one in that house
could have known how far these plans of that
sullen, silent woman extended ! She had a

THE LITTLE RED-RIDING-HOOD.

141

ruthless nature, made for conflict, and stop-
ping at nothing that could insure success. She
now set herself to rob a woman of her happi-
ness, a man of his liberty, and both of peace,
as calmly as if she had been a great nation
making war on a savage tribe, or annoying a
neighbor. With the serenity of the just, she
said to herself that hers was a good, a praise-
worthy, a rightful course. Was she not saving
her s*on from a poor marriage, providing hand-
somely for her niece, and giving Mr. Temple-

i
more a good, amiable, and accomplished wife,

a hundred-fold above that silly Florence Gale,
with her black eyes ! True, Mr. Templemore
loved the one, and not the other ; but Mrs.
Luan knew best what was good for him, and
took upon herself the part of Providence, with
the calmness of conscious rectitude, and some
of the insolence of long impunity.

What she did, or rather what she resolved
to do, as she sat thus alone that evening,
brooding over the future, hundreds do daily,
and with the same mental hypocrisy. Hear
them when-they are detected. Their motives
were the loftiest and the purest. They were,
or meant to be, benefactors of humanity, and
especially of that portion of it which they se-
lected for injury. Who of them confesses
that greed, ambition, or revenge, was the real
motive? Not one. And so, whilst Dora
slept, her aunt sat and planned for her good.

CHAPTER XXV.

Mrs. Logan arrived whilst Dora was in the
garden with Eva and Fido. Miss ft ^re came
to them all breathless with the new b. She
had been suffering from a secret the whole
winter, and her relief w^as commensurate with
the past infliction. So whilst Eva trundled
her hoop, and looked unconscious, Dora lis-
tened patiently to the praises of Florence
Gale.

" The only woman whom I could endure to
see in my dear lost sister's place," emphati-
cally said Miss Moore, whose regard for Eva's
future step-mother was much enhanced by
Eva's dislike of her, and the necessity it
created of her prolonged guardianship. " And
so pretty," she continued ; " you will admire
her so, Miss Courtenay."

" I know Mrs. Logan, and have known her
for years," composedly said Dora.

If she had declared that she was on terms
of intimacy with a Royal Highness, Miss
Moore could scarcely have looked more amazed
than she now did ; but something in Dora's
tone sobered her enthusiasm, for after awhile
she left Eva's governess to her own thoughts.

Eva still looked unconscious — perhaps she
had not minded her aunt's discourse; perhaps
she wished to forget all about Mrs. Logau.

" This is a wood, you know, Cousin Dora,"
she said, as they entered the shady part of
the grounds; "and suppose I am little Red-
riding-Hood, going off to grandmamma's cot-
tage, you know ; and suppose the wolf is there
before me, and you are not here, Cousin Dora,
or if you are, why, you are a lady walking in
a wood, and I am a little girl, and you know
nothing about me. Mind, you know nothing
about me."

To be known nothing about, to be unguided,
unwatched, ready to be devoured by the cruel
wolf, was evidently exquisite enjoyment to
Eva.

" The very child feels it," thought Dora,
with a sigh, " there is a wild sort of pleasure
in independence, even though it should lead
us to danger. Oh ! Eva, I feel as you feel. I
have a home here which ought to be a happy
one, aucfcis not. Yes, I too long for the wood
and its perils. Anything, Eva, anything for
liberty ! " '

In the mean while Eva trotted on demurely,
acting her little part, but the wolf came sooner
than she and Bora expected. He came as

142

DORA.

they turned the corner of the alley, under the
aspect of Mrs. Logan, sitting by Mr. Temple-
more's side on the old stone bench. She was
prettier than ever. Dora saw it at a glance.
Never had her cheeks worn a rosier bloom,
never had her dark eyes had a more laughing
lustre. The goddess Hebe herself could not
have looked brighter or younger than Mrs.
Logan looked as she rose and came toward
Dora with the sunniest of smiles on her rosy
lips.

"Dear Dora," she said, with that warmth
which she could always put in her voice and
in her manner, though there was so little of
it in her heart, "I am so glad to see you
again ! "

And she pressed Dora's hand very cordially.
As Dora stood with her hand clasped in that
of Mr. Templemore's future wife, she fell into
a strange, sad dream. This was Florence, the
.Florence whom her brother had so loved,
whom he had entirely forgiven, and toward
whom he had been so indulgent. Her look,
her smile, her voice brought back the past,
and with it some of its feelings. For his sake
Florence had been dear, after a sort of fashion.
For his sake she had felt something like ten-
derness toward this light, frivolous little
creature, and though he had been so cruelly
wronged, for his sake still she could not look
on her quite coldly.

This woman, such as she was, had been a
portion, a very dear one, alas ! of her brother's
heart; how could Dora forget this, and feel
•t fully toward her because she was in
a few weeks to become Mr. Templemore's
wife ?

"I will not be unjust," she thought, with a
swelling heart. " I will not be ungejKrous or
mean."

Bui though her greeting was frierfdly, it was

not cheerful. This Mrs. Logan did not per-

• ceive. She was -not more clear-sighted than

lie had ever been. Her utter want of sense

and penetration redeemed the frivolity of her
nature, or at least excused it. She was per-
fectly satisfied with Dora's manner, and amia-
bly stooped to bestow a loving kiss on Eva,
who, forgetting her part of little Red-riding-
Hood, stood looking on mute and sulky. But
if the wolf himself had been attempting to de-
vour her, Eva could not have uttered a more
piercing scream, or flung herself away more
resolutely than she now did at that proffered
caress.

Dora, who witnessed such a burst of temper
for the first time, remained amazed. Mrs.
Logan looked piteous, and Mr. Templemore
turned pale with anger.

" Eva ! " he said, almost sternly, " beg Mrs.
Logan's pardon at once."

But Eva glared at Mrs. Logan, and looked
wicked with mingled temper and passion.
She looked as Dora had seen her father look
for a moment when the cheating of the Dubois
was exposed, and the likeness was so strong
that it brought back the day, the room, and
the guilty pair, and his face all before her
with the vividness of reality.

"Eva ! " said Mr. Templemore again.

Dut Dora now interfered. She sat down on
the bench, and she took Eva on her knee.
From her heart she pitied the child, and some-
thing of that pity Eva read in the eyes of her
young governess, for when Dora said reproach-
fully, but with more sadness than reproach in
her tone :

" Oh ! Eva, Eva ! is this your promise ? "

Eva burst into tears, and, clinging to her,
sobbed pitifully, " I — I — am very sorry — but
— but I was — frightened — I could not help it,
Cousin Dora ! "

This was a very lame excuse indeed, but
Mr. Templemore, who 'wanted to be satisfied
with it, said cheerfully :

" Well, Eva, behave better another time,
and do not be frightened? That is all."

Eva hung her head without answering ; and

THE DROOPING TREE.

143

to prevent a renewal of the scene, Dora took
her hand, and saying it was time for her music-
lesson, she led her away, followed by Fido.

" Fido, too ! " plaintively exclaimed Mrs.
Logan, whom the supercilious little King
Charles had never favored with his liking.

" Yes, Fido too," answered Mr. Temple-
more, half amused and yet half vexed at
Dora's empire. "Miss Oourtenay is a Circe,
whom all creatures love and obey."

Some admonition, however, Dora seemed
to bestow on her pupil.

Mr. Templemore saw the child look up as
if pleading for forgiveness ; then Dora stooped
and kissed her, and they walked on. He bit
his lip, though he smiled ; it was very pleasant
that there should be such tenderness between
Dora and his child, but why must Florence be
detested ?

"Now, that's too bad of Dora ! " said this
lady, looking injured.

She spoke in a pretty, childish way ; and as
gently as if he were addressing a child, Mr.
Templemore said,

"Our misfortune is not Miss Courtenay's
sin."

Mrs. Logan pouted, but persisted in her dec-
laration that it was too bad. But even as she
said it her rosy face broke into smiles ; and
with nothing but good-humor in her black
eyes, she said merrily —

" I suppose I am talking nonsense, as
usual."

Yes, she was as usual talking nonsense ;
but as usual, too, she looked lovely whilst the
silly and unmeaning words fell from her lips.
This was her secret ; and many a wiser man
than Mr. Templemore was, could not have
helped succumbing to the charm. If she
smiled, the goddess of cheerfulness herself
could not have looked brighter than she did.
When she chose to be silent, she had a pen-
sive grace, almost verging on poetry. Her
gravity, even though it was in reality no more

than ennui, seemed to have a meaning in it.
Mr. Templemore, indeed, had not known her
a year without ascertaining some of the de-
ficiencies of this pretty creature ; but she was
a pretty creature, and he was to marry her in
a month, and willingly he shut his eyes and
ignored what it was not quite pleasant to
"scrutinize too closely. He had, moreover, a
method of dealing with her which Florence
was too shallow to detect, but which was very
convenient. Mr. Templemore seldom or never
argued with Mrs. Logan ; he seldom or never
explained anything to her; he rarely contra-
dicted her. He heard her, he was amused by
her, and he did his best to please her, accord-
ing to her own tastes — not to his. Of course
this promised him many a vacant hour for the
future, but Mr. Templemore had perceived this
after he had been engaged some time, and he
was both too wise and too much in love to de-
plore it very deeply. So when Florence sup-
posed that she had been talking nonsense,
and looked exquisitely pretty as she said it,
Mr. Templemore retained the latter fact and
dropped the former, and looked at her with
tender admiration as they walked away.

The morning's excitement had made Eva
feverish. So leaving her with Fanny, Dora
stole out into the grounds before sunset. She
wanted to commune in peace with her own
wearied thoughts — away from Mr. Temple-
more and Mrs. Logan. But it was not to be.
She had scarcely walked ten steps before Mr.
Templemore stood before her. How gay and
cheerful he seemed, with how bright a smile
he threw away his cigar, and coming toward
her, said, with the very look and tone of Doc-
tor Richard —

" Do tell me what you think of that tree,
Miss Courtenay, and what its slender trunk
and drooping boughs suggest?" Without
giving her time to answer the question, he at
once resumed : " That tre<> is a nymph, who
being pursued and overtaken by the god Faun,

144

DORA.

raised her hands and implored Diana. The
goddess of the silver bow relieved the fugi-
tive's distress by bidding her take root and
grow here. And see how the poor frightened
njmpk keeps ever looking round at her pur-
suer ! She has forgotten, I suppose, that he is
gone — gone forever, with all the pretty things
of heathen fable. I wonder, Miss Courtenay,
what has become of these heathen gods and
goddesses, who were so mighty once? — can
you tell ? "

"No, Mr. Templemore,'' she gravely re-
plied ; " but you are mistaken about that tree.
It is a tree, and has a tree's life, and a tree's
hopes and fears. I saw it last autumn with a
few green and yellow leaves quivering on it
still. It was no nymph then, as you seem to
think. It was a poor tree, conscious cf winter
and frost and snow, and it stood thus, seem-
ing, as you say, to turn, it was to. listen for the
coming of the wind that was to wither its last
green boughs."

Dora spoke sadly, more sadly than she
knew, for looking at that tree she thought, " I
too am rooted to my fate, and come storm,
come sunshine, I must bear it and stay here."
The whole day long she had thought over her
lot, and she had found no remedy to it. Ne-
cessity, that hard task-mistress, kept her
chained to Les Roches. Means of escape, in-
deed, were at her command; but to marry
John Luan was surely a worse evil than to see
Mr. Templemore with Mrs. Logan. " It will
last a month — no more," she thought ; " and
before the month is out, I may have found
something else— something which will give
me bread, and not inflict this torment upon
mc."

"That girl is not happy," thought Mr.
Templemore; "but what can ail her?— is it
that John Luan? "

He was half vexed at the thought; he would
have liked to fill the house with' sunshine just
then, and, lo and behold, you two evil-bodin"-

figures, little frowning Eva and her melancholy
governess, were already marring his coming
happiness.

. Unconscious of the construction Mr. Temple-
more put on her unusual gravity, Dora was
walking back slowly toward the house, and he
was walking by her side. Both were silent,
both walked with downcast eyes, and both, as
they emerged from the grounds into the flower-
garden, saw not the group already gathered
there. Miss Moore and Mrs. Courtenay sat on
garden-chairs near the house; Mrs. Logan,
wondering at Mr Templemore's absence, went
about the flower-garden as restless as a bird
on the wing, and wherever she went Mrs.
Luan went too, like a big but silent blue-bottle
fly.

" Why, there is Mr. Templemore, with Miss
Courtenay, I declare ! " exclaimed Mrs. Logan,
evidently amazed.

" Yes — they have been to the summer-house,
you know," stolidly said Mrs. Luan.

"Summer-house!" echoed Mrs. Logan,
coloring ; " why, there is none here, Mrs.
Luan."

" There ought to be, you know. Perhaps
they were in the school-room."

Mrs. Logan tapped her foot, and looked at
Mrs. Luan with profound contempt.

" The school-room is behind us, and they
are in front — pray, don't talk nonsense, Mrs.
Luan," she said, very superciliously.

" I don't mind it — let it be the summer-
house or the school-room, I can trust Dora
with Mr. Templemore, you know," said Mrs.
Luan, buzzing on stolidly ; " I did not like it
at first, because one must always mistrust
widowers or single men — but not Mr. Temple-
more, you know."

" Really, Mrs. Luan, you amaze me ! " ex-
claimed Mrs. Logan, turning crimson. " Mr.
Templemore and I have been engaged for the
last year ! "

" He did not tell us so, you know ; and, on

THOUGHTS CONCERNING PAUL.

145

the whole, I think widowers are worse than
single men. Paul always said so."

Paul's name silenced the angry reply which
rose to Mrs. Logan's pretty lips. " She owes
me a grudge for Paul's sake," she thought,
giving her companion a furtive look ; " and she
only says all this to vex me." So, with cool
impertinence, and the sweetest of smiles, she
retorted :

"Dear me, I should not have thought a
widower like Mr. Templemore so objectionable.
Suppose he married Dora ? "

" Oh ! we should all have liked that very
much, of course," replied Mrs. Luan, with
perfect candor ; " and he admires Dora so
much, for he told me so; but would he have
married her, you know ? "

" Just so," replied Mrs. Logan, with a merry
little laugh.

"Because he might only have flirted with
her, you know," persisted Mrs. Luan, buzzing
on ; " and we should not have liked that at
all."

Mrs. Logan had no time to answer or ques-
tion, for Mr. Templemore and Dora were now
too near, but she felt both indignant and con-
founded. What had Mr. Templemore and Miss
Courtenay been doing out in the grounds ?
Not sitting in the summer-house, since there
was none ; but then what did it mean about
the school-room? There is nothing more
dangerous than a mixture of truth and false-
hood, and both these elements were so mingled
in Mrs. Luan's rambling remarks, that Mrs.
Logan was incapable of detecting the wheat
from the chaff. Mr. Templemore had seen a
good deal of Dora, and he had not told her or
her friends that he was engaged. How did
she know that he had not flirted with his
daughter's governess?

Mrs. Logan being quite capable herself of
flirting, though engaged, could not help sus-
pecting her betrothed of a similar weakness.

Besides, she grudged Dora Mr. Tcmplemore's
10

evident admiration. She resolved to watch
them both, and to read the signs of past or
present flirtation in their looks. She read
nothing there. They came toward her, un-
conscious of all harm, and Mrs. Logan, being
silly, but by no means mistrustful, thought,
on seeing them both so calm and grave :

" I wonder if that old worry did it to tease
me ? But no, she is too great a fool ! "

Satisfied with this contemptuous opinion of
Mrs. Luan, she laughingly discarded Mr. Tem-
plemore, and passing her arm within Dora's,
led her a few steps away, to have a confi-
dential chat.

" Miss Moore says Eva is poorly," she said,
looking piteous. " Is it not provoking ? There
never was such a little worry ! She does it
on purpose, you know. But is it not nice to
meet again, Dora ? Do you remember the
catalogue ? "

Dora looked at her in indignant surprise ;
but Mrs. Logan's black eyes were as full of
glee as if there were no grave in Glasnevin.

" I must bear that, too," thought Dora.
" Well, he forgave her, and so must I."

"What a blessing that you have under-
taken that little monkey ! " resumed Mrs.
Logan. " What should I have done but for
that ? " she asked, shaking her head from
right to left, and from left to right, in amaze-
ment at her own predicament. " She falls ill
to vex me, you know. However, Mr. Temple-
more is tired of it, and we are to be married
in a month. Is it not dreadful? It quite
frightens me. Mr. Logan did just as I wished ;
and Mr. Templemore is very kind, but still it
is dreadful, you know ! "

Mr. Templemore now joined them. How
happy, how genial he looked !

" He likes her so," thought Dora ; " and so
did Paul. Be it so, and may he never waken
and discover that he has made a mistake!
May he never repent, or have cause to for-

give

t»

DORA.

She soon left them. They could not want
her society, aud she needed solitude. She
entered the school-room, to be quiet and alone
there ; but a little snivelling sound, proceed-
ing from a dark corner, betrayed the presence
of Eva.

" Eva," she asked kindly, " why are you
here alone ? "

" I am not alone," sobbed Eva ; " Fido is
with me ! "

" Why did you not come to me in the
garden ? " soothingly asked Dora, sitting down,
and drawing the child toward her, whilst
Fido came creeping to her feet.

" You — you were with Mrs. Logan ! " was
Eva's broken and reproachful reply.

Dora sighed. She could not tell the child
that she need not be jealous of her affection,
so far as Mrs. Logan was concerned ; but she
could soothe her poor little wounded heart
with more than her usual share of love and
caresses. She took Eva on her lap, and whilst
the dog curled round on a cushion at their
feet, she sat by the open window, and looked
up at a pale evening sky. The sound of voices,
above which rose every now and then the
silvery laugh of Florence, came to her ear
very distinctly. Mrs. Luan, indeed, was mute,
but Mrs. Courtenay chatted freely and mer-
rily. She had at first been much affronted
with Mr. Templemore for being engaged to
Mrs. Logan, and her manner to that lady had
also been both odd and perplexed during the
earlier part of the day. Poor Paul's faithless
mistress, and Dora's happy rival, she natu-
rally detested ; but then she must be very
polite and attentive to Mr. Templemore's fu-
ture wife.

The contest between two such opposite feel-
ings ended, of course, in favor of kindness and
good feeling ; but for once her mother's pleas-
ant little voice, blending so gayly with Miss
Moore's, and Mr. Templemore's and Florence's
merry laughter, grated on Dora's ear. She

thought of Paul — of Paul a second time re-
placed and forgotten.

" And is it thus with the dead ? " she said
to her own sad heart ; " they have fought
bravely, generously, but others reap the sweet
rewards of victory — and who thinks of them ? "

Alas ! is it not always so ? When peace
comes after disastrous war, how many are
there who, midst the joy of its advent, remem-
ber the slain ? They lie on distant battle-
fields, their cold faces turned to the sky, their
nerveless hands still clasping the useless sword
or gun ; and who thinks of the ten hours'
fight which ended thus? Some have crawled
away to lonely spots for a drop of water ;
they slumber, hidden midst grass and flowers,
by sweet bubbling streams ; but are they more
forgotten in their solitude than the heaps of
dead, which say where the fighting was hot-
test ? And it is surely well that they all sleep
so soundly. Let them never waken to tax
man with his ingratitude, or feel that their
blood was shed in vain ; let them never know
that careless Nature will yield her flowers, and
verdure, and sweet waters to men more for-
tunate, though not more deserving, than they
were.

Some such answer came to Dora as she sat
thus with the child in her arms, and the dog
at her feet. It had been hard for Paul, but he
had prevailed — that " had " was over, and sure-
ly bis was now a divine, an eternal present
soaring forever beyond such mortal evils.

"And to you also that rest will come," said

a tender voice; "then fight the good fight,

remember the reward, and grudge not the cost

or the toil."

CHAPTER XXVI.

It was designedly that Mr. Templemore had
ignored Eva since the morning's scene, but he
now suddenly remembered her existence, and
raising his voice, he said :

THE SCHOOL-ROOM.

147

"Where is Eva?"

Eva did not answer, and Mrs. Courtenay
said :

" I dare say she is with Dora. I don't see
Fido ; they are sure to be all three together."

" What a siren ! " exclaimed Mrs. Logan.

" Eva, you must go," whispered Dora.

" I can't," moaned Eva.

" I can't " meant " I won't," but Dora felt
very lenient, so she raised her voice and said :

" Eva is here, Mr. Templemore, but she is
feverish, and I think she had better not go out
to you."

" Very well — I shall go to her," replied Mr.
Templemore, cheerfully.

He went to the open window by which Dora
was sitting, and standing outside, he said :

" I hope you are not sleepy, Eva, for Fanny
is going to bring a light, and I shall let you see
those odd letters, as you call them, which you
were so inquisitive about yesterday."

Eva became lively at once, as the eager
question of "Where are they? " testified.

" Coming," gayly answered her father, " for
here is Fanny."

So Fanny came with a lamp, which she placed
on the table, and Mr. Templemore, sitting on
the window-ledge, smilingly opened a roll of
papers before Eva's view. The happy leisure
of wealth was not wasted upon him. He was
a student, and a close one. It so happened
that he had not found one poor patient in
Rouen since his return, so, having time to spare,
he bestowed it on the tempting but arduous
pursuit of deciphering cuneiform inscriptions.
Here was a puzzle after his own heart. The
table in his study was covered with the copies
of the strange arrow-headed characters — books
in which the labors of Grotefend, Oppert,
Menant, and Sir Henry Rawlinson were set
forth, made a goodly pile near the drawings.
All these had excited the curiosity of Eva, and
even roused that of Mrs. Logan. She. had even
asked to know "what all that was about? "

" Only Darius," he had carelessly replied.
Mr. Templemore knew better than to talk to
his betrothed of the great rock of Behistan,
not merely because she was ignorant of its ex-
istence, but because her frivolous little mind
could take no sort of interest in Darius, or the
god Ormuz and his dwelling-place.

" Only Darius ! " she repeated with a little
laugh. "What an old bore that Darius must
be!"

Pretty women are still pretty women when
they make silly speeches — and Mr. Temple-
more looked fondly at the sinner. Unluckily
she now left Miss Moore, and overheard him
talking of this same inscription to Dora. He
had brought it out, indeed, to show it to Eva,
but he included Eva's governess in the remarks
he made on this subject. He spoke of the
great rock on the frontiers of Media, of the
lofty tablet inaccessible as an eagle's eyrie, on
which the conqueror inscribed the glories of
his race, the vastness of his empire, and that
Persian attribute, his hatred of falsehood ; and
Dora, though as ignorant of this subject as Mrs.
Logan, listened with attention, put a few ques-
tions, and was not answered with an " Only
Darius ! "

" He talks to her ! " thought Mrs. Logan.

She stood in the garden a little behind Mr.
Templemore, who did not see her. But how
well and how vividly Florence saw the picture
framed by the window of the school-room !
A pale globe and a black slate in the back-
ground ; on the central table a bronze lamp
with a pure white flame, burning like a cap-
tive spirit in its crystal prison, and by the
window in front Dora leaning back in her chair
with Eva on her lap, and looking over the
child's head at the papers spread out for them
both by Mr. Templemore.

" That's the school-room," said Mrs. Luan,
whom Mrs. Logan thought far away, and who
stood by her elbow.

Florence started. She was stung to the

1-18

DORA.

very heart. Yes, that was the school-room,
and Mr. Templemore had chosen a governess
who was both pretty and young for his child.
He had chosen a girl with bright hair, and
eyes both soft and bright— whose face lit with
unconscious sunshine when he spoke, and with
whom it was plain he liked speaking. Yes,
that was the school-room — there was no sum-
mer-house, but there was a school-room !
Faith and trust, so easy to the large-minded,
and especially to the large-hearted, are very
hard to the narrow and the cold. Mrs. Logan
was too shallow to be a mistrustful woman,
and too pretty to be a jealous one ; but when
mistrust and jealousy unexpectedly came to
her, she had no generous belief, no proud con-
sciousness, to help her to repel either enemy.
Their first attacks found her helpless, and
rapidly conquered her.

Mrs. Luan plucked her sleeve.

" That's the school-room," she whispered
again ; " and Dora's sitting-room is this way."

Mechanically Mrs. Logan followed her. Do-
ra's sitting-room had a glass door opening
on the gardeu, and as this was not closed,
they entered it. Even in the moonlight Mrs.
Logan saw that this was a very charming
apartment. She had never seen it before ; it
was newly furnished. Mr. Templemore had
therefore prepared it for Eva's governess.

Florence could not understand this. She
had never had a child, and not being one of
those women in whom the parental feeling is
innate, she had no just conception of the love
a fond father like Mr. Templemore could bear
bis little daughter. That he should have a
whole suite of rooms prepared for Eva and
her governess was incredible to her. She for-
got that he might have meant to seclude him-
self and his young bride from all unpleasant
contact with his jealous child, as much as to
please or honor Dora ; she only felt that Dora
was treated "like a princess," and she could
not tolerate the fact — especially she could not

understand it. In her indignation and amaze-
ment she said aloud :

" I shall certainly ask Mr. Templemore the
meaning of all this ! "

" She's Paul's sister, you know," sharply re-
marked Mrs. Luan.

Mrs. Logan felt sobered at once. She had
written some fond, foolish letters to Paul for-
merly ; true, he had returned them, but sup-
pose a stray one, or that lock of her hair
which he had certainly kept, or that photo-
graph which had gone down with him to his
grave (but Florence did not know this), had
remained in Dora's possession, and should be
produced against her to Mr. Templemore, who
was so convinced that she had been forced
into marrying Mr. Logan, and that he was her
first love ! It would not be pleasant ; and
some such threat Mrs. Luan must intend by
again bringing up Paul's name when it had
really no business to be uttered. So Mrs. Lo-
gan took the hint, and as her little secret had
been kept up to the present, she resolved to
watch Dora, indeed, but to do so with silent
prudence, which, alas ! was the very thing
that Mrs. Luan wanted.

" I wonder if Mr. Templemore has done
with his Darius," she petulantly exclaimed.

And she abruptly entered the school-room,
but she found it dark and silent. The lamp
was gone, the window was closed, and it was
plain that Dora and Eva had left by the other
door. Mrs. Logan went back to the garden,
and found Mr. Templemore looking for her.

"Where have you been ? " he asked.

" Looking at Miss Courtenay's rooms," she
replied, with a bitterness she cculd not help
displaying, but which he so little expected to
find in her tone, that he did not detect it
there.

" Eva is very feverish," he said, anxiously.
" I hope she is not going to be ill again."

" And I feel sure she is— just to vex me,"
wa.s the short reply.

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

149

Mrs. Courtenay, who was close by with Miss
Moore, unluckily remarked:

" But Eva is really an amiable child, Mrs.
Logan — she took to Dora at once."

" Oh ! but I cannot compare or compete
with Miss Courtenay, you know."

" Why don't you -win her like Dora?" good-
naturedly replied Mrs. Courtenay. " She cut
up her white silk to dress a doll for Eva, a
bride she was, and of course, childlike, Eva
fell in love with both doll and giver."

"A bride ! " repeated Mrs. Logan. " What
a strange idea, Mrs. Courtenay ! "

"Very natural, you know. Even little
girls think of marriage, and as for grown-up
ones, they hear of nothing else — especially
when they are pretty. Indeed, I think they
have no comfort of their lives till they are
really married. And as they must go through
it, why, it is like extracting a tooth, the
sooner it is over the better."

Mr. Templemore laughed at Mrs. Courte-
nay's philosophy of marriage, but as the gar-
den was getting chill, he suggested that they
should all go in. Only Miss Moore accom-
panied him to the drawing-room, however;
Mrs. Courtenay confessed she was sleepy, and
Mrs. Luan had already silently vanished.

The drawing-room of Les Roches was a
large, old-fashioned apartment, with ancient
furniture, a room which Florence had always
liked. Her father having suddenly married
again, and been presented with twin son3 by
his second wife, Mrs. Logan's expectations of
fortune were no longer what they had once
been. Her present income of a few hundreds
and her little villa near Les Roches, did not
satisfy her. She liked a chateau like Les
Roches (especially to date her letters from),
or a beautiful place like Deenah, with a lake
and waterfalls, to live in. She liked lofty
ceilings, and large rooms, and old furniture ;
not that she really admired these things, but
because she had heard them praised, and

especially because they represented affluence
and ample means.

The drawing-room of Les Roches was,
therefore, a favorite apartment with Mrs.
Logan, but for once it had lost its charm ;
and as she entered it, and sank into one of
its deep chairs, there was something as like a
frown on her smooth brow as it was possible
to see there. But Mr. Templemore, who had
never seen the fair Florence do more than
raise her fine dark eye-brows in childish won-
der, and who had no experience of anything
like displeasure from this light but naturally
amiable little creature, now read nothing save
a slight degree of gravity on her fair, white
forehead.

So whilst Miss Moore discreetly sat as far
away from them as politeness permitted, he
did his best to amuse and entertain his fair
mistress. Mrs. Logan could not resist him.
The cloud passed away from her face, her
pretty mouth relaxed, her cheeks got back
their dimples, and her laughing black eyes
looked as full of fun as if she had been the
wittiest of women. Hers was not indeed the
brightness of Dora, that fine light from within
which gave so wonderful a glow to her whole
countenance, and transfigured it as if by
magic ; but it was brightness too, it was
gayety, it was mirth, and Dora herself had
often felt its power. A comparison between
these two women now rose to Mr. Teuiple-
more's mind, not for the first time, indeed,
though it had never been spoken before ; but
as his ill-luck would have it, he expressed it
now.

Without saying a word he rose, went to a
cabinet, opened a drawer, and drew out some-
thing with which he came back to Mrs. Lo-
gan's side. If Mr. Templemore had flung a
pearl necklace or a diamond bracelet on the
lap of Florence, and informed her that it was
destined to Mrs. Templemore, all would have
been well between them. But though his

150

DORA.

intentions on that score were as liberal as
even Florence could wish them to be, the
subject was one utterly remote from his
thoughts just then. He quietly placed an
old morocco case in her hand, and without
noticing how the sparkling light died out of
her black eyes, he bade her open it.

Florence obeyed with a pouting lip, expres-
sive of disappointment, but smiled as she saw
a lovely enough miniature of herself in pow-
dered hair and pink satin.

" But' that is not my portrait," she said
after a while.

"No — it is like you, but it is not your por-
trait. I bought it at a sale in England, on my
way here, so struck was I witb the .likeness.
It is a good enamel, too, though not equal to
this," and taking it back from her, he handed
her Nanette's legacy. Mrs. Logan's color
rose.

"Dora sat for this," she said quickly.
"You made her put on that blue dress and
that old lace, but she sat to you for this por-
prait."

"Did you put on pink satin and sit to me ? "
he asked, amused at the question.

" You had it done from my photograph," she
persisted.

"My dear child," he said good-humoredly,
" do you not know an old enamel from a new
one, or ancient style of painting from modern ? "

" I suppose not," replied Mrs. Logan, ap-
parently once more quite good-tempered; but
at heart she was unconvinced. She looked at
Dora's portrait, as she would' call it, and she
saw not, or she would not see, that though this
was Dora's hair, these were not Dora's eyes.
" She sat to him," she thought ; " she sat in
the school-room. Thi3 is Dora herself when
she smiles, or is pleased and happy. I have
seen her look so again and again when Paul
was by."

Alas ! the dead young beauty who had sat
for that portrait, and smiled as it was painted,

had long been dust ! She had gone away with
her smiles, and the painter on whom, perhaps,
they were bestowed had gone with her. The
bright hair, the soft blue eyes, the snowy skin
which Mrs. Logan gazed at with quick breath
and angry eyes, need never waken love or
jealousy now, whatever mischief they might
have worked in their day.

" Is it not lovely ? " asked Mr. Templemore.

He thought of the painting, but Mrs. Logan
was convinced he meant the woman.

" Very," she replied. "Are enamels brittle ? "

" I should be sorry to trust this one with a
fall."

" Then take it — I am so awkward, you
know." .

He held out his hand, but before Mrs. Lo-
gan's had surrendered it to him, the portrait
had fallen on the floor.

" Oh ! I am so sorry !." she exclaimed, look-
ing as innocent and as frightened as a child ;
but she stealthily stretched out her little foot,
in the hope of finishing the work of destruc-
tion. " Don't look at it," she entreated, pre-
venting him from stooping with a pretty, des-
potic gesture; "I am sure it is in pieces ; and
I do not want to be ' scolded. Don't, Miss
Moore ! " she screamed, in her little childish
way, as this lady approached them to lend
her assistance ; " Mr. Templemore will be so
angry."

" No, no," he said, trying not to look as an-
noyed as he felt; " but you must' let me pick
it up, Florence."

Again he stooped, again Mrs. Logan tried to
prevent him, and, as ill-luck would have.it, in
the attempt she upset a small table on which
he had placed the other portrait. .

" I give it up," ruefully said Mr. Temple-
more, throwing himself back in his chair, and
laughing, spite his vexation ; " I have no doubt
my lady in blue is damaged, and my lady in
pink cracked through — I give it up."

Mrs. Logan was silent, and so disconcerted

!i : ; HI

" OH, I AM S <> 90BRY."

p. 150.

MRS. LOGAN AND MISS MOORE.

151

at this accident, that she no longer opposed
Miss Moore's good-natured attempt to pick up
the fallen portraits.

"Oh! dear," said Mis3 Moore, "the poor
lady in pink is quite spoiled ; but, I declare,
the lady in blue has not a scratch ! "

" Oh ! all right, then," cheerfully cried Mr.
Templemore; "I can get another pink lady
any day at a sale, but my blue lady altra,
cosa ! "

Mrs. Logan's breath was gone to hear this,
and she rolled her black eyes in utter bewilder-
ment. Mr. Templemore, unconscious of the
construction she put on his words, looked at
the two portraits very attentively, shook his
head over the lady in pink, and smiling com-
placently at the lady in blue, went and put
them both away in the cabinet, locking the
drawer and taking out the key — not quite so
useless a precaution as he fancied it to be.
Mrs. Logan was utterly confounded. Her
mind could not very well conceive feelings she
was incapable of entertaining. She could not
believe that the only value Mr. Templemore
really set on his enamels was an artistic value,
having not the faintest reference to the regard
he felt for the persons they happened to re-
semble. She did not understand that if the
lady in blue had been like Mrs. Luan herself,
her portrait would have been as precious in
his eyes as it now was, bearing this strong
likeness to Dora. All this was incomprehen-
sible to her, and was not even made apparent
by what would have proved it to another
woman : Mr. Templemore's unnecessary frank-
ness. No, this was rather an aggravation of
his offence than any attenuation. Mrs. Logan
was silly, and she knew, but did not mind it.
She was accustomed to be treated like a pretty,
childish, foolish thing by Mr. Templemore, and
she liked it, for she had sense enough to know
that, manlike, he loved her none the worse for
it. She was so pretty, that she could be any-
thing she chose, and yet charm him and every

one else besides. But it now occurred to her
that Mr. Templemore might consider her so
silly as to think he could do or say anything
in her presence with impunity. "He thinks I
can't see through him, that is it," was Mrs.
Logan's indignant conclusion. " I am not so
stupid though as you fancy, Mr. Templemore.
Wait a while — wait a while!"

Unconscious of the storm which was brood-
ing in Mrs. Logan's heart, Mr. Templemore
turned back to her with a smile, and had just
sat down by her side, when the door of the
drawing-room opened, and Dora appeared on
the threshold, rather pale and grave.

" Mr. Templemore," she said, a little hesi-
tatingly, " will you come — Eva is really very
feverish ? "

He started and turned pale.

" It is nothing — nothing ! " he exclaimed ;
" but I am going. Pray excuse me, Florence.
Miss Courtenay, I am going with you."

And with that hasty excuse he was gone.
The drawing-room door closed on them both.
He had gone at her bidding, and she had
come for him like a fair and evil enchantress,
to lure him away from his liege love. But,
no, to do her justice, Florence indulged in no
such poetic fancies ; she had not a particle
of imagination, never thought of spirits good
or evil, and was wonderfully suited to those
days of prose. Her only conclusion, there-
fore, was the indignant one :

" Dora is about the most artful and auda-
cious girl /ever knew ! "

How little we do know of each other; after
all, in this bright, clear world, where every
thing looks so open, and is so secret and mys-
terious ! If Dora had come herself to call
Mr. Templemore, if she had undergone the
needless pain of seeing him seated by the
side of Florence, it was because she would
not forget, not even for a moment, the tie
that bound him.

" 1 shall remember it again and again," she

152

DORA.

had said to herself in stoic self-subjection.
" I shall not forget, or shun the inevitable."

" I hope poor Eva is not going to be ill
again," exclaimed Miss Moore, looking much
concerned.

" Yes, she is, just to vex me," resignedly
said Mrs. Logan. "But if the marriage is
put off again," she significantly added, " it
shall be for good, you know, Miss Moore."

" Oh ! but Mr. Templemore will not have
the wedding-day put off," exclaimed Miss
Moore, eagerly. " I know it ; he has said so
again and again."

" Oh ! it is a matter of perfect indifference
to me ! " said Mrs. Logan, leaning back in her
chair, and folding her hands on her lap. " It
shall be the 'Tth of May, or it shall not be at
all. I don't care, you know."

She spoke with as much seeming indiffer-
ence as if the 7th of May had been the day
fixed for a picnic or a dinner-party, and not
for the most important event in her life.
Again Miss Moore attempted to mend matters
by declaring that Mr. Templemore would cer-
tainly go distracted if the *7th of May did not
make him the happiest of men.

"Yes, yes, I know," said Mrs. Logan, a
little superciliously, for she was now bent on
seeming shrewd, and not silly ; " but I must
have facts, not words, you know, Miss Moore.
I suppose Eva gets ill every now and then,
and Miss Courtenay comes for Mr. Temple-
more, who sits up and goes distracted, eh ? "

This speech was so unlike Mrs. Logan's
usual discourse, that Miss Moore stared at her
in 6ilent amazement.

"No," ered, at length, "Eva has

had very good health siuce Miss Courtenay
has been with o ."

Mm Logan Bmiled incredulously, closed her
pursed up her lips, and altogether
looked eo significant, that Miss Moore felt
not merely amazed, but bewildered.

"Is he going to remain long away? "re-

sumed Mrs. Logan, raising her voice, and
looking haughty. " Because I am going, Miss
Moore."

" No, pray don't ! " entreated Miss Moore.
" Eva will get well," — to Eva's ill-health she
attributed Mrs. Logan's evident displeasure —
" and it will be all right again, you know,
dear ! "

She spoke as soothingly as if she were ad-
dressing a child. It was the tone most people
adopted with Mrs. Logan when they were at
all intimate with her. But Mrs. Logan, who
if she was silly, was by no means so childish
as she chose to appear, now resented Miss
Moore's manner as a deadly affront, and turn-
ing upon her with sparkling eyes, said, in a
tone which had nothing of the child in it save
its temper and naughtiness :

" You had better not, Miss Moore. I am
not quite so silly as some people think. My
eyes are quite open. I assure you I am wide
awake, Miss Moore."

And she opened wide and rolled ber black
eyes in a manner which fairly confounded
Eva's aunt. Indeed, she was quite awestruck
on hearing Mrs. Logan hold out so formidable
a threat as that implied by the statement that
she was not silly, and that she was wide awake.
For when foolish people set about being clever,
and people of dull perceptions have made up
their minds to be particularly clear-sighted,
there is scarcely any amount of mischief which
may not be expected. This Miss Moore, though
not very bright herself, was cleai'-headed enough
to guess. She felt that danger was at hand,
though she was too much taken by surprise to
know from what quarter it sprang. She still
considered Eva's unlucky illness to be the cause
of Mrs. Logan's wrath, and would probably
have made some other exasperating reference
to the subject, if Florence had not forestalled
Tier by declaring that she was not going to wait
Mr. Templemore's pleasure any longer. The
haughty words were scarcely uttered when Mr.

DRS. PETIT AND LEROUX.

153

Teinplemore entered the room. With a face
full of concern he said :

" Eva is ill. I am anxious about her. I am
going for Doctor Leroux."

" Now ? " exclaimed Mrs. Logan.

" Yes, even if he cannot come I shall be glad
to speak to him."

He looked so anxious, that Mrs. Logan for-
got her suspicions, her displeasure, and even
her resolve of keeping her eyes open. But so
many unusual emotions had brought on a ner-
vous mood, which now betrayed itself by an
hysterical burst of tears, and the declaration
that she, Mrs. Logan, was perfectly miser-
able.

" My dear Florence," kindly said Mr. Temple-
more, taking her hand, "you are not to blame.
The poor child alone is guilty, but is excus-
able, because she is a child. We are innocent,
and suffer for her sin even more than she does.
I had hoped, indeed, that we could spend part
of the summer here, but this last attempt is
too unfortunate. We must remain in Deenah,
and Eva, and Miss Moore, and her governess
stay in Les Roches."

" Much the best plan," put in Miss Moore,
rather eagerly. " Eva will grow out of it, you
know."

" I hope so," replied Mr. Templemore ; but
never was hope uttered in a more despondent
tone than this.

"I think I must go," moaned Mrs. Logan,
pressing her hand to her brow ; " my head
aches so. And yet I should have liked to
wait till you came back with that Dr. Petit."

" Petit ! " cried Mr. Templemore with a start
— " God forbid that man should ever come
near Eva ! "

" Ho can you be so prejudiced ? " pettishly
said Mrs. Logan ; " you know he did me a
world of good. And as for the other man, I
hate him ! — he has such a nose, and such a
long, scraggy neck. I wonder you can have
any confidence in him."

Mr. Templemore looked half amused and
half indignant.

" I know," he said, " that when Petit luckily
fell ill, you got well. I know, too, that when
you are my wife, that man, of whom I have a
perfect horror, shall never attend you. As to
Leroux's neck and nose, you must be mistaken ;
they cannot be so bad as you imagine, else how
could he have got his diploma, you know? "

Mrs. Logan was very much affronted at Mr.
Templemore's banter.

" I know — I understand," she said, indig-
nantly ; "but as /have no faith in your Le-
roux, you will not wonder that I do not stay to
hear his opinion of 'Eva."

" There is no necessity for your doing so," he
gravely replied ; " Eva is not so very ill, I dare
say, but I am, as usual, nervous, and too anx-
ious. I shall see you home, if you are go-
ing."

Mrs. Logan knit her smooth brow, and raised
her arched eyebrows. Did Mr. Templemore
want to get her out of the way ? But she had
said she would go, and she would not retract.
So within a few minutes she was walking down
the road that led to Rouen, with her arm rest-
ing on Mr. Templemore's. The way was short,
but the night was fair and mild, and love is a
great enchanter. A few kind words which
Mr. Templemore said, unconscious of the force
the turmoil in Mrs. Logan's little mind gave
them, lulled to rest the tempest Mrs. Luau had
first wakened there. Besides, it was a really
delightful arrangement, if they were to live in
Deenah, and Eva and Dora — the governess, he
had called her — in Les Roches. And then he
would not care much about Eva, if they had
children. Tes, it was all right, after all; and
as Mrs. Logan's nature was not merely light,
but buoyant, she bade her lover a very cheer-
ful good-night as they parted at the door of
her villa,

" I shall be sure to send early to know
about Eva," she said, airily. " Good-night,"

154

DORA

and she skipped into the house, and closed the
door behind her.

Mr Templemore walked through the nar-
row front garden, whence the scent of flowers
rose sweetly on the night air, and he went
down the road, feeling very sad and thought-
ful. He was too just to be angry with Flor-
ence for not loving a child who hated her ; but
how careless she was, and how little she
thought of hiding her indifference ! She would
sleep very soundly that night. It was natural,
but it was hard. Hard, too, in some respects,
was the fate that lay before him.

" She is a sweet, childish little creature," he
thought ; " I must prize her as I would a beau-
tiful flower, and not exact from her the bril-
liant or enduring qualities of a gem. But — but
I might have chosen more wisely." And Mr.
Templemore sighed, as many a man has sighed
before the marriage-day.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Doctor Leroux was not within, so Mr.
Templemore had to come back without him.
He went up at once to Eva's room. Dora sat
by the bed of the child, half bending over her,
and telling her little stories to send her to
sleep.

"And so" — Mr. Templemore heard her say-
ing, as he opened the door — " the poor prince
was wounded by the giant, and — "

"No, he was not," impetuously interrupted
Eva ; " he shan't be wounded. Don't let him
be wounded, Cousin Dora ! "

" Well, my dear, shall it be the giant ? "

" Yes, I hate him. Kill him, Cousin Dora ! "

" I don't mind if I do. And now suppose
he is dead and buried — and suppose a little
girl I know goes to sleep."

" I can't," moaned Eva. " Tell me another
story."

Hut as Dora was going to comply, Mr. Tem-
plemore came forward. He found no change

in Eva. Her flushed cheeks and dilated black
eyes still told him the same story that had
sent him forth. Strong mental excitement
had put Tier into that state. When he and
Mrs. Logan left, Eva would probably get well
again; but till then she would probably be
subject to attacks, both dangerous and wasting
with so susceptible a child.

" It is a hard case," he could not help saying
to Dora. " I have every blessing life can give,
save one. And I am powerless ; a child's
unreasonable feelings are too strong for me."

His clouded brow and troubled look struck
Dora. He too was unhappy, and his sorrow
allowed of no remedy. He could not have
both Mrs. Logan and his child, and Eva must
be sacrificed.

" Poor Eva ! " thought Dora, looking down
at the little flushed face on its white pillow.

He saw the kind look, but did not read its
meaning.

" Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, anxiously,
" it is late ; you must not stay sitting up with
Eva. Where is Fanny ? "

" I sent her away."

" But you may want assistance. Better have
Miss Moore."

" She is not quite well, and aunt will stay
up with me."

He looked, and in a remote part of the room
he saw Mrs. Luan nodding in an arm-chair.
Still he was not satisfied.

"You cannot stay up," he said — "it really
will fatigue you."

" I think Eva will soon fall asleep," quietly
replied Dora.— "Will you not, Eva ? "

She gently touched the child's hot cheek
with her hand, and at once Eva seized that
cool hand, and laying her head upon it, looked
up at her young governess with something in
her dark eyes of the silent, faithful love of a
dog for-its master.

"She is falling asleep," whispered Dora.
" Her eyelids look heavy."

MRS. LUAN'S DREAM

155

She would not stir, for fear of rousing the
child, but sat patiently with Eva's cheek rest-
ing on the hand which the two little childish
hands also fondly clasped. Mr. Templemore
stood at the foot of the bed, looking at them
both with a sort of pain. Why did not his
child love the woman he was going to marry
as she loved her governess ? Why could not
that good-natured Florence, whom he loved,
be the mother of his little daughter as well as
this Dora Courtenay, whom, alas ! he did not
love.

"You have bewitched my little Eva," be
said to Dora. " I wonder if she would allow
you to draw away your hand now ? "

Dora made the attempt, but a fond, jealous
murmur from the child, who was only half
asleep, bade her desist. Mr. Templemore
smiled, and stooping, kissed Eva. If he had
not feared offending Dora, he would not have
minded to kiss as well the pretty band on
which his child's head rested so trustingly.
But he had a warm, generous heart — too gen-
erous not to feel grateful, and too warm not to
express it.

"Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, looking at
her earnestly, " God bless you for all your
goodness to this poor motherless little givl,
who, I fear, will never have any mother save
you. Miss Moore loves her, but she is not
judicious."

Dora looked at him silently.

"Yes," she thought, "Florence has got the
father, but I have got the child."

" I have a favor to ask," he continued, in a
low tone; "I trust nothing will happen to-
night, but if that feverishness should come on
again, pray promise me that you will call me —
I shall sit up late in the study."

" I feel sure there will be no need to do so,"
confidently replied Dora ; but she gave him
the required promise, and on that assurance
he left her.

Eva was very fast asleep indeed when Dora

drew her hand away, and left her. She went
up to her aunt, gently touched her shoulder,
and as Mrs. Luan awoke with a bewildered
stare, Dora raised her finger in token of si-
lence, nodded toward the bed, to imply that
all was well there, then pointed to the door ;
but Mrs. Luan had been so fast asleep, that
she had no conception of her niece's meaning,
and it required a whispered explanation xo
make her understand at last that Dora no
longer needed her presence. The fact at
length reached her mind ; she rose, and walk-
ing stealthily across the room, left it, and
noiselessly closed the door behind her.

Dora went back to Eva's little cot, and
bending over it, she looked long at Mr. Temple-
more's child.

"He has all but given you to me," she
thought ; " but if I were Florence he should
give you to none. If I were Florence I would
have won your heart whether you liked it or
not, and made you mine before I became his.
Oh ! if I were Florence you should love me
more than you love Mr. Templemore himself,
and he should never be able to part us in his
affection — to say ' I give this much to one, and
that much to the other.' "

Her eyes were dim with useless tears. For
she was not Florence — that happy, careless
Florence, who had fallen asleep over a novel,
whilst Paul's sister — Cousin Dora, the govern-
ess — sat up with Mr. Templemore's child.
Yet she, too, slept. The gentle comforter
came to her in the deep chair where she had
seated herself to watch Eva's slumbers ; he
came and never ceased shaking his dewy pop-
pies over these two, Dora and the child, till
bright dawn had left the sky, and a sunbeam
stole in upon them through the muslin cur-
tains of the window. Dora woke first; but
scarcely had she really awakened, and really
come back from the torpor of sleep to the
quick sense of life, when she met the look of
Eva's black eyes. She nodded gayly to her.

156

DORA.

" Well, young lady," she said, " how are
you this morning? Quite well, it seems to
me!"

"You did not finish that story about the
prince and the giant," was Eva's answer. " I
want to know how it ended."

"It shall end as you please, Eva," answered
Dora, with an easy compliance rare in authors ;
"the giant shall kill the prince — no — well,
then, the prince shall kill the giant."

"And marry the princess," suggested Eva.

" And marry the princess," kindly replied
Dora.

"And so you did really sit up with Eva,
after all, Miss Courtenay ! " reproachfully said
Mr. Templemore's voice.

Dora looked round and saw him standing
behind her chair, and behind him again Mrs.
Luan in her night-cap.

"I slept — I did not watch," deprecatingly
replied Dora ; " and I think Eva is well, Mr.
Templemore."

Yes. He went and sat by her ; he took her
hand, he looked, he questioned, and his con-
clusion was that Eva was well again. This
had been but a slight attack.

"And who knows," he added hopefully —
" who knows, Miss Courtenay, but it may be
the last ? "

He looked down so fondly at Eva, it was so
plain that no lover's happiness would fill the
void left by her absence, that for his sake and
from her heart Dora wished it might be a3 he
hoped.

" But when that day comes," she thought,
"you and I part, Eva. When your little
childish love goes, as is but right it should go,
to your father's wife, you shall see your last
cf Cousin Dora."

As if answering her thought, Mr. Temple-
more said gravely, "I dare not expect so
happy a result just yet, and I think that in
"ican while we must be very cautious."

II" looked at Dora, and Dora guessed his

meaning. Eva was to see as little as possible
of Mrs. Logan. She nodded assent, and, after
a while, Mr. Templemore left the room.

" What a storm there was last night ! " said
Mrs. Luan, taking off her night-cap and fling-
ing it across the room.

"A storm !" exclaimed Dora, amazed.

" Yes, how it rolled and rolled, and rattled
and rattled!" said Mrs. Luan, shaking her
head as if it still ached with the noise ; " there
never was such a storm, I think."

" Aunt, you must be mistaken. True, I
slept, but I also woke now and then, and the
moon shone, and the sky had not a cloud."

" Why, I came and looked at you; I was
here the best part of the night, and I tell you
the blue lightning did nothing but play about
Eva and you. Of course, you were both
asleep."

Dora went up to her.

" My. dear aunt," she said gravely, " you
must not talk so. There was no storm. Put
on your cap — it was all a dream ! "

Mrs. Luan looked at her sullenly, but she
did put on her cap, as Dora bade her ; and,
after a while, she said sulkily :

" Yes, I suppose so — it was all a dream —
all a dream ! " and, to Dora's relief she left the
room. *

As soon as she had left Eva in Fanny's
care, Dora went to her mother's room. She
found Mrs. Courtenay up and dressed, and
very cross.

" There never was such an old fidget as your
aunt," she said — Mrs. Luan was two years her
junior — "she did not sleep all night, I sup-
pose, and she would not let me sleep either.
She came in and out of my room, talking of
the thunder and the lightning till she almost
drove me wild."
Dora was much concerned.

" I wish she were with John," she said —
" indeed, I am anxious about her ; and I came
to ask you, mamma, to stay with her as much

HER MENTAL AND MORAL PECULIARITIES.

157

as you can, and cheer her — also you could no-
tice if these strange fancies continue."

" My dear child, your aunt had strange fan-
cies before you were born, and your aunt will
have strange fancies till she is in her grave.
Her fancy just now seems to run on thunder
and lightning, but I remember how it was
cheese for seven months. Everything, she
declared, tasted of cheese, or was cheese ;
when that passed away she raved about cats,
and had five of them in the house. We were
run over with kittens for I don't know how
long. They were very pretty, but great
thieves, and I think that cured your aunt of
them. However, I shall try and cheer her a
bit, poor thing ! I fancy she is vexed at Mr.
Tempi ernore's marrying that little flirt ; and it
is provoking when we had made up our minds
that it should be you, you know ! "

" Mamma, pray do not," entreated Dora,
looking both mortified and pained.

" Very well," resignedly said Mrs. Courte-
nay ; " of course, if you don't like it, or didn't
like him, there is nothing to be said or done ;
but, as I said, I shall cheer Mrs. Luan."

Mrs. Courtenay evidently considered the
task of cheering Mrs. Luan a charitable sort of
bore, but also one which lay within her power.
Howsoever right the former conclusion might
be, the latter one rested on a great mistake.
Mrs. Luan did not want being cheered, for
the more Mrs. Courtenay forced her company
upon her, the more she shunned and tacitly
declined it. In vain her kind little sister-in-
law followed her about, " cheering " her ; Mrs.
Luan gave her a wary look out of the corner
of her sullen eve, and dropped her when Mrs.
Courtenay was least on her guard, or could
not follow her. This she did several times,
till Mrs. Courtenay, perceiving her object,
got affronted, and gave up cheering her un-
gracious, thankless relative.

" She runs away from me as fast as if she
were a spider, and I the housemaid with the

broom ! " indignantly thought Mrs. Courte-
nay; and the comparison was far more apt
than she imagined it to be. Mrs. Luan was
no longer the blue-bottle buzzing in Mrs. Lo-
gan's heedless ear. They had changed parts.
One lady was the foolish fly, and the other
the cunning spider by whom it was to be en-
snared.

There is a terrible power in " one idea." A
power which is often the stronger that it is
embodied in a narrow mind. No fancy, no
imagination, no tenderness, could divert Mrs.
Luan from a purpose once conceived ; and this
tenacity, which is always dangerous, was the
more formidable in her, that no strong moral
law controlled it. She had but a weak sense
of right and wrong, and she had done nothing
to make that weak sense stronger. The evil
she did she also loved, and the deeper she
sank into that slough, the better she liked it.
In her was fulfilled the terrible progression of
sin; for however deficient, or erratic, or unrea-
sonable was her mind, there was sin in her, as
there often is even in the insane — not, indeed,
when they are actually insane, but because their
sin has helped their insanity. All moral evil
is a want of reason, since there can be no evil
where there is perfect reason ; but unless that
want be total — and it is rarely so — there is
guilt. So says the law, and with it the com-
mon-sense of every country. Her will, her
interest, had been Mrs. Luan's rule of life, and
she now reaped the fruit of this selfish doc-
trine. When a strong and criminal tempta-
tion came to her, she could not resist it, or, at
least, her power to do so was very restricted.
She was accustomed to be reckless in small
things, and she knew not how to be careful or
timorous, even though the stakes were heavy.
The end in view was all she saw, or cared to
see — the abyss between her and that end she
both ignored and contemned. It was nothing
to her, she was not to be the victim. In that
dark pit she would throw Mr. Templcmore,

158

DORA.

Florence, Dora even, if it were needed — and
Mre. Luan did not care, provided she prevailed.
She did not, indeed, put the matter in that
light, there was no need to be so tragic about
it ; and as Mrs. Luan had no imagination, she
could not exaggerate to herself the conse-
quences of her actions, nor perhaps conceive
them in all their bearings. She saw but one
thing, and thought of but one thing : " Dora
shall not marry John," and its corollary, " Mr.
Templemore shall marry Dora ! "

In that mood, and with that thought, she
watched and waited for Mrs. Logan.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

No inquiry concerning Eva was sent in by
Mrs. Logan the next day. Mrs. Logan's head
ached, and she lay moaning on the sofa, and
forgot all about Eva. Nay, she thought her-
self ill-used because Mr. Templemore did not
come to ask what ailed her ; and when he ap-
peared at length, she burst forth into reproach-
ful lamentations, and was silent concerning his
child.

" She has not much reason to love her,"
thought Mr. Templemore; but he thought, too,
that for his sake, at least, she might have re-
membered the little sinner.

"You might, at least, have sent round to
know how I was, since you were too much en-
gaged with Darius to come ! " said Mrs. Logan,
very tartly. "Fanny, or Miss Courtenay—
any one ! "

This was said with considerable imperti-
nence, and Mr. Templemore colored deeply;
but he looked at some flowers in a stand, and
counted their petals, before he trusted himself
to say.

" Florence, thai is not right."

Mrs. Logan was reclining on the sofa in
her pretty sitting-room ; but though the shut-
were closed, and the room was darkened,

Mr. Templemore could see her color rise as he
spoke thus, very gravely.

" I believe you have a great regard for Miss
Courtenay ! " she exclaimed, sitting up, and
forgetting her headache.

" Very great," he replied, gravely.

" I believe you admire her as well."

" Very much."

Mrs. Logan's dark eyes flashed

" Mr. Templemore," she said, " do you think
I am going to allow that ? "

"And pray why should you not?" He
spoke with irritating calmness. " I thought,"
he continued, " that you and Miss Courtenay
were old friends."

"I detest her!" cried Mrs. Logan — "you
like her, Eva likes her — "

" And Fido likes her," he suggested, with a
smile.

" Who would not admire so perfect a
creature ? " asked Mrs. Logan, enraged at his
composure ; " only, if your feelings are so
strong on the subject, Mr. Templemore, why
don't you marry her? Just tell me that?
Why don't you marry her ? "

He rose and looked at her.

" Florence ! " he said — " Florence ! " He
was angry — deeply angry ; and this, joined to
a quick sense of her own imprudence, brought
Mrs. Logan to her senses. Not knowing what
to do, she burst into tears, and as it was the
first time she had ever done so, she was at
once forgiven. "But never do it again," he
said, wiping her tears away — " never do it, my
dear child."

Mrs. Logan liked being called " my dear
child," and being treated like a silly little
thing, so she smiled, shook her head, and
said:

" Well, you know, I like Dora very well, only
she is awfully clever. She overpowers me."

" Not with speech, surely ? "

"Oh ! she is silent witli me; but she talks
to you."

FLORENCE'S JEALOUSY.

159

Mr. Templemore bit his lip. So he must
have a jealous Florence as well as a jealous
Eva ? But he would not resent this speech,
and prudently rose to go.

" You are in a mighty hurry," Florence said,
ironically.

" I received a telegram from my solicitor
this morning, and I must answer it; but I
shall come again after dinner, to see if your
headache is better."

Again Florence was pacified. A telegram
from Mr. Templemore's solicitor could only
refer to marriage settlements. She smiled
one of those sweet, bright smiles which none
who saw could help loving, and sinking back
on the sofa, she said, coaxingly,

" Mind you come early."

" Very early," replied Mr. Templemore, and
he too smiled ; but as the door closed upon
him, and he walked through the little garden
to the road, and thence on to Les Roches, he
thought with some bitterness : " She is a child,
and she has a child's want of reason, as well as
a child's artlessness, so I must make up my
mind to that." It was easy to say it — easier
than to act up.on it. The thoughts that came
to Mr. Templemore's mind just then, whether
he liked it or not, were not pleasant visitors.
They were importunate, and though he bade
them begone, they would not be denied.
" You have been hasty," tbey said, " and now
it is too late to repent, and you feel it. The
child of seven may outgrow her folly, but the
child of twenty-seven will never be wiser than
she is to-day. You must expect no ripening
of reason, no sweet maturity of thought, none
of the wise and tender graces which come to
woman instead of beauty and its bloom. This,
indeed, you have in its fulness. Then remem-
ber it, and since your choice is both deliberate
and free, be content.

Mr. Templemore had too much of that phi-
losophy which is the gift of experience, not to
abide by this conclusion, and what was more,

not to be in some sort satisfied with it. We
say in some sort, because be had already
passed that early and fervent stage of love in
which the content is perfect, and the fond il-
lusion complete. He could not help it. The
wakening had come gently, gradually, without
the least bitterness, and, what was better still,
without removing Florence from his heart.
She was not the divinity she had been for a
few months, but she was a beloved woman,
soon to be a wife, and whose faults and im-
perfections Mr. Templemore was inclined to
view with a tender and lenient eye. Happy
Florence, if she had known it. Her hold was
strong and deep. Her whims, her jealousy,
her little selfishness, even, could not shake it.
She might make imprudent suggestions, and
waken dangerous comparisons, with perfect
impunity. It was in vain that Mr. Temple-
more both liked and admired Dora ; the
thought that this girl, and not Florence, was
the right one, could not come to his mind, or
move one fibre of his heart.

Florence had a glimpse of that truth when
Mr. Templemore left her, but it was a glimpse,
and no more, aud it soon vanished in darkness.
Had he really received a telegram, or was this
an excuse to leave her and go back to Dora,
and talk about cuneiform inscriptions with
her ? Then why had he said that he would
come in the evening ? Probably to keep her
within, and prevent her from seeing what went
on at Les Roches. Xo sooner had this fancy
taken hold of Mrs. Logan's mind, than her
headache was gone. She sat up, found out
that she was quite well, ate a hasty dinner,
that also she was quite equal to, and went off
to Les Roches.

" The family had not done dinner," so said
Fanny, who came out bright and Bmiling to
show Mrs. Logan in. But that lady would not
be shown in ; her head ached again, and the
air would do her good. Where was Miss Cour-
tenay ? In the school-room ? Xo, Miss Cour-

100

DORA.

tenav and Miss Eva dined with Mr. Temple-
more and Miss Moore to-day.

" Because I was not here ! " thought Flor-
ence, turning away with an angry blush. She
felt peevish and fretful, too, because Mr. Tem-
plemore did not come out to her at once ; and
she walked up and down the garden, thinking,
" He does it on purpose, or, " He is staying to
talk with Dora ; " whilst Mr. Templemore,
who was ignorant of her presence, was on his
way to her house. But even if she had known
this, would Flc ence have been satisfied ? She
was in the mood when nothing pleases, and
when everything irritates. She walked, for
the sake of shade, near the old chateau ; its
massive walls looked both cool aud strong, and
its long black shadow stretched over the
ground, with the conical roofs of its turrets
and the tall chimney-stacks of its high roof
cut out in clear black lines, that faded away
as they reached the green ring of trees that en-
closed the flower-garden. But this way was
both bright and beautiful — though the flowers
in the parterres, stirred by a pleasant breeze,
danced gayly in the light of the declining sun,
all these sweet and delightful details of culti-
vated nature were thrown away on Mrs. Logan.
She looked sulkily around her, and walked at
random, like a foolish, purposeless little fly,
whilst the spider watched her opportunity, and
spread her web in the background.

"I'suppo e : : \ will never have done din-
ner!" thought Mrs, Logan, in high displeasure
at the slowness of Mr. Templemore and his
family. " Ii is so pleasant to talk to Dora ! "

In this mood she turned hack to the house;
as she approached it she saw Mrs. Luan sitting
on a gai bair.

"Sodiim I Mrs. Logan.

" No, but it make.' my head ache. They talk
30!"

Tin eyi

"About w! 1 I ed.

" Oh ! Darius, you kno

From the spot where she stood Florence
could see into Mr. Templemorc's study. His
table was covered with books. She looked at
them resentfully. Her jealousy was roused,
and it applied to things as well as to persons.
It displeased her that within a few weeks of
his marriage, and on a day when her head
ached, Mr. Templemore should have time for
Darius and cuneiform inscriptions. A gener-
ous woman, however much she may be her
husband's inferior, cannot feel so. She may
pine to be like him — she can never long to
bring him down to her own level. But Mrs.
Logan was not a generous woman, and she
now querulously wondered at Mr. Templernore's
strange tastes. Was she to be bored with
books and Eastern inscriptions after her mar-
riage ? Mr. Logan had been a great nuisance
with boatiug, and a new fancy of his — hurling ;
but really Mrs. Logan preferred either taste to
learning.

" I shall be sick of my life with Darius ! "
she thought, a little sullenly. " And what do
they say about Darius ? " she asked.

" I don't know," slowly replied Mrs. Luan.
" They say Darius, but do they mean Darius,
you know ? "

Florence stared, .then turned crimson. Of
course, that was it ! Darius and cuneiform
inscriptions were the cloak these two used to
converse freely in the presence of witnesses.
For jealousy, not the fitful, capricious dawn,
but the full and burning reality of the passion,
suddenly invaded her as Mrs. Luan spoke, and
with it came the blindness, the want of reason,
and yet the perfidious subtlety of that pitiless
feeling.

" So they talk of Darius ! " she said, laugh-
ing. " In the study, I suppose ? "

" No, but they did last night, you know —
when he came up to Eva's room after you were
gone."

Mrs. Logan shook from head to foot with
anger. She had a violent temper, though few

THE SCHOOL-ROOM STAIRCASE.

161

even of those who knew her best suspected it,
so well was it hidden under the veil of frivo-
lous gayety and pretty childish ways — so seldom
was the wicked, spirit roused from the dark
corner where he could lie sleeping for weeks
and months undetected.

" And they were alone ! " she at length
gasped forth.

" Oh ! no," replied Mrs. Luan, not seeming
to perceive her emotion, " I was asleep in a
chair."

Yes, she was sleeping, and the child no doubt
slept too — and that was how they mauaged.
They made opportunities in Eva's room up-
stairs, in the school-room below,- in the study,
in the garden — anywhere. She was deceived,
betrayed, and wronged before marriage ! Per-
haps he meant to jilt her ; perhaps, if he had
no such intention, to supplant her was Dora's
aim ; or was it a mere low, vulgar flirtation, in
which he risked his truth to her, and Dora her
fair name ? How could she know ? — who
would tell her ? Not Mrs. Luan ; Dora was
her niece. No, she would tell nothing — and
yet she was so stupid ! Could it not be got
out of her ?

" How kind of you to sleep ! " she said,
tauntingly; " it is so convenient for the third
person to sleep ! "

" But I can both see and hear when I am
asleep," sharply retorted Mrs. Luan — " oh ! so
well ! "

"Come, come," replied Mrs. Logan, with
gentle banter, and passing her arm within Mrs.
Luan's, she led her away from the house as
she spoke ; " you can't make me believe that,
Mrs. Luan — no, no. I am not brilliant, but
you can't make me believe that. You could
not repeat a word they said."

" I tell you I can," persisted Mrs. Luan ; and
looking triumphantly at Mrs. Logan, she add-
ed : " He told Dora she was to be a mother to
his motherless little girl."

Deadly paleness overspread Mrs". Logan's
11

face, and she bit her lip ; but Mrs. Luan, who
could sec and hear in her sleep, did not seem
to be so quick in her waking hours, for she
stared before her, and looking profoundly
stupid, was aware of nothing.

" Yes," bitterly said Florence, " she is to be
the mother of his child — to live here like a
queen in Les Roches; and, as Eva falls ill
when she sees me, he is to come here alone,
and I am to wait at Deenah. I am to be the
lady in pink, who can be broken and trod on
with impunity, and she is to be the precious
lady in blue, who is to be kept in a cabinet,
and whom it were death to lose — I see — I un-
derstand."

These bitter and stinging remarks Mrs. Luan
heard with perfect composure.

" What a beautiful evening ! " she said.

" Indeed, Mrs. Luan, you are not going to
escape me thus ! " cried Florence, in a rage ;
but her wrath fell down in a moment as she
saw the cunning look in Mrs. Luan's eyes.
" I shall never find out anything that way,"
thought Florence — " never." So she laughed,
and said, merrily, " That's a good joke, too, to
want me to believe that Mr. Templemore cares
a pin for Dora. Why, don't you see he is
making fun of her ? "

She looked at Mrs. Luan, and Mrs. Luan
looked at her. Each wanted to deceive the
other, and each, to her own woe, succeeded.

The best parts in the drama of life are not
always given to the greatest or the noblest
actors. The mean, the frivolous, often ascend
the stage and fill it with the story of their
tragic wrongs. A heavy woe lay before Flor-
ence. A cruel snare was being spread for her ;
she was but a weak, frivolous, and jealous lit-
tle woman, incapable of a great or an heroic
feeling, yet she was to suffer as if she had
been a high-minded heroine, and to be sacri-
ficed as ruthlessly as any innocent Iphigenia.
But the Greek princess gave herself up to the
knife, and never thought of revenge ; and Mrs.

162

DORA.

Logan was bent upon it, and though she was
too shallow not to fall at once into the trap
laid for her by her enemy, she was yet cunning
enough to hide her thirst and longing for ven-
geance. Mrs. Luan, indeed, was not in the
least deceived by Mrs. Logan's affected skepti-
cism ; but then, being only an obstinate and
relentless woman, and by no means a clever
or a shrewd one, she could not read Mrs. Lo-
gan's heart ; and thus each fell into the toils
of the other — and a jealous young beauty, as
silly as she was pretty, and a selfish, narrow-
minded woman, in whom the long-nursed love
of self was fast turning into confirmed insanity,
became the arbiter of a proud and innocent
girl's fate, and held in their hands the weal
or woe of the master of Les Roches.

"Why do you let him treat Dora so?"
sulkily asked Mrs. Luan — " why don't you in-
terfere ? "

Mrs. Logan laughed.

" Dora can take care of herself — besides, he
means no harm."

" Yes, but John would not like it — I am
sure John would not like about that staircase
in the school-room — I don't."

In a moment Mrs. Logan understood it all,
or thought that she understood it. Mrs. Luan
thus half accused her niece to her because she
was jealous of Mr. Templemore for John's
sake, and, thanks to that jealousy, the foolish
woman could be made to betray every thing.

" What staircase ? " she carelessly asked.

" Why, you see, Eva is often ill ; and, to
save time, Mr. Templemore goes up the stair-
case in the school-room, or Dora comes down
to speak to him. It is such a round the other
way; but I say John would not like it."

.Mrs. Logan looked amazed, then contempt-
uous.

" Nonsense," she said—" you dreamed that.
I don't believe it."

"Oh!" I dreamed it, did I?" exclaimed
I. 'i hi, uiih sodden wrath, and shaking

her head at Florence. " Did I dream that you
jilted Paul, eh ? I suppose, too, you will tell
me there was no thunder last night, and that
I did not see the blue lightning whilst he was
with Dora ? "

Mrs. Logan stepped back, and looked so
startled that Mrs. Luan grew calm at once.
She smoothed her heavy brow — she smiled.

" Why, Florence," she resumed, " you are
not frightened, are you ? But just see, by-
and-by, if there be not a staircase in the
school-room."

Florence could not answer at once ; her
throat felt parched and dry. The staircase
was the confirmation of Mr. Templemore's
guilt — thus he could have interviews with
Dora which servants could not know of. He
had but to cross the hall to go from bis study
to the school-room. He could watch his op-
portunities, or make them undetected ; and
when Dora could not come down to him, he
could go up to her under that convenient pre-
tence of Eva's illness.

" So that is it," she thought ; " that is it-
she wants to marry John some day, and yet
to flirt with my husband in the mean time ;
but I shall put a stop to the one, and let her
manage the other — if she can ! — if she can ! '

Mrs. Luan was looking at her with sullen
triumph ; but Florence only said, with feigned
indifference :

"I don't care about that staircase — he
never goes up it, I am sure."

" Will you watch to-night, and see him ? "
asked Sirs. Luan, eagerly.

Mrs. Logan dropped her a mocking curtsy.

" Thank you — you would go and tell them,
and would they not have a laugh at my ex-
pense, that's all ! "

" I should not tell — I don't want to — I only
want you to put a stop to it. There's no
harm, but John would not like it."

" Then let John prevent it ! "

" You will not ! "

"COME AND SEE."

163

" How can I ? " asked Florence.
" Oh ! it is quite easy," coolly said Mrs.
Luan — " watch him, but don't show yourself,
and tell him the next day that he stays too
much with Dora. He'll say ' no.' Then pre-
tend to believe him, and make him promise
not to be so much with her, and he'll be
frightened, and think you know something,
and it will be all right, you know."

" But how can I come and watch ? " asked
Mrs. Logan, doubtfully.

" Oh ! it is so easy. I'll let you in by the
little garden-door, and we can see them in the
school-room. I'll go home with you, and he
need never know."

" Mrs. Luan, you might let it out ; and if
Mr. Templemore thought I had been watch-
ing him, he would never forgive me."

She looked so frightened at the thought
of discovery, that Mrs. Luan had something
to do not to laugh aloud at her simplicity.
As if she wanted her plot to be known. Oh !
dear, oh ! dear, to think how stupid the world
was ; and they all thought her stupid — that
was the best of it !

"Don't be afraid, Flo!" she said, patroniz-
ingly ; " he'll not know, unless you tell him."
" The fool ! — the idiot ! " almost angrily
thought Florence ; " does she think I am
afraid, that I will come and watch and hide,
and all for John's sake. No, if I do come,
and if it be so, let Mr. Templemore and Dora
quake, and let John, let any man marry her
after that if he will, or if he dare ! "

"Well," urged Mrs. Luan, "will you come
and see ? "

There was a subtle look in her dark eyes,
which might have warned a wise woman; but
the words " come and see," lured Florence
on. "To come and see," to confound Mr.
Templemore, to humble Dora, and semi her
forth like a new Agar, and to outwit that in-
solent Mrs. Luan, who only thought of her
stupid John. Yes, all these were temptations

which she knew not how to resist. Yet she
seemed to hesitate, and it was with reluctance,
with seeming terror that she said :

" Mr. Templemore will not know, will he ? "
"No — no," replied Mrs. Luan, laughing;
" I'll never tell him — never, never ! All right,
he shall not scold you."

" Oh ! dear, I hope not," said Mrs. Logan,
with a little shudder, and as if she stood in
mortal dread of Mr. Templemore's scolding.

But that fear, if she felt it, she hid well.
The sunniest of smiles beamed on her pretty
face when Mr. Templemore and she met on
his return to Les Roches. Temper and jeal-
ousy seemed to have left her as suddenly as
they had come. Mr. Templemore was grave,
indeed — perhaps he could not forget at once —
but Florence was all sweet, innocent glee.
He would have wished her to go in, maybe,
to remonstrate, but Mrs. Logan said the even-
ing was lovely, and asked to walk up and
down in front of the house. She felt a par-
ticular inclination for the ground-floor win-
dows of Les Roches, and especially for that
of the school-room where Dora sat with Eva.

The child had been good all day, and Mr.
Templemore dreaded to be so near her with
Florence. No sooner, indeed, did Eva see
her enemy, than, giving her a gloomy look,
she flung herself on Dora's lap, whilst Fido
uttered a sharp bark from a corner of the
room. Mrs. Logan stood still, and looked
ironically at Mr. Templemore, who colored
with vexation ; and Dora, unconscious of their
thoughts, looked at them with sorrowful resig-
nation. They stood before her in the red
sunlight arm-in-arm, a happy couple, gazing
at her in her nether gloom from the bright
siTcne heights to which love had borne them.

"Ami thus they will pass through life!"
she thought.

" I suppose I act like red on Eva ! " said
Mi 3. Logan, moving on. "Very flattering, is
it not, Mr. Templemore ? "

164

DORA.

She laughed, and looked more amused than
vexed ; but her quick eyes had gone over the
school-room, and seen a door which might or
might not lead to a staircase. " I must find
it out," she thought.

There are days and hours of seeming suc-
cess, when our schemes are favored to the
fulness of our conception. True, that success
is more apparent than real, true failure were
the real blessing, but we do not know that till
it is too late, and we have paid the cost of
our triumph. The small ingenuity which con-
sists in plotting Mrs. Logan had as well as
Mrs. Luan. She now exercised it to her own
detriment. Eva was playing in the school-
room, where Dora sat watching her, and
answering her now and then as cheerfully as
she could, when the child's flippant speech
broke on her thoughts.

" Cousin Dora," said Eva, "I am going to
give Minna a bath."

" Very well, dear, but mind she does not
take cold."

" Oh ! I shall shampoo her, you know."

Dora did not answer, and Eva became very
silent. Suddenly Mrs. Logan came up to the
window and looked in. Dora was alone.

" Eva, come here," she said.

Eva did not answer. Dora looked round —
the child was gone.

" Eva," she called, uneasily ; but Eva did
not reply.

" Surely she did not go and give Minna a
bath near the waterfall," said Florence.

Dora started up. In a moment she was
out of the room. She did not run— she flew.
Tel she was scarcely out of breath when she
reached the little cascade. The grayness of
evening lingered around the spot, and the
little pool looked both dark and deep. Dora
knelt down, ana leaning both her hands on
the margin, she looked in. She saw the pe&
bi d, and the water Sowing smoothly over
it; and as she saw them, she heard Eva's

voice talking far away with Miss Moore. With
a sigh of relief she walked back slowly.

That slowness was favorable to Mrs. Logan.
No sooner was Dora out of sight than she en-
tered the school-room, opened the door, and
went up the staircase. Eva's room was the
first she saw. She gave it a rapid glance,
then, opening another door, she stood in
Fanny's room. This was not what Mrs.
Logan wanted. Eetracing her steps, she
crossed Eva's room again, and this time en-
tered Dora's.

She saw it well, spite the twilight. She
saw it, but was blind, and did not read its
meaning. That rather austere room, where
Dora had read, and prayed, and conquered her
full heart — where she had dreamed of the lost
past, of her brother's grave, whence she had
looked at the fountain in the court, and pre-
vailed over fond rebellious youth, told none of
its secrets to Florence. She only saw that it
held some valuable articles of furniture, which
she had secretly appropriated, and which Mr.
Templemore, unconscious of the fact, had ded-
icated to Dora's use.

" He knows that I wanted that carved prie-
dieu" thought Florence, angrily, " and those
old damask curtains, and he gives them to her
—to her ! "

How could she doubt his guilt after that ?
She did not. Burning with resentment, she
went down, and reached the garden as Mr.
Templemore came back with the flowers she
had asked him for, and Dora approached the
house with Eva. On seeing Mrs. Logan, the
child clung to her governess, and hid her face
in her garments.

" How flattering ! " exclaimed Mrs. Logan
shortly.

Mr. Templemore could scarcely repress a
sigh. These last two days had not been days
of happiness to him. Eva had been ill and
naughty, Florence irritable, and Dora sad and
grave. What discord had thus suddenly en-

THE STORM.

165

tered his once happy home ; for whilst Flor-
ence had been amiable and sweet, he had
found even Eva's naughtiness endurable — but
now everything was a trouble and a pain.
Perhaps it was not unnatural that when Mrs.
Logan spoke of going, because she was sure a
storm was coming on, he was not very eager
to detain her. He said, indeed, that Les
Roches was safe since it possessed a lightning-
conductor ; but when Florence professed to
fear lightning-conductors, he only laughed,
and did not argue her out of her fear. It had
formerly pleased Mrs. Logan that her lover
should laugh at any foolish speech she uttered,
but now she felt affronted. Besides, did she not
see he wanted her to be gone ! Of course he
did, to go up that staircase to Dora. But she
would humor him, she would ; only maybe
he might repent it. He saw her leave, and
as they parted at the garden gate of her villa,
Mrs. Logan said tauntingly :

" Good-night. Don't sit up too late with
Dora."

He wanted to answer, but with another little
taunting laugh she was gone. He heard the
door of the villa open and shut again, and he
slammed the garden gate and walked home,
boiling with anger and vexation, and never
once suspecting that the pretty sinner was
walking leisurely behind him ; but whereas he
entered Les Roches by the front gate, Mrs.
Logan crept round to a low side-door in the
wall, where she was to find Mrs. Luan, accord-
ing to their agreement.

Mrs. Luan had lost no time. She had laid
her plaus with that superfluous cunning which
is one of the attributes of diseased minds ; and
she carried them out with ingenuity and suc-
cess. When Florence left Les Roches, Mrs.
Luan went up to Eva's room. She found
Fanny with the child, whom she was going to
undress.

" Eva," she said, " shall I show you the
shell box now ? — I am going to put it up."

" Oh ! do," cried Eva, darting away from
Fanny, " do show it to me, Mrs. Luan ! "

This shell box Eva had raved about for
days, so wonderful had been Mrs. Luan's de-
scription of it, and so persistently had it been
denied to all her longing entreaties.

" Wait, Fanny, wait ! " she cried ; " I shall
be back directly."

And Fanny good-humoredly complied, and
was willing to wait her little mistress's pleas-
ure. The shell box stood on Mrs. Luan's
table near a glass full of a clear and fragrant
liquid. It was a lovely box in Eva's eyes. For
it had a rose made of pink-colored shells on
its lid, and white flowers — strawberry-flowers,
on its side.

" Oh ! how beautiful ! " cried Eva. " Oh !
what a box ! "

Now it so happened that Mrs. Luan be-
lieved in the box too, so she replied grimly :

" It is a box ! Worth any money ! " so say-
ing, she took the glass and sipped some of its
contents.

"I am so thirsty ! " hinted Eva.

" You can't have this," replied Mrs. Luan.
"They are my drops — not fit for little
girls."

But she put down the glass, and taking up
the box, muttered something about putting it
away in the next room.

Eva remained alone with Mrs. Luan's drops.
No more than her great mother and namesake
did she know how to resist temptation. She
looked round. Mrs. Luan was not coming
back ; she took a sip, then another, then she
almost drained the glass ; and having done
this, she ran back to her own room in guilty
glee.

" I have done it ! " she said to Fanny — " I
have done it ! "

" Done what ? " naturally inquired Fanny.
But Eva was not tempted to tell — she heard
Miss Courtenay in her room, and was mute.

Dora sat by her open window watching

166

DORA.

for the storm which Florence had foretold.
It came at last. It was not a violent one, yet
occasionally a flash of lightning filled the
court, and touched the little fountain below
with sudden light; then a remote peal fol-
lowed, and a low rushing shower of rain.

" When that storm is over there will be
calmness," thought Dora. " I wonder why it
is not so with us. Why we are ever ready for
turmoil and torment !"

She had not time to pursue these thoughts ;
the door of her room opened, and Mrs. Luan
came in.

Dora looked at her in some surprise. Her
aunt never came to her room. What had
brought her this evening ?

" I feel that storm," said Mrs. Luan, sitting
down, evidently with the intention of remain-
ing some time. " I feel it in my head so."
She took off her cap and threw it on Dora's
table as she spoke.

" It makes your head ache, aunt ? "

" No, not ache ; but it puzzles me so."

She looked rather excited and bewildered.

" You would not like to sleep, aunt ? " said
Dora ; " maybe it would calm you."

" Sleep ! — why, what is the time ? "

A clock in the hall below answered the
question by striking eleven.

" Do you think they are all in bed ? " asked
Mrs. Luan.

" The house is very still, aunt."

" Yes ; but Mr. Templemore is in his
stud}-."

Dora did not answer this ; Mr. Templemore
s;it up late, and she knew it — but what about
it?

" I am sure Eva is ill ! " suddenly remarked
Mrs. Luan, staring at her niece.

" Sin- is very well, aunt."

" And I am sure she is ill with that storm

ill and alone, for Fanny is below."

A vague uneasiness tools hold of Dora. She
rose, she crossed her room, she entered Eva's,

closely followed by Mrs. Luan. They found
the child sitting up in her bed, with a wild
stare.

" Eva ! Eva ! what ails you ? " cried Dora,
alarmed.

But Eva did not answer.

" Go for Mr. Templemore," said her aunt ;
" he is in his study — go down the staircase,
and you will get to the study at once, you
know."

But though Dora had no suspicion of the
trap laid for Mrs. Logan, and in which she too
was to fall, she would not do this. To go
thus and call Mr. Templemore with alarm in
her looks, seemed to her like striking the
talisman in the Arab story — a deed to be de-
layed as long as possible.

" But the child is ill — quite ill," said Mrs.
Luan, stamping her foot angrily. " Go — go
at once!"

"No, aunt," replied Dora, firmly ; " there is
no need for that. I can see this is nothing.
Eva was frightened, and had the nightmare,
she is well now."

" You will not go down to the study and do
it ? " said Mrs. Luan, stamping her foot, and
shaking her head at her niece. " You had
better — mind, you had better, Dora."

" Aunt, I will not."

" Then I will." Mrs. Euan stepped toward
the door ; but Dora forestalled her, and lock-
ing the door, took out the key.

Mrs. Luan looked at her with insane fury in
her eyes.

" You'll rue that, Dora," she said ; " you'll
rue that ! I wanted to be the making of you —
but you'll rue that ! "

Dora did not heed the threat then ; but how
she remembered it later !

"Aunt," she said soothingly, "what ails
you ? I am quite willing to ring for Fanny."

" Do if you dare ! " angrily, exclaimed Mrs.
Luan. Then she added, more gently, " What
is it to me ? "

MR. TEMPLEMORE SURPRISED.

167

" Look ! " soothingly said Dora, " and see
how well Eva seems now."

" Why, so she does ! " exclaimed Mrs. Luan,
converted with suspicious facility; "and do
you know, Dora, I think I shall go to bed."

" Do, aunt, it will do you good ; and Eva is
falling asleep."

Mrs. Luan yawned, and looked very sleepy
as she rose and left the room.

Eva was falling asleep, as Dora had said.
She had sunk back on her little couch, and her
cheek lay on her pillow ; her eyes were closed,
her breathing came regularly through her
parted lips. " I suppose it was the storm
frightened her," thought Dora. And lest Eva
should waken again, she sat down by her and
watched patiently, listening to the low rushing
of the rain. And as she sat thus, Dora was
startled at hearing her name uttered by Mr.
Templemore's voice in the room below. She
rose, she opened the door, and listened. Yes,
it was he who was talking on the staircase.

""For God's sake ! what is it ? " he exclaimed ;
" Eva is ill again ! "

" No ! no ! " eagerly replied Dora, unlocking

the door, and going down to meet him ; " she

was a little feverish, but she is fast asleep now."

The color returned to Mr. Templemore's pale

face, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

" Thank Heaven ! " he said ; " Mrs. Luan
frightened me."

Dora had come down with a light in her
hand. She still held it as she stood on the
last step of the staircase, and Mr. Templemore
saw the troubled, startled meaning which came
to her face as he spoke.

" Did you not send her ? " he asked.
" Xo," she answered. But the confusion of
her denial did not escape him. Without 88 ;.
ing a word, Mr. Templemore rang. Dora
thought it best to begin an explanation.

" I believe — " she said — but the words had
scarcely passed her lips when the door opened
abruptly.

CHAPTER XXIX.

" She's very cunning, is Dora," thought
Mrs. Luan, as she left Eva's room ; " but I am
more cunning than she is, you know."

And with a low laugh of triumph at her own
sagacity, she went down below andjoiued Mrs.
Logan. That lady stood alone, and in the
dark, in Dora's sitting-room, waiting impatient-
ly for the tokens of Mr. Templemore's guilt.

" Mrs. Luan," she angrily whispered, " it
must be all your invention. I have been here
this hour, and Mr. Templemore is not coming."
" But he will come, and Dora will come down
to him when Eva is asleep — and I say John
would not like it."

Repeated assertion is like the drop of water
whose ceaseless splash wears out the stone
beneath. Mrs. Logan was convinced, and
though she stayed to have ampler proof, she
did not need it. Still, Mr. Templemore came
not.

" I wonder where he is ? " whispered Mrs.
Luan. " Go out in the garden and see if there
be a light in his study."

Mistrust, feigned or real, held Mrs. Logan
back.

" Mrs. Luan," she said, " if ever Mr. Temple-
more learns through you that I was here to-
night, I'll — I'll make you repent it as long as
I live!"

And she did not stir.

Mrs. Luan laughed at the folly of the woman
who thought that she wanted to betray her to
Mr. Templemore.

" Then I'll go and see," she said, carelessly,
and as if to go were not what she wanted.

She went, and did not come back. At first
Mrs. Logan waited patiently, then she got irri-
tated and angry ; she did not venture to cross
the school-room; but opening the French
window, she entered the garden. It was rain-
ing fast, but Mrs. Logan did not mind the rain.
She looked at the window of Mr. Templemore's

168

DORA.

study. A calm, steady light was burning there,
and showed her his bending figure. But as if
an enchanter's summons had suddenly dis-
turbed him, he rose, the study grew dark, then
the sehool-room was lit, and Florence distinctly
saw Mr. Templemore through the muslin cur-
tains.

" He's calling Dora," said Mrs. Luan's voice
in the darkness. " Do you hear him ? She'll
come ! — she'll come ! "

And even as she spoke Dora's figure was
seen by these two ; she had heard, and, to her
sorrow, obeyed the call.

" Is it not glorious ! " cried Mrs. Luan,
stamping in her glee, "to be thought a fool
and an idiot, and to play them off so ! He's
clever, and so is Dora, and yet you see ! — you
see ! "

Florence did not answer — she could not —
she felt stupid with amazement and grief.
She had still doubted, but now she saw it. If
she not love Mr. Templemore with romantic
affection, if Doctor Richard would have left
her cold and unmoved, if she required Deenah,
and Les Roches, and money, and its luxuries,
to give warmth to her love, still that love ex-
isted — not deep, not disinterested, but real.
That love, such as it was, now stung her to
take such revenge as the present opportunity
gave her.

" That will do," she whispered, " let us go,
now ; lead the way, and mind you never tell
him."

" No, no," said Mrs. Luan, laughing. "Never
fear, Flo, I shall never tell."

She led the way as Mrs. Logan bade her,
and whilst Bhe turned into the garden path,
Florence abruptly entered the house, and open-
ing the door of the school-room, burst in upon
Dora and Mr. Templemore. Eer clothes were
dripping with rain, her face was pale as death,
her eye's sparkled with jealous fury.

" I beg your pardon," she said, with a short
laugh. "I am very rude, I know, but I for-

got something here — a handkerchief, I be-
lieve — and so I came back for it. So sorry
to interrupt you, Mr. Templemore — and you,
too, Miss Courtenay, but I could not help it,
you see."

Amazement kept them both mute. Her un-
expected appearance, her looks, her tones,
were both menacing and mysterious.

" Florence, what is this ? " at length asked
Mr. Templemore, going up to her.

Mrs. Logan laughed in his face.

" Sorry to interrupt your tetc-d-tete with
Miss Courtenay," she said ; " but I really
could not help it, Mr. Templemore — besides,
it was raining outside, you know."

Mr. Templemore could not believe his ears
or his eyes. "Was this the gentle, playful
Florence, this pale woman whose looks of
jealous fury were bent now upon him — now
upon Dora ? His kitten had now turned into
a fierce young tigress ; and even in the confu- ,
sion and dismay of the moment, he had a keen
sense of horror and disgust as he saw the ugly
transformation. Even then that absence of
moral beauty, which was the want of Mrs.
Logan's pretty face, though habitual good-
humor concealed it, was visible to him ; the
low brow, though so fair, the sensual mouth,
though so lovely, the ungenerous countenance
that could look so sweet, were all revealed to
him in one moment, and they filled him with
mingled anger and grief. There was resent-
ment, there was a sort of contempt, there was
ill-subdued scorn in his voice as he said :

"Florence, this is too much — this is too
much ! "

" So I think," replied Mrs. Logan, nodding
at him — "so I think," and she nodded at
Doya.

On seeing Florence enter — on hearing her
first words, Dora had felt stunned, but now in-
dignation roused her. She weut up to Mrs.
Logan, and in a low, even voice, she said :

" Mr. Templemore came here to see his

MISS COURTENAY'S GRIEF.

169

6ick child ; may I ask what you conclude
thence ? "

She stood before Mrs. Logan pale and some-
what imperious, but also looking as much be-
yond the reach of anything that could sully
her honor as a regal lily on its stem. And as
she spoke, she laid her hand on Mrs. Logan's
arm, and she looked down in her face with a
glance so proud and clear, that if Florence
had not been very blind indeed, she must have
read its meaning — but she did not.

" Conclude ! " she ejaculated ; " dear me,
Miss Courtenay, I conclude nothing; only I
do hope that your future husband, whoever he
may be, will conclude nothing either from these
midnight meetings."

On hearing this insult from the woman who
had helped to send her brother to an early
grave, Dora drew back and smiled with utter
scorn ; but the smile died away on her lips as
the door opened, and answering Mr. Temple-
more's ring, Jacques and Fanny appeared on
the threshold. For on seeing them Mrs. Lo-
gan laughed aloud ; now, indeed, she held her
revenge !

" Good-night, Mr. Templemore," she said in
French ; " I am sorry I interrupted your con-
versation with Miss Courtenay; but I am
going away, so you will both have plenty of
time."

She laughed scornfully, and left the room in
a glow of vindictive triumph. Jacques and
Fanny had both heard her ; she had had her
revenge. But she started back as she crossed
the threshold, for she found Mrs. Luan, who
had evidently been listening, and perhaps, too,
waiting for her outside the room.

" I promised to see you home," said Mrs.
Luan, grimly, "and I'll keep my word, I will —
I will — are you ready ? "

" No ! " sharply replied Mrs. Logan ; and
going up to Miss Moore, who was comiug
down the staircase, having left the drawing-
room in terror of the storm which was then

rolling above Les Roche?, she said bitterly,
" I have news for you, Miss Moore."

Mrs. Luan saw them enter the dining-room
together, and stood awhile looking after them ;
then with as black a face as she had ever
worn, she. entered the school-room. Jacques
was gone, but Fanny stood by Dora, who had
sat down on a chair by the table, pale as death,
and leaning her forehead on her hand.

" Miss Courtenay," said Mr. Templemore in
a tone of much emotion, " Mrs. Logan shall
apologize and retract. You shall have the
fullest satisfaction ! "

But Dora did not answer, or seem to hear
him. She sat with her eyes fixed, her lips
blanched.

" Disgraced ! " she said in a low voice —
" insulted and disgraced ! "

" On my word, on my honor, you shall not
suffer ! " he insisted, with some energy.
" There is no atonement you can suggest
which shall not be made to you for this ! "

"Atonement!" she repeated; "there is
none. Oh ! Mr. Templemore, your coming
here has undone me ! "

But he could not believe it — he would not.

" Who dare suspect you ? " he asked, red-
dening with indignation ; " you ! — you, Miss
Courtenay ! — it is impossible ! "

She did not answer — she could not argue.
She was stunned with a blow so cruel and so
unexpected. She felt faint, giddy, and power-
less — her head sank on her bosom, her arms
fell down by her sides, and if Mrs. Luan had
not supported her she must have fallen.

" I cannot bear it ! — I cannot ! " she said,
drearily. " Oh ! my God, did I deserve this ? "

Her despair touched Mr. Templemore's very
heart. Every argument he could think of he
used — every regret he could utter he now
spoke. But for once he was powerless. Dora
did not even hear him.

" Miss Courtenay," he said at length, with
some vehemence, "I tell you that Mrs. Logan

170

DOKA

must apologize. She has not left the house
jet ; I will see her at once."

" Mrs. Logan is gone," quickly said Mrs.
Luan, looking rather scared.

" Gone in this storm ? — she who is so mor-
tally afraid of thunder and lightning ? Im-
possible ! "

And as Mr. Templemore uttered the words,
he looked up sharply at Mrs. Luan. She had
spoken with a vivacity which had surprised
him ; but even as he looked, the startled mean-
ing passed from her face ; it became, as ever,
dull, cold, and vacant. " I suppose all this
has excited her," he thought ; and he thought
no more, but left the school-room at once in
search of Mrs. Logan. Mrs. Luan followed
him with a furtive look, then, turning almost
fiercely on Fanny, she said :

" What do you stay for ? Go ! go ! " **
She spoke so imperatively, that Fanny
obeyed the mandate at once, and went down
to the servants' room in some tremor, inform-
ing Jacques, in her broken French, that Miss
Courtenay's aunt was in a dreadful way about
all this.

" Well she may," sententiously said Jacques
— " well she may, Mademoiselle Fanny."

Mrs. Luan, indeed, was rather stricken at
the success of her plan — perhaps that success
had exceeded her expectations. Dora sat as
Mr. Templemore bad left her, with her face
buried in her hands, trying to measure the
abyss into which she had fallen. But her eye
Bhrank from these dark depths of shame which
seemed to lie before her. If she could have
seen an issue— a road to salvation — but none
appeared.

Two servants had heard Mrs. Logan's in-
sulting taunt. Would Mr. Templemore at-
tempt to bribe them into Bilenee? — could he
do it?— was i: nol too late by this ?— had not
. the Story alreadj been told in the kitchen?
and thence would it not spread in ever-widen-
ing circles, until it encompassed her like a

sea ? He had promised to atone. But atone-
ment was not in his power. He was as help-
less as she was ; like her, he might stand and
look on at the disastrous effect a few words
had wrought ; but the sluices had been opened,
and by no mortal power could the waters be
called back.

" Disgraced ! " muttered Dora, removing her
hands from her pale, distracted face — " dis-
graced ! and forever. Aunt, aunt, I cannot
bear it ! — I must conquer this or die ! "

" Dora," said her aunt, clinching her hands,
and stammering from the agitation with which
she spoke, " if Mr. Templemore does not do
you justice — if he does not marry you, I — I
will make him repent it."

When our own mood is overwrought and
excited, we wonder at nothing. Dora heard
her aunt, and understood her, but she neither
remonstrated with nor minded the threat. It
sounded like mere angry raving, and did not
even startle her. Later, when the secret of
her sad story was laid bare to her, she re-
membered the words but too well. The only
thought they now suggested was the desperate
one — "Justice! — how can he do me justice?
I am undone forever, and he can only look on
and see it."

CHAPTER XXX.

The sound of voices guided Mr. Temple-
more to the dining-room, and told him he
should find Florence there. But though he
came to work Dora's justification, he also
came in an angry and indignant mood. He
still felt both amazed and exasperated at Mrs.
Logan's insulting intrusion. What right had
she to come thus upon him in the most private
hours of his life, and put evil construction on
his most innocent actions ? A wife could not
do more, and many a wife would be too proud
to do as much. But when he opeued the
dining-room door — when he saw Florence

HER DISMISSAL DEMANDED.

171

thrown back in a chair, weeping passionately,
and Miss Moore bending pityingly over her,
his dark face relaxed even as his heart relent-
ed. She was unjust and cruel, she was silly
and heartless, but she was still the woman
whom he had loved a year, and whom he was
to marry in a few weeks. On seeing him, she
started up, and her eyes flashed.

" Go back to Miss Courtenay !" she said —
"go back!"

" You persist in that insult ! " he exclaimed,
angrily. " Florence ! Florence ! " he added,
more calmly, " do not ! — think of Miss Cour-
tenay' s position, and do not ! "

" You think of her, Mr. Templemore — you
think of her ! "

" And why should I not think of her ? " he
asked, with much indignation ; " why not, Mrs.
Logan ? If you disgrace her, do you suffer
for it in the world's esteem ? "Why, more-
over, should I not think of a lady who is
under my roof and under my protection, to
whom I have confided my only child, and to
whose care of her I am so deeply indebted ? "

" Then, Mr. Templemore, I may as well tell
you," replied Mrs. Logan, stung by the tone
in which he spoke of Dora, " that if I consent
to marry you after what has passed, you must
give up Miss Courtenay."

" You cannot be in earnest."

" I am quite in earnest, I assure you."

She spoke with a pretty, foolish toss of her
little head, which allayed Mr. Templemore's
anger, not because he felt tempted to yield to
her, but because it reminded him that she was
so childish — namely, so silly.

" Florence," he said, gravely, " you thus ask
me to acknowledge to you what I must ever
deny, for it is not true ; and worse still, to join
you in giving the last blow to Miss Courtenay's
reputation ; whereas it is you who, in common
justice, must retract and apologize; and she
must stay in Les Roches as Eva's governess —
she must, if it were only for her justification."

Mrs Logan laughed ironically.

" You must think me foolish indeed," she
said, nodding at Mr. Templemore, "if you
think I will put up with that. No, Mr Tem-
plemore, Miss Courtenay shall leave your house
to-morrow — to-morrow, do you hear ? — or you
have seen your last of me ! "

He looked at her incredulous, amazed, and
indignant.

" How basely you must think of me ! " he
said, in great scorn ; " why, even if I were as
guilty as you think me, I could not act so
without dishonor — I could not turn out of my
house the girl whom I had disgraced, without
adding a second betrayal to the first. Inno-
cent or guilty, Miss Courtenay shall stay in
Les Roches ! "

" Then you confess it — you prefer her to
me H' cried Florence — "you confess it ! "

" I prefer justice and honor to you, as I
would prefer them to my own life," he vehe-
mently replied. " But, Florence," he added,
more calmly, " let us drop this. Once for all,
believe me when I tell you that I have no
feeling save regard and friendship for Miss
Courtenay. Once for all, believe me when I
tell you that she is a proud and reserved girl,
incapable, I will not say of wrong, but of the
mingled lightness and folly you so gratuitous-
ly lay to her door."

Mrs. Logan was staggered. But the frivo-
lous and the weak are incapable of greatness
under any of its many aspects. Ask them not
for strong love, for generous construction, or
pure, simple faith. In vain Florence had
known Dora from her youth, and Mr. Temple-
more for the last year — her standard for judg-
ing them was herself, and this was neither
rigid nor lofty. If she had been a poor girl,
she could have flirted with a rich man in the
hope of supplanting another woman, and for
the mere gratification of her vanity ; and if
she had been a rich woman, she would no
more have scrupled sacrificing a poor girl

172

DORA.

to her amusement, than Florence Gale had
scrupled sacrificing Dora Courtenay's brother
to her interest. Nobleness and truth were
not in her, and she could not conceive them
in others.

" What brought Miss Courtenay down to
the school-room ? " she asked, mistrustfully.

" I called her."

"And what took you there, Mr. Temple-
more ? "

" I went, thinking Eva was ill," he gravely
replied.

" And what made you think Eva was ill ? "
she persisted. " I suppose she sent for you ? "

Mr. Templemore's dark eyes flashed.

" Mrs. Logan," he said, " I do not ask how
and why you came to Les Eoches this even-
ing. I suppose I have faithless servants —
spies on my privacy, who can be seduced
from the duty they owe me. These are ques-
tions I scorn to put ; but I ask this, will you
have faith in me ? "

" Not if Miss Courtenay stays, Mr. Temple-
more."

He looked troubled and much moved.

" Florence, I never knew you to be cruel
and relentless ; you are a woman, have some
feeling for another woman — have some feeling
for me, and do not lay upon me such an alter-
native."

His voice was tender and pleading, but Mrs.
Logan could not, or would not, understand
its real meaning. She only felt that Dora
was in her power at last, and she would show
no mercy.

'•Let Miss Courtenay go," she said. "I
ask for no mi

" Then you arc resolved."
" Quite resolved."

1 ' ! 1 at her in grave

urc ; when he spoke, it was
iv :

<< - ,! ' •', it is your doing,

not mine."

"Oh! I am quite willing to assume the
responsibility," cavalierly replied Mrs. Logan.

" Remember that if we now part forever,
it is you who break your pledge to me, not I
who violate my promise to you."

He bowed gravely, then left the room with-
out adding another word.

Mrs. Logan remained stunned at the conse-
quences of her own act. To the last moment
she had thought that Mr. Templemore was
yielding ; to the last moment she had felt con-
vinced that he neither dared to give her up,
nor had the power to do so. She had never
imagined that he would thus take her at her
word.

" Oh ! Mrs. Logan, Mrs. Logan ! " cried
Miss Moore, with uplifted hands.

"Don't you think he will come back?"
asked Florence, looking at her in great con-
sternation.

"No," replied that lady, with dismay in
her face, " I am sure he will not ! "

Mrs. Logan looked piteous. The first vio-
lence of her anger was spent, and a sort of
repentance was entering her heart. She was
not sorry that she had insulted Mr. Temple-
more, and wronged Dora ; but she felt deeply
sorry at having injured Mrs. Logan, and she
was inclined to repair whatever damage that
lady might have sustained in her worldly and
matrimonial prospects.

" What am I to do ? " she asked, wringing
her hands. "Please to send for him, Miss
Moore."

Miss Moore rang at once. Jacques answered
the bell, and went for Mr. Templemore; but
the owner of Les Roches was not to be found.
Florence scarcely waited for the man to leave
the room, in order to exclaim that " Mr. Tcm-
plemore did it on purpose, and that she was
perfectly miserable."

Miss Moore attempted to put in a word,
and was at once silenced.

" What takes him out at this hour, and in

MRS. LOGAN SEEKS THE TRUTH.

173

this weather ? " asked Mrs. Logan, angrily.
" He wants to show me it is all over. Well,
let him, Miss Moore — let him ! "

" My dear Mrs. Logan,*it is not all over ;
but I dare say Mr. Templemore is angry.
Only depend upon it you were mistaken. If
you were to see Miss Courtenay," she added,
timidly, " you might come to an understand-
ing with her."

" And beg her pardon ! " replied Mrs. Lo-
gan, laughing scornfully.

"But, my dear Mrs. Logan," urged Miss
Moore, " you really must be mistaken in all
this ? "

Mrs. Logan turned upon her.

" Had you ever heard that he went up that
staircase to see Eva ? Never ; you told me
so. Then don't you see it was kept a mystery
on purpose. If there was no harm in it, why
did not the whole world know about it, Miss
Moore — just tell me that ? "

She spoke so angrily that Miss Moore did
not venture to answer. Nevertheless, some
impression had been produced on Mrs. Lo-
gan's mind, for she stood silent and sullen,
brooding over her case.

" I wish I had not spoken opposite the
servants," she thought; "that is why, per-
haps, he won't give up Dora. She would never
have committed such a false step. Not she.
She is too clever and too keen. I wonder if
I could find out the truth from her. Keen
though she is, she never could hide anything
from me. If I have wronged her, I can just
kiss her, and say something about Paul ; and
if she has wronged me, she shall quake still
further for her fair name, and feel that she is
at my mercy, spite all her cleverness and her
grand ways."

" I shall go and speak to Miss Courtenay,"
she said shortly. And the tone in which she
addressed Miss Moore, implied, " Stay where
you are."

Miss Moore meekly submitted, whilst Mrs.

Logan, wrapping her cloak around her, and
looking as defiant as an injured queen, crossed
the hall, and entered the school-room, where
Dora now sat alone with her aunt. But her
whole aspect changed as she closed the door,
and Dora looked up slowly. Forestalling
attack, Mrs. Logan burst into tears. They
came at her. command, and without hypocrisy
or deceit, she wept as easily as children weep
and quite as sincerely.

" Oh ! Dora — Dora," she sobbed, " how
could you do it ? — how could you ? I have
been engaged to Mr. Templemore so long —
how could you do it ? "

Dora looked at her very coldly ; but no
word of justification or denial passed her lips.

" I know I am hasty and foolish," sobbed
Mrs. Logan, " and that even though I saw you
both with my own eyes I should not have said
it; but, Dora, say there was no harm in it,
and I will believe you — only what could take
him to the school-room at that hour ? "

Dora's lip curled with scorn, but she was
silent.

"For your own sake you ought to tell," said
Mrs. Logan a little angrily ; " how do you ex-
pect me to justify you, and say it was all a
mistake, if I know nothing ? "

" My good name is not in your power," re-
plied Dora, with a swelling heart. " I am not
at your mercy, Mrs. Logan ! "

" Then it is true ! " cried Mrs. Logan, with
unconquerable jealousy ; " then you did mean
to flirt with him, and perhaps to supplant
me!"

Dora turned red and pale.

" Mrs. Logan, may I ask if you came here
to say this ? " she said.

" I came to know the truth, and I will know
it ! " desperately cried Mrs. Logan. " Dora,
tell me, you must ; I must know how far mat-
ters have gone between you and Mr. Temple-
more. Tell me — tell me!. You are to marry
John, I know; tell me the truth, and he shall

174

DORA.

never know anything — I'll deny all to him ;
but tell me, and promise not to see Mr. Temple-
more any more. Oh ! Dora, I am wretched,
and I must be happy again ! "

"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive
them that trespass against us."

A sublime precept, but hard — very hard to
put in practice. Dora could not forgive that
light, frivolous creature, who went through
life taking all its sweetness, and leaving all its
bitterness to others ; who, after helping to
break her brother's heart, after doing all she
could to rob her of fair name, now asked
her victim to help her back to happiness !
And what was Mrs. Logan's happiness to Dora
Courtenay ? Must she not leave Mr. Temple-
more's house a penniless and, thougli she had
denied it, a disgraced girl ? And it was the
woman who had done this — Mr. Templemore's
future wife — who dared to plead her happiness
as an argument !

She rose and looked at her in silent indigna-
tion.

" Tell you ! " she said at length — " tell you

what, Mrs. Logan ? That I am not base —

that I am not shameless ! Tou ask me to tell

you that? Have you, then, forgotten the

past? Have you forgotten Paul Courtenay ?

and is it his sister whom of all women you

dare to treat thus ? If to say a word to you

could right me in the face of all, I would not

that word. Go to Mr. Templemore and

put what questions you please. He perhaps

you an answer; I do not, and will give

•

" Then it is not true that Eva was ill ? Per-

• you were ill, Miss Courtenay!" added

Mis. Logan, stung at Dora's cold, haughty

" Since you only tame to insult me, I shall
withdraw," quietly aaid Dora; and she left the
room a- she

Mrs. Luan, who had been silent till then
now went up to Mrs. Logan, and taking her by

both wrists, she looked at her with sparkling,
angry eyes.

" How dare you spea!" opposite the ser-
vants ? — how dare you ! " she asked, and open-
ing the door, she dragged her out of the room
into the hall with ruthless force. Florence,
paralyzed for fear, could neither scream nor
speak. " How dare you speak opposite the
servants ? " asked Mrs. Luan.

The light in the hall shone on her angry
face. Florence shut her eyes not to see it.

" Let me go ! " she gasped ; " you hurt me —
let me go ! "

" Hurt you ! " said Mrs. Luan, looking much
incensed ; " did you dare to say that I hurt
you ? — what next, eh ? "

Mrs. Logan opened her eyes, then shut
them again, not to see that wrathful coun-
tenance.

" Let me go ! " she said — " let me go ! "

" I'll tell you what," began Mrs. Luan,
tightening her hold of her victim, " I know
what you mean ; but if you dare to say it, I'll
kill you ! I will — I will ! " she repeated.

But suddenly her hold relaxed. Mrs. Logan
looked up ; she was free, and Mrs. Luan stood
two paces from her humming a tune. Miss
Moore's appearance at the end of the hall had
wrought that marvel. Mrs. Logan rushed up
and clung to her.

" Miss Moore ! " she gasped, " the storm is
over ; and Mrs. Luan — "

" Shall I go home with you ? " kindly asked
Mrs. Luan, going up to her ; " I am not afraid
of the storm. Let me go with you, Mrs.
Logan."

" Xo, uo ! " replied Florence, with a shudder
of fear ; but not daring to continue the accu-
sation she had begun, she resumed hurriedly,
" the storm is over, and I really wish to go ;
will you send Jacques — any one with me, Misa
Moore? "

" I shall go and call him," said Miss Moore,
attempting to move, but Florence held her so

DORA AND HER MOTHER.

175

tightly that she could not stir. Seeing Miss
Moore's amazed look, and Mrs. Luan's grim
smile of triumph, she recovered composure
enough to say :

"Yes, pray call Jacques — and let me go
with you — I cannot bear being alone."

" I'll stay with you," again kindly said Mrs.
Luan.

" Thank you," replied Florence. " Here is
Jacques, I believe. Good-night, Miss Moore —
good-night."

She was gone in a moment. Miss Moore
looked at Mrs. Luan.

"Mrs. Luan," she said, "can you make out
all this ? "

Mrs. Luan looked cunning, and tapped her
forehead mysteriously.

" My goodness ! " cried Miss Moore ; " but
that is impossible ! "

" Why so ? " coolly asked Mrs. Luan. " It's
in the family, you know. Did you never see
it?"

" Never."

" I did — long ago — oh ! so long ago ! I
knew her when she was a child, you know."

And she walked away, leaving Miss Moore
confounded at so strange an allegation, and to
which, however, the violent and unreasonable
conduct of Florence gave a sort of likelibood.
Mrs. Luan looked very calm till she reached
her room ; but when she was in it, when she
heard the iron gates of Les Roches close on
Mrs. Logan, she laughed exultingly. How
well she had done it, and how that poor, fool-
ish gull had taken it all in !

" She will not come back to Les Roches,"
thought Mrs. Luan, nodding in her triumph,
" not she ! And so she thought I was mad ! —
and Miss Moore thinks she is mad ! Oh, dear !
oh, dear ! to think these women should be so
foolish!"

CHAPTER XXXI.

Mrs. Courtenay was sitting alone in the
dining-room the next morning, with a pensive
and melancholy look, when Dora entered it.
Not one, so far as Mrs. Courtenay could learn,
had taken any breakfast that morning. She
could not understand it, and at once applied
to her daughter for information.

" What is the matter, Dora ? " she asked.
" Miss Moore has a headache, says Fanny ;
Mr. Templemore is out, says Jacques ; Mrs.
Luan has locked herself in her room. No one'
seems to want to eat to-day ! "

" Have you had any breakfast, mamma ? "
asked Dora, wistfully.

" I took a cup of tea ; but I felt so lonely
that I took no more."

Dora laid her hand on Mrs. Courtenay's
shoulder, and looked down sadly in her
face.

" I let you sleep last night," she said, " but
I must tell you this morning. We must leave
Les Roches. I have already seen Madame
Bertrand, and settled every thing for our re-
turn to her ; we go to-day — nay, at once. Mr.
Templemore is out, and all can be over before
he returns."

Mrs. Courtenay stared in mute amazement,
whilst calmly, almost coldly, Dora told her
what had happened. At first Mrs. Courtenay
seemed unable to understand her daughter ;
but suddenly the case, in all its bearings, was
made plaiu to her.

" Dora," she exclaimed, rising and looking
rigid, "did you say she insulted you opposite
the servants ? "

" Yes, and in French, lest Jacques should
not understand. Oh ! pray let us make haste
and leave this house ! — pray do ! "

But so prompt a resolve was not in Mrs.
Courtenay's power. Leave Les Roches and its
comforts ! Leave the happy, easy life, for the
old life of makeshifts and poverty, and leave

17G

DOHA.

it -with the additional burden of disgrace ! It
was too hard a fate ! It could not be !

"But, Dora," she argued, "what if Mrs.
Logan saw you and Mr. Teruplernore in the
school-room ? You were not alone with
him?"

" Yes, I was," replied her daughter. " Aunt
and I sat up with Eva, who was flushed and ex-
cited. Aunt went for Mr. Templemore, it
seems ; but I was alone when he came."

" Then it is all wrong — all wrong ! " moaned
Mrs. Courtenay ; " and I do not know what we
shall do, Dora ! I thought you would marry
him, and now it ends so dreadfully — so very
dreadfully ! "

Dora stood near the dining-room window.
She leaned her throbbing forehead againsj, the
cold glass. Marry him ! — yes, long ago she
too had indulged in the folly of that dream.
Marry him ! — and she must leave his house dis-
graced, and the woman who wrought her ruin
would marry him in three weeks. Oh ! it was
very hard, and how cruel all this lingering
seemed to her now ! Cut it did not last — it
could not. Mrs. Courtenay indulged in a few
more moans and ejaculations ; then anger and
pride suddenly taking the place of grief, she
Informed her daughter that Mr. Templemore's
conduct was shameful — shameful !— and that
they must not stay another minute in his house.

"lam only sorry," continued Mrs. Courte-
nay, looking di , •• that I took that cup
a. If I had known what I know now, I
would have died first ; and as we cannot pos-
sibly stay to luncheon, I shall get ready at
once."

Dora, who had spent part of the night in

1 helped her mother.

thing u;,- 3oon ready. Mrs. Luan came

in and stared al her in sullen silence. She did

L attempt to remonstrate once, but TDora

oping posture, looked up at

thai her mother was not in the

im, said, gravely:

" Aunt, who did this ? "

" You are a fool to leave the house," sulkily
answered Mrs. Luan ; but she said no more,
and after a while walked back to her own
room.

When all was ready, Dora went to Eva's
room. The child was still fast asleep. She
bent over her, but did not dare to kiss her, lest
she should waken.

" Oh ! Eva, Eva," she thought, with her eyes
full of tears,"" is it because you cost me so dear
that it seems so hard to leave you ? "

" Dora," said her mother's voice outside.

" I am going," and she went.

When events have reached a certain crisis,
they speed as quickly as a stone rolling down-
hill. Later in the day, when she thought over
all this, it seemed to Dora that some whirlwind
had swept her away from Mr. Templemore's
house. She could scarcely believe everything
was over when she entered those rooms which
she had left six months before, gay and hope-
ful. She heeded neither her mother's laments,
nor her aunt's angry ejaculations at the course
events had taken ; she went to her room, and
sitting down there, tried again to look her
future in the face. Alas ! again she found
that she could not.

There is something intolerable to the proud
in the mere thought of disgrace. Life, Dora
felt, was a burden now, and death would be a
sort of relief. She had that comfort, though
she could not feel it in her dark hour, that
death would close her story, and end it in for-
getfulness. But she did not think of that. I
wonder, indeed, if we really ever appreciate
the blessing of obscurity ? I wonder if we re-
alize the pangs of a Mary Stuart or a Marie
Antoinette at her fatal celebrity ? That black
shadow, which time can never remove from
the name of either, and of which both, inno-
cent or guilty, must have been conscious, sure-
ly added bitterness to the prison, and gave a
keener pang to the scaffold. Who will dare to

THEY LEAVE LES ROCHES.

177

swear that the daughter of Maria Theresa was
stainless in the matter of the necklace, or that
the Scottish queen did not betray and murder
her husband ? Historians are not agreed yet —
what can the vulgar do ? Who shall search
up evidence for or against either lady, weigh it
carefully, and ascertain the value of documents,
forged or real? The task would take a life-
time, and the world has scarce an hour to give.
The present and the future are arrayed against
the past, and in the broad noonday of one, and
the coming dawn of the other, we forget that
long sad night, which with every day grows
deeper and longer, and in which the illustrious
dead lie sleeping. Oh ! if we could hear it
through the tumult of past generations, surely
an appeal, piteous and despairing, is crying to
us from the Temple or Fotheringay for justice
and belief. " Have faith in me," it says ; " do
not believe that I could be so guilty. Eeckon
my sorrows, look at their tragic close, and ab-
solve me ! " Alas ! we cannot. We are per-
plexed, like Othello, and no Emilia raises her
indignant voice to convince us. We go on
speculating, wondering, doubting — now lean-
ing to that side, now to this, until we grow
weary, and turn our vexed minds to more con-
genial themes.

As we deal with them, and others like them,
so the world deals with us when appearances
condemn us, and this a bitter intuition told
Dora. Oh ! if sfee had thought that the world
would believe her ! But she did not. She had
not made the attempt, and she already shrank
from it disheartened. She saw not one rem-
edy to her evil. Her condemnation was life-
long, and the most she could hope for was
that, once life was over, the world might for-
get her. Sad, bitter comfort was this ! For,
after all, it is doubtful if the royal ladies we
have just mentioned would have exchanged
their dolorous renown for a cold oblivion.
They might have thought it better to bo re-
membered, even in doubt and scorn, than,
12

after filling the world with their name and
their sorrows, to be utterly forgotten.

"And there is no hope for me — none! —
none!" thoujjit Dora, forgetting that in the
most desperate cases there is always hope.
" Mrs. Logan will go on asserting that I am
guilty, and no one will believe Mr. Temple-
more's denial. To stay ir. his house would
have condemned me, and to leave it condemns
me — there is no hope ! At every turn of my
life that slander will meet me!"

Mr. Templemore, too, was hopeless, for he
felt powerless. He stayed out two hours and
moi'e that morning, vainly seeking a remedy
and finding none — none, at least, that his own
unaided will could compass. To Florence he
woukl appeal no more. His resentment against
her was too strong and too deep. He was
wronged in his love, and wounded in his pride
and honor; he closed his heart upon her in
angei-, and resolved to abide by the sentence
she had passed upon him. But if Mrs. Logan
would not retract, would Miss Courtenay be
patient ? He doubted it, and that he must not
hope for it he learned on his return. He had
scarcely crossed the gates of Les Roches when
he was overtaken by Miss Moore, who was also
coming in.

" It is all right," she said, eagerly — " all
right, Mr. Templemore."

" All right ? " he repeated.

" Oh ! yes, I have just seen Mrs. Logan, and
on learning that Miss Courtenay was gone, she
relented quite."

Mr. Templemore stood still, and looked
black as night. "Miss Courtenay is gone!"
he exclaimed.

" Yes, she would go with her mother and
aunt. I did all I could to keep her, of course,
but she would go. And if it were not that
poor Eva is crying her eyes out, and Fido
whining so dreadfully, I should say it is all
for the best; for, of course, since that was all
Mrs. Logan wanted — "

ITS

DORA.

" Mrs. Logan is not the mistress of this
house yet," angrily kiterrupted Mr. Temple-
more. "She may have succeeded in driving
Miss Courtenay out of it by the.grossest insult
one woman can inflict on another, but there
he* triumph ends, Miss Moore !"

" I am sure she is sorry — very sorry," said
Miss Moore, rather crestfallen.

" Is she ? Then let her prove it. Let her
apologize and retract — but she will do neither.
When she came to this house last night — and
what brought her ?— she came resolved to ruin
Miss Courtenay. How did she come in? —
who let her in ? Some servant whom she had
bribed. Be it so. I scorn the means and the
act equally ! "

" I tried to find it out," candidly said Miss
Moore, " but she always put me off. She
seemed afraid to tell."

" Not afraid, but ashamed," replied Mr.
Templemorc, with a stern smile; "and so she
well might be. That act alone would divide
us. Did Miss Courtenay leave no message for
me ? "

" There is a letter in your study. But, in-
deed, Mr. Templemore, poor Mrs. Logan is to
1 ■ pitied. I am sure she is heart-broken."

Mr. Templemore was silent awhile. Love
felt cold and dead ; but be was to have married
Florence in three weeks, and he could not for-
get that. He was free in honor, but still the
tie which had been so strong the day before
was not quite broken.

" I shall write to her," he said aloud.

" Perhaps, if you were to see her," suggested
ire. " You know how impulsive dear

; -. Suppose she gets angry again

thinking a letter too cold—and writes a hasty
. meaning the oontrary all the time? Then
it would be all wrong again, you see."

But Mr. Teftnpli a ted as if he could

the fate tbus held forth for his admoni-

ball write to her," he said again. And

he went to his study at once, as if resolved
not to argue the case further.

Dora's letter was brief, such a letter as Mr.
Templemore expected. He read it twice over,
then he sat down and wrote, not one letter,
but two. He addressed Dora first. She had
asked of him to make no attempt to see her ;
and severe and unjustifiable though he con-
sidered that request, he remembered that she
had been cruelly wronged, and he would not
violate it. But every argument he could think
of to make her alter her resolve he used, and
he concluded with a prayer.

" Do not compel me to feel," he said, " that
the saddest day in your life was that on which
you met Doctor Richard in Monsieur Merand's
shop ! "

" And now," he thought, when this letter
lay closed and sealed before him, " I must
write to Florence."

There had been a time when the task was
not an effort ; silly though his pretty mistress
was, he had once found it delightful to lay the
fairest flowers of his fancy at her little feet.
But now that time was over, and with a sad
and heavy heart Mr. Templemore felt it would
never return. No, never again would she be
dear as she had been. Pity and pride, no.t
love, made him relent toward her. No
woman to whom he had been bound so closely
should tax him with obstinate and unsrener-
ous resentment ; but forgiveness is not affec-
tion, and there was secret bitterness in Mr.
Templemore's heart as, taking up the pen he
had laid down on finishing his letter to Dora,
he addressed Mrs. Logan. He wrote no re-
proaches, on his wrongs he was silent ; but
he spoke of Dora's, calmly, dispassionately,
and like one convinced of Mrs. Logan's regret
for what had passed, and of her wish to repair
the evil she had wrought. He did not ask her
to do this, he left her free; bui he implied
\cry plainly — that on these terms alone was
perfect reconciliation possible.

THE TWO LETTERS.

179

When this task was accomplished — and
how bitter and painful it had been, Mrs. Lo-
gan never knew — Mr. Tempi emore, with a
sigh of relief, went to seek Eva in the school-
room. He found the child half ill with a grief
he could not remove. He could take her on
his knee, caress her, and wipe away her tears,
but he could not promise that Dora should
return. His fate was not in his own hands.
A child's perverse jealousy, a silly woman's
folly, had laid his life waste for the time be-
ing ; ruined every hope, every plan, and left
nothing but sorrow behind them. But, alas !
for Mrs. Logan, he felt very lenient toward
the culprit who sat on his knee, clasped in
his embrace, with her head on his shoulder,
and very severe toward the other sinner, who
now read his letter with a flushed face and a
quivering lip.

He felt severe, perhaps, because in that
room he could not help thinking so much of
Dora. Her vacant chair, her books, the hand-
kerchief she was embroidering, and which she
had forgotten on the table, were mute appeals
that roused Mr. Templemore's indignation
anew. He remembered this bright girl at
the Musee; he remembered her looking as
radiant and as joyous as sunshine in her poor
home; and thinking of the pale face he had
seen last night, of the tears he could imagine,
of the humiliation and shame that were her
lot now, and of his powerlessness to do her
justice, he could scarcely restrain his mingled
grief and anger,

" And when will Cousin Dora come back ? "
plaintively asked Eva.

"Heaven knows, not I," he bitterly an-
swered. "I, have done my best, Eva, and
man can do no more."

How that best fared, Mr. Templemorc
learned the same evening, when the post
brought him two letters, ne was sitting with
Eva in the school-room, hearing her through
her French lesson when they came.

" Put them there," said Mr. Templemore to
Jacques.

They were laid on the table before him,
these two letters in delicate female hands,
which held his fate in their satin folds. He
looked at them a little nioodilv as the child
read on, about Eucharis and Telemachus, and
the grief of Calypso at the flight of Ulysses.

" What has placed me at the mercy of these
two women'? " he thought, with a sort of
angry wonder. "Why should the folly of
the one and the pride of the other make a
slave of me?"

" Did I not read well ? " asked Eva, shut-
ting the book, and looking robbed of her
meed of praise, " Cousin Dora says I read
very well."

" So you do — go and play with Fanny now."

Eva went, and whilst she and Fanny played
at hide-and-seek in front of the school-room,
Mr. Templemore took up Mrs. Logan's letter
and broke the seal. It was the shortest
epistle he had ever received from that lady,
for it did not extend beyond the direction on
the envelope in which she returned his own
letter unanswered. Mr. Templemore colored
deeply, then turned rather pale ; but he lit a
match and burned both letter and envelope
at once on the hearth. He looked at the shriv-
elled scroll in mingled scorn and wonder.
" And so that is the end," he thought ; " that
is the end ! If I would only let her ruin Miss
Courtenay utterly, she would forgive my sup-
posed infidelity ; but I would not, and she
finds it easier to give me up than to renounce
her vengeance. The burden of love in that
scale was so light, that it will not stand a
feather's weight in the other. Be it so, and
lei Mrs. Logan abide by the fate she has
i." Ee felt so calm, that he could not
help wondering at himself; but, it was so.
He could think of this final parting
liii', -elf and Florence as if they had been two
-ers, and look on it as impartially. Yet,

180

DORA.

jold though be was, something be felt, for be
Ion" - forgot Dora's letter. His look falling on
it by cbance, suddenly reminded bim of its
existence. It was a plain and brief denial.
It was free from complaint of wrong, it spoke
no reproach, but it uttered a cold and inexora-
ble " No " to all Mr. Templemore's offers and
entreaties.

" A proud woman ! — a very proud woman ! "
thought Mr. Templemore ; " but she too must
abide by the fate she has chosen."

When Eva, tired with play, and still dole-
ful at Cousin Dora's loss, came in to her
father, she found another letter shrivelling up
into black ashes on the hearth.

" When is Cousin Dora coming back ? " she
asked, plaintively.

Before Mr. Templemore could answer, a
little tremulous whine from the garden pro-
claimed that Fido joined in the question.

" You must both do without Cousin Dora,"
answered Mr. Templemore, almost impatiently,
and taking his hat he walked out. It was
almost night, and Mr. Templemore went down
the road to Rouen, with slow and irresolute
(Steps. lie looked at Mrs. Logan's villa as he
passed by it ; the shutters were shut — Mrs.
Logan was gone. That cbapter in his life
«was ended. "Be it so," he thought defiant-
ly ; " it is her doing — not mine." And he went
on. lie entered the city, he went to Monsieur
Merand's shop, and bought an old .enamel
der, but with so stern and forbid-
ding a look did he drive bis bargain, that it
was only when he was leaving, Monsieur
Merand took heart to say :

"Why, Doctor Richard, you look as bad as
the young lady ! "

Templemore, who already stood on the
threshold of tin; shop, turned round angrily,
and sharply >aid —

" What young lady, Monsieur Merand?"
"Oh! tin; one who used to draw, you
i. now. i .-aw her Btealing out of Notre

Dame this evening, and looking as white as a
ghost."

Mr. Templemore did not answer, but walked
away. The man could mean nothing, for he
could know nothing; but why was he to be
thus persecuted with Dora's name ? He did
not return to Les Rocbes at once. He went
to his old house and put away his purchases.
It was dark night now ; and looking at the
opposite side of the street, he saw a light
burning in Madame Bertrand's first-floor win-
dows ; but one, that of Dora's room, remained
dark. It was open, and he could catch a
glimpse of a pale figure within, sitting in a
bending and motionless attitude. He watched
her for an hour and more — she never stirred ;
and wben Mr. Templemore at length turned
away, grief, pity, and indignation filled his
heart. But he was powerless, and he knew it.

" I can do nothing — nothing," he said to
himself again and again.

" Oh ! Mr. Templemore. Mrs. Logan is
gone ! " exclaimed Miss Moore, in a voice full
of woe as he entered Les Roches. " But she
is not far — she is to sleep at Dieppe to-night."

Mr. Templemore's only answer to this speech
was, " How is Eva ? "

" Asleep, I believe."

He went up tor Eva's room. A night-lamp
burned on the table ; its light fell on Eva's
little cot. Mr. Templemore sat down and
looked at the child. She had cried herself to
sleep, and her cheek was still wet with tears.

" It would be better for Eva if I had never
brought Miss Courtenay here," thought Mr.
Templemore, rather sadly ; " she will get over
this sorrow, of course, but she must suffer
first, and suffer keenly."

He felt much troubled. The child's grief
pained him ; and the sad, motionless figure he
had seen in Dora's room pained him still more
deeply. How different from that stricken one
was the Dora whom be remembered sitting in
that now vacant chair before him, with the

TROUBLED THOUGHTS.

181

blue ribbon tying . her bright hair, and the
light shining on her young face as she told
Eva little fairy-tales ! Her look, her smile,
the very turn of her neck, the very sound of
her voice, came back to him with strange
vividness. He would rather have forgotten
them, for they were painful, and he still felt,
" I can do nothing ; " but Dora's image re-
turned again and again, and would not be de-
nied. It returned radiant, happy, and young,
with no trace of pain or trouble on its brow,
filling that dull, gloomy room with its bright-
ness, and smiling down so tenderly on the
sleeping child, that the very heart of Mr.
Templemore thrilled within him.

CHAPTER XXXII.

There is no consolation for some sorrows.
Xeither Mrs. Courtenay nor Mrs. Luan at-
tempted to comfort Dora. She did not com-
plain — not a word of murmur passed her lips.
She moved about the house, pale as death, in-
deed, but bearing her fate in mute resignation,
or what seemed as much. Of the future, of
her plans, if she had any, she did not speak.
She sat a good deal in her room, sewing assid-
uously. Unless early in the morning, she
could not summon heart to go out. She had
no need to visit the Picture - Gallery now.
Besides, her story must be known in Rouen by
this — the story of the girl whom Mr. Temple-
more's future wife had upbraided with folly
and shame. She was sitting in her room by
the open window, within the shadow of the
muslin curtain, as this thought came. Her
story ! — there had been a time when she had
none ; and now her name could be in every
mouth, aud be there with pity or with scorn.
Madame Bertrand would have to fight her bat-
tles, and justify her with her shrill tongue —
how abhorrent the thought was ! — or shrink-
ingly excuse her on the score of inexperience.

Dora's needle flagged as she thought of
this. She looked at the old gray church, at
the lilies once more in bloom, at the broken
image of the bishop, at the lame teacher's
window, at the quiet street below, and she re-
membered how she had felt when she had seen
these first. Surely our life is like a wide
land, with streams, and rivers, and seas, that
divide it in separate and distinct portions.
Surely joy or grief is there, as pleasant or
troubled waters that flow in different channels.
Surely our happy days have nothing in com-
mon with our days of tribulation, or sorrow?
Dora felt as if she could have borne any thing
better than this trouble. Death — lost love
had not the same pangs as this bitter humilia-
tion. Death is the human lot, and lost love a
frequent calamity ; but women who kno^
themselves stainless do not expect shame, and
cannot well accept it. In vain Dora thought :
" I suppose plenty have been slandered besides
me ; it is a cross which I must bear. She was
a rebel in her heart, and could not, or, rather,
would not, endure it. Intolerable seemed her
fate — intolerable and unjust. She forbade her
thoughts to question Providence; but what
thought does not, the heart will often do.
This was not her only sorrow. Her keenest
pang sprang, perhaps, from the fact that she
might and should have foreseen this. She
should never have gone to Mr. Templemore's
house. Her very love for him should have
kept her away. Trouble was sure to spring
from it.« Fair though its opening looked, that
episode of her life could not end otherwise
than in darkness. There is a beautiful picture
by one of the old masters which shows us the
child Jesus calmly sleeping on his cross.
There is no grief, no care in that childish
face, divine even in its repose. The cross is
small, like the tender naked limbs which
upon it. But it will grow to man's length,
and we, who know the later story, tin
dolorosa which ended on Calvary to purchase

182

DORA.

our redemption — we cannot gaze on that child-
ish cross without sorrow.

Thus, though we know it not, is manj^
human life, of which we only see the begin-
ning, and cannot divine the close. The cross
is there — the cross which will grow with the
growth of that life, and from which it can
never more be divided; the cross which it
must bear up some spiritual Golgotha, and to
which it is nailed at last, sometimes in shame,
or what the world deems such — ever in grief.
But what we who look on cannot always see
is often known to the sufferer; early pangs
reveal the future agony. To feel love for one
who does not return our affection, and yet
seek that being's dear society, is to court our
own destruction. Virtue, peace, or fair name
is imperilled, and one must certainly perish.
This Dora knew, and the knowledge of her
own wrong-doing stung her.

Mrs. Courtenay gazed very wistfully at her
daughter whenever she joined them; but
Dora's countenance, once so expressive, was
now silent. She would not complain, and she
forbade her looks all language. Mrs. Courte-
nay could scarcely repress her tears, and Mrs.
Luan was more sullen than ever; but Dora's
face gave no sign. She was cold and impas-
sive, as if all sensibility had left her.

Thus she was the first day, and on the mor-
row, and on the next day again. Thus she
was for a week, save that her pale face got
paler and more rigid— that her eyes sank, and
that her whole aspect gave terrible indication
of the cruel strife within. If she bad com-
plained, it would have been better; if she had
murmured and repined from morning till
it, it would have been best of all. But not
, from the moment she left Les Roches,
did her lips part to utter so much as "My
lot is hard." Perhaps she was silent because
full heart would have, made her say too
'>> ; perhaps il I spoken she could

not have hidden the passion which was at the

root of all her woe; better, then, be mute,
than display to any eye the weakness and the
folly which had brought down all this.

She sat thus on the evening of the seventh
day with her mother and her- aunt, when all
three started as a man's step came up the
staircase. Mrs. Courtenay and her sister-in-
law exchanged looks, but, ere they had well
recovered, Dora had risen and entered her
room. Its door was closing as Mr. Temple-
more opened the other door and entered the
room where Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan
sat alone.

" She heard me, and left for that reason,"
he thought, casting a quick look round the
room.

" Pray take a seat, Mr. Templemore," said
Mrs. Courtenay, looking a little flurried.

"Why did Miss Courtenay go ?" he asked.

" She has a bad headache," began Mrs. Cour-
tenay.

" She has not; ! " bluntly interrupted Mrs.
Luan; "but she would not see Mr. Temple-
more." t

" And why would she not see me, Mrs.
Luan ? "

" Indeed, Mr. Templemore,',' here remarked
Mrs. Courtenay, " my daughter has been cruelly
used, and I think you know it."

" Heaven knows how keenly I feel it," re-
plied Mr. Templemore. "But, Mrs. Courte-
nay, I wish you could induce your daughter to
hear me — -just for a few moments."

" I shall try," said Mrs. Luan, and she went
in to Dora. Mr. Templemore waited in silence
for her reappearance; but when the door,
which had closed behind her, opened again,
and she came forth alone, it needed not her
clouded face to tell him that Dora bad refused
to see him.

" She says she cannot," sullenly said Mrs.
Luan, sitting down once more, and evidently
both dissatisfied and disappointed.

"No, of course she cannot," querulously re-

NOTRE DAME

183

marked Mrs. Courtenay ; " and so, Mr. Temple-
more, please to come no more. I am very
sorry to be so inhospitable, after all your kind-
ness, but I do not see how you can come after
what has passed."

" But I must see Miss Courtenay," he in-
sisted. " I know this intrusion may seem
cruel, but I have good reason for it — indeed I
have. And you must prevail with your daugh-
ter, Mrs. Courtenay — you really must ! "

His tone and his looks were very urgent.
Mrs. Courtenay could not resist him.

"I — I shall try," she stammered; and ris-
ing, she went to Dora's room.

She found her daughter looking at the door
^ith a troubled, breathless look, as if her fate
lay behind those old oaken panels.

" I will not see him," she whispered, and she
shook from head to foot as she said it ; " I will
not hear explanation or apologies. Tell him
he has not wronged me, and that I have noth-
ing to forgive ; but I will not see him — never
— never ! "

" Dora, he looks quite ill. He has been ill,
I am sure ; he only wants to sec you five min-
utes — only five minutes. Since he has not
wronged you, how can you refuse it ? "

" I will not see him," said Dora, as if she
were repeating a lesson learned by rote ; "never

-never

Mrs. Courtenay begged in vain. Dora clasped
her hands and piteously said, " I cannot ! — I
cannot ! "

With that answer her mother came back.

Mr. Templemore's cheeks flushed as he heard
Mrs. Courtenay deliver her daughter's mes-
sage.

"I would willingly force myself on no one,
least of all on a lady," he said, after a while,
"but this is no common case — and I cannot
write. I mu-t see Miss Courtenay once, and
once she must hear me. I have nothing to
explain, and no forgiveness to ask ; but I have
that to say to which she ought not in justice

to refuse to listen. I trust I shall find her
more lenient another time."

" But excuse me, Mr. Templemore," said
Mrs. Courtenay, a little crossly, "ought you
come here at all ? "

Mr. Templemore looked at the two women
very earnestly. " Will you keep my secret ? "
he asked, in a subdued tone.

They both replied, after a pause, that they
would.

" Well, then, I mean to ask Miss Courtenay
to become my wife ; but I wish to ask her my-
self — not through another, nor even by writ-
ing."

Mrs. Courtenay burst into tears, and uttered
a fervent " God bless you ! "

Mrs. Luan's whole face kindled, but she did
not speak.

" Will you prevail on Miss Courtenay to
grant me an interview, Mrs. Courtenay ? "

" I shall try, Mr. Templemore — I shall try."

" Then I rely upon you ; and since my pres-
ence is only keeping Miss Courtenay a pris-
oner in her room, I shall bid you both a good-
evening."

He left them; but scarcely had he gone
down three steps of the narrow wooden stair-
case, when the door above opened, and Mrs.
Luan appeared at the head of the banisters.
As if unaware that he had seen her, and was
waiting to know what she had to say, she
touched him lightly on the shoulder, and' said,
in a whisper :

" She goes to Notre Dame at eight o'clock
every morning."

Without giving him time to reply, this un-
expected ally reentered the apartment. She
found Mrs. Courtenay urging the point on Dora,
and, to all seeming, with little chance of suc-
cess.

" But what harm can it do you to see
him?" asked Mrs. Courtenay; adding, with
suspicious eagerness, "he can have little or
nothugl to sav."

184

DORA.

" I cannot see him — oh ! I cannot, indeed I
cannot ! " said Dora, who was still trembling
from head to foot. " It would serve no good,
and it would break my heart — I cannot see
him ! "

She spoke in such tones of sorrow that Mrs.
Courtenay was silenced.

" He must write," she said, looking at Mrs.
Luan — "he must write."

"Yes, yes, let him write," almost eagerly
said Dora ; " tell him that, if you like. I can
bear a letter, but not the other thing."

Unconscious of Mrs. Luan's treachery, Dora
stole out as usual the next morning. Every
morning she now entered Notre Dame at eight,
and stayed there in a side-chapel, sometimes
for an hour, sometimes for more. She felt as if
but for this she must have died. The relief of
that hour's silence, solitude, and prayer, saved
•her from despair. She did not always pray.
There were times when the storm within could
not be allayed — when she left that solemn old
church as desolate as she had entered it, a
scorned, unloved, and disgraced woman. But
other times there were when a divine balm
sank on her soul and soothed her fever to rest.

As the waves of time had beaten in vain
against the foundations of that aged pile, so it
seemed to her that the brief troubles of life
should be endured by the immortal spirit.
What were her sufferings to eternity ? Some-
times she looked at the representations of
saints and martyrs on the painted glass above
her, and full into a languid reverie. Old sor-
rows, old trials, old triumphs were there, and
painted of the dead by men who in their turn
bad become dead. Was it so hard to suffer
and he heroic, to go through this brief life in
a lol'iy, passionate, enduring spirit ? And now
there Stole a dream over her — a dream danger-
ous in her present mood, a temptation that
wore the face of an angel. Why .should she
not leave that world which she found so harsh
and enter some calm retreat of happiateg and

prayer ! Were there not asylums provided for
the wounded and the conquered, homes in
which they could live and die, far from every
unkind gaze ? Ah ! if her mother were but
provided for, how she would seek the strong-
hold where Louise de la Misericorde forgot
the sins and follies of Louise de la Valliere ;
how she would do like that other Louise, the
daughter of the profligate French king, and
put eternal barriers between her and a cruel
world !

But it was not to be. As, after sitting for
an hour in the chapel, Dora left it by one of
the side-doors, and entered a little court, she
started to see Mr. Templemore looking at her
with a fixed and very sorrowful gaze. The
blood flew to her heart, her head swam, and
she remained motionless as he approached
her. At first she thought that chance, not
design, had led to the meeting ; but when he
said, gravely —

" Miss Courtenay, why will you not see
me?"

She colored, and answered, with quick and
keen reproach : " Mr. Templemore, this is not
right — it is not generous ! "

He looked pained, and almost angry. He
walked away two steps, then he came back.

"Let me call upon you this evening," he
said, " and speak five minutes to you, and I
shall never trouble you again — never ! "

She wanted to deny him, but the words
faltered on her lips. She looked at him, and
felt like one in a dream — all her firmness, all
her will, seemed to leave her as their eyes met.
She meant to say "No," and it was "Very
well — as you please," that she uttered.

He did not wait for her to retract, but at
once turned away.

OHAPTEE XXXIII.

The three ladies sat in their quiet room ;
Mrs. Courtenay with her hands folded, Mrs.

A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL.

185

Luan with her patchwork on her lap, and
Dora by the open window, doing nothing, and
looking at the old church front, which rose
dark and heavy in the gray light of evening.
The hour was very calm ; the city was quiet ;
a faint breeze from the river stirred the yellow
wall-flowers midst the buttresses, and Dora's
quick car, quickened by the fever of expecta-
tion at her heart, caught the sound of a well-
known step coming up the silent street. She
shrank back, for she knew it — how often had
she sat thus by the open window, seeming to
look at the evening sky, but in reality listen-
ing for his coming ! She knew it, and raising
her bent and flushed face, she said, as she
turned toward her mother and her aunt :

" I saw Mr. Templemore this morniug in
Notre Dame. He is coming this evening. I
believe he wants to speak to me."

" I hear his voice below," eagerly said Mrs.
Luan.

She rose as she spoke. Mrs. Courtenay
looked bewildered.

"Surely — " she began. Her sister-in-law
would not let her proceed.

" Come along, she said," imperatively ; " Mr.
Templemore wants to speak to Dora alone."

Dora attempted to remonstrate, and Mrs.
Courtenay to resist; but Mrs. Luan heeded
neither. The battle was nearly won, and a
conqueror's fierceness was upon her. She
took her sister-in-law's hand, and half raised,
half pushed her out of her chair.

" I tell you he must see Dora alone," she
angrily whispered, as Mrs. Courtenay rather
indignantly asked to know what she meant by
such conduct.

" Aunt ! " said Dora, but her mother had
suddenly joined the enemy, and Dora was
alone in the room by the time Mr. Temple-
more opened the door and entered it.

She had risen on hearing his step coming up
the staircase, and she now stood before him
silent and grave. The pale evening light from

the open window fell on her face. He drew
near her without speaking, then stood still.
They both exchanged a long, silent look of
sorrowful scrutiny. Well they might. The
same storm had passed over them both, and
left its cruel traces upon either. How worn,
how heart-struck looked these two ! lie took
her passive hand, he looked in her face with
the deepest sorrow.

" Good heavens ! " he exclaimed. " I did
not see you rightly this morning. Is it pos-
sible that I am the cause of this V "

A proud, sad smile passed across Dora's
face.

" You were the pretence — not the cause ! "
she said.

She threw her head back, a little as if she
defied her hard fate, and much as if she re-
pelled all pity, all sorrow it might draw forth
from him. But a true and generous heart is
not easily discouraged. Mr. Templemore
looked at her very earnestly.

" You do not want me to bear my share of
this calamity," he said, " and yet I came here
this morning to know if you will not let me
repair the cruel wrong I have unconsciously
inflicted upon you."

She looked at him in doubt. He raised her
hand, whjch he still held, and pressed it to
his lips. The blood rushed to her heart, her
brain swam; she knew his meaning, and with
the knowledge came a wild fear of yielding to
this temptation. She snatched her hand from
him ; she gave him a look of sudden dread,
and turned ashy pale.

" No, no ! " she cried — " never ! never !
You have no wrong to repair, Mr. Temple-
more. Oh ! God forbid this should ever
be!"

" Why so ? " he asked, very calmly.

Dora could not answer hint at once.

"Will you not sit down, and allow me, at
least, to speak of this more fully? " he con
tinned, quietly.

186

DORA.

" Xo, no," she replied, excitedly, " this
must never be — never ! never ! "

" But Miss Courtenay, why will you not
bear me ? — I ask for no more."

He spoke very gently, but with somethiug
like reproach. Dora felt ashamed of her
vehemeuce ; she sat down in silence, and Mr.
Templemore sat down by her side and re-
sumed :

"I believe you have understood me, but
there shall be no doubt — no possible mistake.
I wish, and allow me to add I hope, that you
will be good enough to become my wife."

A crimson flush, which died away in sudden
paleness, passed across Dora's face. She
clasped her hands, and wrung them in a sort
of anguish, for again the fear of yielding to
this temptation came over her.

"But that cannot be," she replied. "I
cannot marry you — never ! never ! "

" Why so ? " he asked, and he almost
smiled.

" Because you want to marry me from
honor, Mr.* Templemore — because my reputa-
tion is damaged, or lost — and because the
world says, or will say, that it is so lost
through you. But I am too proud a woman
to take you — to take any man so."

She wanted to rise and end the matter, but
he entreated her to hear him out.

" Only hear me out," he urged ; and she
sat down again, silently repining at her own
weakness. " Dear Miss Courtenay," he said,
in his most persuasive accents, "do not put
it all upon my honor, and. do not let your
pride divide us. Why should not ours be a
orable, and, allow me to add, a
happy marriage ? "

"Happyl" Bbe interrupted— "how many
i- it since yen loved, and were to marry,
Mr I

"Nol many," hi : slowly — "no, in-

deed, nol many; but what of that ? I loved
her — I bad faith in her — what was her love

for, her faith in me ? She tarnished my honor
— she did her best to ruin you. Can I ever
forget or forgive either sin ? "

There was severity in his look and in his
voice, but there was emotion too.

" He loves her," thought Dora, with invol-
untary jealousy ; " he asks me to marry him
in that calm tone, and he denies loving her in
that accent of regret. I should be mad ~to
take him so." — " Mr. Templemore," she said,
trying to speak very calmly, " this must not
be. We must not rush on such a fate with
our eyes open. For oh ! how we should rue
it ! — how we should rue it ! "

She clasped her hands ; she spoke with a
subdued passion in her voice — with a strange,
sad light in her eyes, which he saw, but could
not understand. What ailed her ? — what was
it?

"Am I abhorrent to you ? " he asked, after
a while. " If, when we first met, before you
knew of my engagement with Mrs. Logan, I
had asked you to marry me, would you have
rejected me thus, without even taking time
to think over it ? "

" Perhaps not," hastily replied Dora, blush-
ing at the equivocation ; " but Mr. Temple-
more, I cannot marry a man who loves an-
other woman ! — I cannot ! — I will not ! You
cannot say that, if it were not to right me in
the opinion of the world, you would ask me
to become your wife — you cannot say it ! "

"I begin by denying the love you persist
in taking for granted, Miss Courtenay," he
replied, very gravely. " A tree takes years
to grow,.bu}; let a storm uproot it, or man's
hand lay it low, and it dies and withers in a
few days. What though some green leaves
linger on the boughs — it is none the less
doomed to perish. Thus has fared my affec-
tion for Mrs. Logan. The shock has been
violent and cruel, like tlie lopping of a limb ;
and I will not deny that I felt it keenly — nay,
more, I will confess it, the wound is not

MISS COURTENAY'S HESITATION.

187

healed yet, and but for the sad trouble her
cruel folly has caused, I should scarcely care
to think of marriage now. But, Miss Courte-
nay, you will believe me when I tell you that
I have always admired you, and that if I had
been a free man, I should most probably have
come to you long ago on the errand which
brings me here this evening."

Dora could not help looking at him in so
much perplexity, and doubt, and amazement,
that he smiled.

" Do you wrong my taste and my judgment
so much as to suppose I could not see and
prize your many gifts? " he asked remopstra-
tively ; " believe me, dear Miss Courtenay,
neither Doctor Richard nor Mr. Templemore
was so blind or so indifferent as you imagine.
How could he see you almost daily so long
and not admire you ? "

He spoke with a warmth, with a respectful
tenderness, which stirred the depths of Dora's
heart. With a sort of terror she felt her
resolve giving way, and her denial was uttered
with something like despair : " No — it cannot
be!"

Mr. Templemore looked both troubled and
perplexed.

"Then you condemn me to solitude," he
said, " for how can I marry another woman
and be happy with her whilst you suffer
through me ? Pride, Honor, Conscience, for-
bid it alike ! "

" I do not suffer," replied Dora, lifting up
her head with a proud, denying motion.

" And you persist in your refusal ? "

"I do."

He rose, but not to leave her. He only
walked up and down the room, and came back
to her side after taking a few turns.

" Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, soothingly,
and taking her hand as he spoke, " do not
struggle against Fate — this thing must be.
You must be my wife, and I must be your hus-
band. You are the only woman I can marry

in honor, and I am the only man whom so-
ciety will let you marry. Providence has or-
dained that our friendship shall become the
closest and the dearest tie ; let us not strive
against its decrees, but obey and bless them.
Where there has been a true friendship, is it
so hard to love? When society and inter-
course have been so pleasant, is it so hard to
endure them daily ? Why should we not be
happy, very happy together ? Ah ! surely far
happier than apart ! Do not bid me give you
up — I cannot do it ! The desire I feel for this
is like the presentiment of a great good sud-
denly placed within my reach. Is not Eva's
strange and sudden love for you a token of our
destiny ? That you will be as dear to me as a
wife can be to her husband's heart, I know as
well as that I am sitting by your side, with
your dear hand in mine ; and do not think me
presumptuous if I feel confident of winning
your affections with time. Is it in your na-
ture, true woman as you are, not to end by lov-
ing the man whose name and % existence you
share ? I promise you to be patient at first,
and not exacting. I shall not expect you to
forget in a day the bitter hours which have
preceded this brief and sad wooing. For the
present I shall ask little or nothing, because I
feel so confident, so sure of the future."

Dora heard him, and felt in a dream.

" Ah ! but if that future should never come,"
she argued, rousing herself; " if we should be
bound to each other for life, and feel that bond
grow heavier daily ! Can you imagine how
frightful that would be, Mr. Templemore? "

"Xo," he replied, with manly frankness,
" for I cannot imagine myself remaining cold
or indifferent toward a young, attractive, and
amiable wife ! I do not think I should feel so
toward a plain one, provided she were good ;
how then could I be, as you say, to one who
is good, pretty, and, to crown all, delightful
company ? Dear Miss Courtenay, it would be
unnatural ; and allow me to add that, as

188

DORA.

with fine natures love wins love, I feel sure of
securing your affection with time. Then do
not wonder if I urge this matter upon you.
Love, peace, and happiness are all, as it were,
within my grasp — do not deny me ! "

He spoke almost as if he loved her already —
so tender, so persuasive was his tone. Could
this great, this unattainable happiness have
come within her reach ? She felt dizzy ; she
did not know whether it was with fear or with
joy ; and scarcely knowing what she said, she
replied :

" Yes, later — perhaps as you say — but later."

"Dear Miss Courtenay," he urged, " it must
be now. We must get married at once — we
cannot delay."

" Now ! " she repeated, suddenly sobered —
" now, Mr. Templemore ? "

" Now, indeed ! " he too repeated.

" Now ! " she said again ; " now, when hon-
or, generosity, all urge you to it ! And if you
regret it later, Mr. Templemore — if you repent,
what fate shall be ours ? "

" But I cannot repent," he replied, a little
indignantly. "You wrong me, Miss Courte-
nay, by indulging such a thought."

She was silent. He resumed, in a more
geutle tone :

" Believe me, I know what I am doing. I
am taking a good and attractive woman to be
my companion for life ; why, what sort of a
man should I be to repent an act which ought
to give mc the greatest happiness ? Surely,"
he added, with an admiring smile, " you have
learned before to-day that you have the power
to win and to charm ? "

Poor Dora ! she could not resist the language
of this tender Battery. A deep warm blush
Stole 'Air her face, and for a n»ment made
her strangely beautiful. Mr. Templemore saw
that he had prevailed, but he wanted her to
say so.

"Tell me that you consent ?" he asked.

The WOrde sent Dora back to that morning

in Notre Dame, and her dream there, and all
that had passed since then. She rose — it was
as if a storm had seized and now shook her
frail being.

" It is not too late yet," she said in a low
distinct tone ; " you are free still, Mr. Temple-
more."

" I do not want to be free," he answered
smiling, as he took her hand again.

She left it clasped in his. She stood within
two paces of him, calm, pale, and with a light
in her eyes that sent a thrill through him.

" Mr. Templemore," said she in the same
low voice, " before you pledge yourself irrevo-
cably, hear me and heed me. I am not so
good or so perfect as you think. I am proud —
a very proud woman. I am easily offended, but
do not easily forget or forgive a wrong. If I
become your wife, I shall do so knowing that
you do not marry me for love. That knowl-
edge may make me unreasonable and exact-
ing. I have never anticipated such an ordeal,
and dare not answer for my wisdom or my
patience. Oh ! Mr. Templemore, sound your
own heart and pause. If you are not sure
that you will never repent — if you are not
sure that I shall never read regret or weariness
in your eyes, leave me for your own sake — for
I should turn dangerous — for mine, for I
should go mad ! Leave me now, I say ! My
charm may wear off with novelty ; your liking
may grow cool, and my short happiness go
with it. Better by far unmerited disgrace
than such a lot — better present heart-ache
than to be happy a few hours, and rue them
forever — forever ! "

What strange thoughts will come when no
one bids them ! Mr. Templemore heard Dora
out, and as he looked at her pale face, lit up
with a passionate emotion, and held her hand,
he thought, "I did not know this was in her !
To think of that pleasant, good-tempered look-
ing girl being finer than any tragic queen !
Rachel herself never looked more like a being

THE FAIRY-TALE.

189

all spirit and flame than this Dora Courtenay ;
she never uttered a ' forever ! — forever ! ' so
mournful and so boding. Yes, I can believe
it — there is danger in her."

But we all love danger, and Mr. Temple-
more liked Dora pone the worse for recogniz-
ing in her that element of peril. Besides, he
had no doubt — no fear.

" I dread nothing," he replied, with a secure
smile — " nothing of that kind, at least. I shall
never feel regret or weariness, never — never."

How could she doubt him ? He did not
doubt himself. He did not know that he was
yielding to a keen temptation. He was not in
love, but there are many feelings besides love
which rule a man's heart, and Mr. Temple-
more would have risked his own happiness and
Dora's ten times over, rather than give her up
just then. Her very warning was sweet as an
allurement, her forebodings had the charm of
a fond defiance. There is no knowing how he
might have felt if he had suspected that this
proud girl loved him ; but she had guarded
her secret well, and he knew it not. He only
knew that she was young and attractive, and
hard to win, and, manlike, he liked her all
the better for it ; and thus their fate was de-
cided.

It was a mere formality, when Mrs. Courte-
nay and Mrs. Luan at length came forth, to
ask the former lady for her daughter's hand,
but Mr. Templemore went through it. Mrs.
Courtenay burst into tears, and Mrs. Luan
looked as stolid as if Mr. Templemore's words
had fallen on her ear and not reached her
understanding. It was all settled, however,
and settled very quickly ; the very marriage-
day was fixed when Mr. Templemore left them
that night.

CHAPTER XXXIY.
Mr. Templemore went home on foot.

went home along a gray moonlit road, with

here and there a patch of trees, throwing their
black mass of shadow across his path, or a
slope of ground rising against a starry sky.
He felt like one in a dream, and the balmy
evening air added to the languor which
pervaded his being. He could not forget
Dora Courtenay. It was not love, it was not
admiration ; it was something which partook
of the nature of both feelings, and yet which
was neither, that brought her face thus ever
before him. He saw it on that lonely road
with its look of tragic sorrow and sad warning
that stirred his very heart ; as plainly as in
the worn by the open window, "when he held
her hand iu his, as distinctly did he see her
now.

And it was not love that summoned her to
his side. Alas ! no, it was something very
different from that pure and tender feeling.
It was the dawn of passion, none the less dan-
gerous that it would be felt for a wife, and
might conceal itself under the cloak of duty.
His love for Mrs. Logan had been misplaced,
but it had been a true, calm, and tender affec-
tion, the aifection which a wise woman wishes
to inspire. Very different from this was the
new feeling it was Dora's fate to waken in Mr.
Templemore's heart. She deserved, indeed,
the love Mrs. Logan had had and lost ; but
perhaps Mr. Templemore could not like two
women successively after the same fashion ;
perhaps, too, that Dora's stronger nature
wakened in him the restless and stormy ele-
ment, and appealed to that faculty of imagina-
tion which a pretty childish creature like Flor-
ence had left dormant. He questioned him-
self as he walked home along the lonely road,
and he wondered at the calmness with which
he could think of his late love, and at the
strange yearning which came over him when
he contemplated his approaching marriage.
He wondered and questioned, and the answer
had not come when he reached Lcs Bodies.
It was early yet, and little Eva rushed out

190

DORA.

to meet him. He took her in his arms and
kissed her, and the purest emotion connected
with his new feelings came to him as he
thought :

" Yes, she will be a good and tender mother
to my child."

They went in together, and as soon as they
entered the school-room Eva got upon her
father's knee, and laid her head on his shoul-
der.

"Aunt says Cousin Dora will never come
back," she began, in her most doleful voice.

Mr. Templemore smiled. He already saw
a bright young mistress at Les Roches, and he
could imagine Miss Moore's amazement and
consternation.

"But Cousin Dora will come back," he
said, in answer to Eva. " I saw her this
evening, and she promised to return."

" To-morrow ? " cried Eva, clapping her
hands in great glee.

" No, not to-morrow."

Eva looked blank. The good deferred is
not a good for childhood. Besides, Mr. Tem-
plemore, when questioned more closely, could
not even say that Cousin Dora would come
after to-morrow. It was plain he knew
nothing about it. Moreover, he was unusually
silent this evening. Eva saw it, and pouted.
Then she grew petulant and exacting, and
ed for a fairy-tale. Mr. Templemore
smiled, and rousing himself from bis reverie,

" A fairy-tale ! Why, Eva, the world is full

of fairy-talcs. I saw one the other day — for

you know thai in fairy-tales there is no such

thing as time— with the fairy and the prin-

— "

"And the prince? " suggested Eva.

"Well, yes, a rl of prince there was,
too."

"And \ the fairy like ? "

" Little, wrinkled, old, and very cross! She
brok( 11 b i i >. and spilt her milk,

and even fairies will be put out by such dis-
asters; so the princess came to her assistance,
and gave her more milk and eggs."

"No," contradicted Eva, " it is the fairy
who gives the milk and eggs, not the princess,
you know ! "

" Are you sure ? " asked Mr. Templemore.

" Quite sure," triumphantly replied Eva,
" it is the fairy who gives the milk and eggs,
and they turn into gold and diamonds, you
know !"

"Well, they may yet turn into gold and
diamonds," answered Mr. Templemore, smiling.
" So far you are right, Eva."

,"And what is she like — the princess, I
mean ? " asked Eva, curiously.

" A sunbeam, if you like it — or your Cousin
Dora ! "

" Is she as beautiful as Cousin Dora ? "

" Oh ! quite ! "

" And the prince ? "

" Ah ! the priuce, to be sure. Well, there
is not much to be said about him, save that
he comes for the princess, and that they both
go away in a fiery car — very like a rail-way-
carriage — and are ever so happy somewhere
or other ! " ,

" And is that all the fairy-tale ? " asked Eva,
looking disappointed.

"My clear, you spoiled it. I would have
shown you how distressed the poor old fairy
was, and how the beautiful princess came to
the rescue, and how grateful the fairy felt, and
how she s"howed her gratitude by heaping all
sorts of troubles on the poor princess, till,
having tried her to the utmost, she called in
the prince, who was only hiding all the time,
and, bidding him deliver the princess, and
make her happy, she vanished in a cloud of
smoke."

" And did he deliver her ? " asked Eva, in-
terested.

" I believe so — I liopc so ! I hope, too, he
made a princess so good and so amiable as

SUN AND SHADE.

101

happy as she deserved to be ; but I am not
sure of it, you see — not having yet read that
part of the story."

Eva looked very grave and thoughtful ; she
seemed to be meditating over the mysterious
ending, but in reality she was sleepy. Ere
long her eyelids fluttered, then closed, her
head sank heavily on her father's shoulder,
and a gentle little snore announced her de-
parture for a fairy-land much visited by young
ladies of her years. Mr. Templemore rang
for Fanny, and as the girl took the child
away, he thought : " Yes, she will be a good
mother to my child."

Alas ! if he had questioned his heart very
closely, Mr. Templemore would have known
that he did not care much for Dora's good-
ness just then. She was already to him as
one of those fair-haired sirens who allured
Greek mariners in the blue seas, and whom
they followed, not caring whither, so sweet
was it to go to perdition in their track.
" What ailed' me, that I never saw it before
to-night?" he thought. "The very child
saw it, and I did not. She is beautiful — of
that subtle beauty which escapes analysis, and
charms most. Yet I may do myself justice.
I did not think of that when I went to ask her
to become my wife."

Yes, however unwise might be this passage
in the drama of Richard Templemore's life,
there was, at least, this saving clause to it,
and which in his darkest hours he remem-
bered with just and manly pride. Duty,
honor, not faithlessness of heart, or the folly
of a strong desire, had first taken him to Dora
Courtenay. rie was alone now in that room
where he had spent some happy hours with
her and Eva. Every object he saw reminded
him of long hours, which had seemed brief,
they were so delightful. _ How he remembered
those pleasant evenings during which Eva
dressed and undressed Minna, whilst he sat
talking, arguing, and discoursing with Eva's

governess ! What a bright, clear mind she had,
and what a listener she made ! Plans which
he never could have formed had the childish
Florence been his wife, now thronged to his
mind. Mr. Templemore was too much de-
voted to study to require a companion to help
him in his wooing of this austere mistress.
But still it would enhance her charms to have
such a fellow-student as Dora. Ay, truly it
was something to go down the stream of life
with this bright fellow-traveller, and feel as
they went that they were strangers in nothing.
No fatal bar, no cruel division of intellect, or
faith, or temper, or belief, need come between
these two. Mr. Ternplernore knew Dora too
well not to know this also, and perhaps such
knowledge had made duty easy, and free from
all sacrifice. He did not ask himself how he
would have acted if Dora had not been what
she was, and we will not say it for him.
What was right because he felt that this girl
could truly become flesh of his flesh and heart
of his heart, might have been wrong if it had
not been in his power to admit her to such a
communion in his being. But no such
obstacle, existed between them. All his
visions showed him a fair young wife, with
bright hair, and soft, shy eyes, whom he could
chain to his side without tyranny ; for what-
ever his pursuits might be, she could share
and like them, and yet not like them merely
for his sake, or to please him. Little wonder,
then, that he let such visions come, and gave
them welcome, on that lonely evening, after
leaving Dora, knowing that he should see her
on the morrow, and that before the week was
out she would have become his wife.

Dora, too, had her dreams, but oh ! how
different they were from Mr. Templemore's !
She soon escaped from her mother's hysterical
joy at such unexpected good fortune to her
own room, and there she sat and tried to
think. Ah ! how happy she would have been
if she could have looked at the future with his

192

DORA.

eves! But do what she would, a dark and
heavy cloud ever came and veiled from her
the glorious radiance of her lot. To be Mr.
Templeinore's wife, honored, blessed, re-
deemed from disgrace — pang so keen to a
proud heart — to be his cherished and chosen
companion, his friend, the mother of his
child, the partaker of his cares, his sorrows,
and his joys — ay, truly that was deep happi-
ness, and happiness both deep and pure. But,
oh ! to be his wife, and to see him suffer and
repent, to feel herself a burden and a clog
upon him, to be not disliked, but endured, and
to see it, and have to bear it — that was the
cloud, and it appalled Dora's heart like the
last great final darkness.

" Oh ! better anything than that ! — better
anything ! " she moaned. . " I shall tell him to-
morrow that I cannot — no, I cannot ! " But
when tears came and relieved her — when she
remembered how earnest, how tender had
been his assurances of affection, faith returned,
and with faith the fond human yearning for
this possible happiness. For she, too, knew
there was a strange affinity between them.
They had the same tastes, the same likings,
the same hopes and desires. They only dif-
(ered where it was pleasant to do so, and for
this no doubt the society of the one had al-
ways been so agreeable to the other. Dora,
too, could imagine such a life as fancy had
shown to Mr. Templemore. " We shall read
and study together," she thought, " and I will
be his amanuensis, and help him, and he will
h me. Ah! if he can only forget Mrs.
Logan, we shall be happy— happy to the
heart's core.'' But that fatal "if" brought
the cloud agaiii ;>lhe bright life of love and
intellectual delighl ranished in dismal ob-
■ ourity, and a faintness, like that of death,
came over Doi le being. She did not

her room-door open, but she saw the
sudden flash of a light, for she was sitting in
Qess, and turning round witli a startled

exclamation, she beheld her aunt. Mrs. Luan
put down the light she held, and closing the
door, came up to Dora. There was a strange,
exulting glitter in her eyes, and a triumphant
smile on her lips as she said, " Well, Dora, I
told you so — you will be Mrs. Templemore."

" Yes, aunt, you told me so," replied Dora ;
but she sighed drearily.

" You will be a rich woman," said Mrs.
Luan. " Mr. Templemore is a rich man."

Dora did not reply ; she was not indifferent
to wealth, but Mr. Templemore's moved her
not.

"He will be a generous husband," resumed
Mrs. Luan. " He will give you plenty of
things."

Dora began to feel surprised, not at the
sordid tone of her aunt's remarks, but at the
fluency with which they were uttered. Mrs.
Luan spoke with a sharp distinctness so un-
usual in her, that Dora, after a moment's
reflection, ascribed it to the excitement of joy
which her countenance expressed very plainly.

" And you will not forget to say a good
word for John Luan," resumed Mrs. Luan ;
" he is your cousin, and deserving — and what
is there Mr. Templemore cannot do for him
if he chooses ? Besides, he will do any-
thing to please you."

"Are you so sure of that, aunt?" asked
Dora with involuntary bitterness. "He does
not marry me for love, you know ! "

Mrs. Luan shook her head, and muttered
something Avhich Dora did not understand.

" No, he does not marry you for love," she
resumed, looking very hard at Dora ; " but I
saw him looking at you this evening. If he
had not found out before you were worth that
little babyish thing ten times over, he found
it out to-night."

Dora looked incredulous, and somewhat
impatient.

" I tell you he did ! " almost impetuously
said her aunt — " I tell you that man will dote

MRS. LEAN'S ADVICE.

193

on you, if you know how to manage. I told
you he would marry you, and he is going to
do so. I tell you he will dote on you — and
you will see it."

Her vehemence almost frightened Dora.

" Aunt, aunt ! " she said, soothingly. But
Mrs. Luan stamped her foot angrily.

" You will spoil all if you mope," she said :
" he liked you for your bright face — and you
must be bright as the sun. He liked you
because you laughed and sang, and read and
played, and drew — then do it all again.
What need you fret ? You wanted him, and
you have him. If you cry, you will remind
him of Florence Gale. Do not give him time
to think ; make him so happy that he will —
that he must forget."

" Make him forget her ! " cried Dora, with
involuntary passion and jealousy. " Oh !
that I could !— that I could ! "

Mrs. Luan looked at her with something
like contempt.

"You can if you will," she said at length.

" Oh ! aunt, how ?— how ? "

And Dora looked at her aunt as she had
never looked before.

" I have never been handsome," replied
Mrs. Luan, " and I am not clever or bright
like you — at least, people say so ; but when
I had a husband I never let him think of an-
other woman."

" How did you manage, aunt ? " asked
Dora, rather astonished.

Mrs. Luan nodded knowingly.

" You will find it out — you will find it out ! "
she repeated.

11 No— -never," replied Dora with some emo-
tion. " He may like me if he pleases ; and
if he does not he may leave me."

" Idiot ! " angrily said Mrs. Luan — " idiot !
Why do you marry him, then ? I tell you it
is your right and your duty to fascinate your
husband, and make him forget that woman."

Mrs. Luan spoke the truth, and Dora.'s con-

science told her so. Yes, it was her right and
her duty to win and keep her husband's heart.

" I believe you are right, aunt," she replied
after a while ; " and I shall do my best — but
I may fail."

" Why should you fail ? " asked Mrs. Luan ;
but her tone was sobering, and her look, her
voice, her manner were all getting confused
again. " Why should you fail ? Of course a
pretty girl like you can easily get hold of her
husband; for I have always noticed," she
added in the tone of a person who enounces
a doubtful proposition, " that men like pretty
women, and that Mrs. Logan is not so very
pretty. Now, you are fair, and being dark,
he must like you — indeed, I suppose he liked
you all along, only he did not find it out ; but
I am sure he did this evening — any one could
see he was quite smitten, though you were so
pale. So when you are married you have
only to get your color back and to manage,
and he will dote upon you ; and I have no
doubt he will do anything you like for John
Luan."

She spoke with her old incoherence, and
yet her words fell like balm on Dora's heart.
The good-night she uttered when her aunt
left her had a tenderness in it which said
much. Illusion or not, she felt she must be-
lieve Mrs. Luan, or perish in her despair.
Yes, she must believe that she was already
dear to Mr. Templemore, and that she would
grow far dearer still, or she could never face
the future.

"Aunt is right," she thought ; "it is my
duty and my right to charm my husband. I
must not fret, I must not be pale and look
heart-sick — I must be young, handsome, and
happy, and," she added, glancing at the mir-
ror, before which she now stood undoing her
long, bright hair, " I will ! "

Easy resolve to accomplish when the brow
is fair, and the eyes are bright ; when the
cheek is young and blushing, and, above all,

194

DORA.

when there is a girl's strong though modest
love in the heart.

CHAPTER XXXV.

A dream, in which Mrs. Courtenay saw
Dora presented with a pair of diamond ear-
rings by her fond husband, was rather abrupt-
ly disturbed by Dora herself the next morn-
ing. Mrs. Courtenay sat-up and stared at her
daughter, who stood by her side dressed, and
with her bonnet on.

" Why, Dora, what time is it ? " she asked,
" that you are already going out ? "

" I am not going out — I have been out, and
I have just come in," said Dora, who looked
rather sad and pale. " Mamma, I have a
great deal to say to you — will you hear me ? "

"Surely," replied Mrs. Courtenay, whose
mind was all running on the trousseau — " of
course you have a great deal to see to — I
could scarcely sleep for thinking of it — but
there is an excellent shop in the Rue Imperi-
ale, and — "

" You misunderstand me," Dora interrupted,
with an expression of great pain ; " what I
have to say is this : I cannot become Mr. Tem-
plemore' s wife."

" But, my dear, you have promised ! " cried
Mrs. Courtenay.

" True ; and the breaking of that promise,
which has cost me a sleepless night, will not
cost him a sleepless hour," replied Dora, very
sadly. " Mamma, Mr. Tcmplemore marries
me from honor, and I cannot, I will not be
married so. I said 'yes' last night because I
was mad •, and I dare say I should say ' yes '
again if he were to urge the point— therefore
I must go. I have been out this morning
and made every needful inquiry. If we leave
Rouen by twelve-, we can be in London to-
morrow."

Mrs. Courtenay was confounded. Here was
a fall, indeed, from the diamond car- rings of

her dream to the departure of reality. When
she recovered from her amazement, it was to
argue against so sudden a resolve. Especially
did she urge Dora not to go without seeing
Mr. Templemore. "It will affront him so,"
she said, pitifully.

Dora hung her head. Yes, it would affront
him ; but it would not pain him. The sting
could go no deeper than pride : even her
childish, innocent mother, who saw so little,
could see that.

" I cannot see him," she said, looking up ;
" I cannot say to him all I say to you, mamma.
It would look like calling forth protestations
which I do not wish to hear. He would have
to tell me again that I am young, pretty, and
amiable, and that of course he admires me,
and must love me in the end. No, I cannot
say all that, and hear him over again. Be-
sides, he might not understand me. For, after
all, I do not want my husband to adore me —
I do not deserve or expect extravagant affec-
tion from any man ; only no man shall marry
me from honor — none ! — none ! " she added,
her* eyes flashing and her voice ringing as she
spoke.

Mrs. Courtenay argued again ; but hei
daughter, though she listened to her patiently,
was not moved by her arguments.

" I cannot do it," she said, despondently.
" I do believe that if the feeling I have now
should come to me at the altar when we both
stood before the priest, and he had his book
open, I do believe t should say 'no/ even
then."

" My dear," innocently said her mother, " I
always thought you liked Mr. Templemore ? "

Dora's pale cheek flushed ; but she gave
Mrs. Courtenay no direct answer.

" I cannot do it," she said again ; " I would
rather marry John Luan than become Mr.
Templemorc's wife on these terms."

" And do you think of John Luan, then ? "
doubtfully asked Mrs. Courtenay.

DORA'S DISAPPEARANCE.

195

"Think of him ! think of any man with
this burden of disgrace upon me ! " cried
Dora, with a sudden agony of grief. " Why,
who would have me ? No — not John Luan
himself, though he has liked me years, and
though I need only say, ' I am guiltless,' for
him to believe me. He told me so last night :
I can marry but one man."

" Well, then, marry him," promptly said
her mother.

Dora shook her head. " Time is passing,"
she said, with a sigh, " and — oh ! how I long
to be gone — gone, and at peace ! "

" But, my dear, Mr. Templemore will prob-
ably follow us, and — "

" Follow us ? " interrupted Dora ; " no, mam-
ma, there is no fear of that ; he will be af-
fronted, as you said — besides, he need not
know where we are going."

It was hard to give up so bright a vision as
that which had not merely given Dora a pair
of diamond ear-rings, but had seen her throned
at Les Roches, and made her mistress of Dee-
nah ; it was hard, but it had to be done ; and
Mrs. Courtenay got up and prepared for che
approaching journey.

Mrs. Luan, on learning Dora's determina-
tion, stamped her foot, and stammered forth
an angry remonstranp e of " Idiot ! idiot ! you
shall not, you must not ! " but had to grow
calm again before Dora's resolve. For she
was resolute indeed. Pride, duty had been
with her in the night, and both had forbidden
her to become Mr. Templemore's wife. Mrs.
Luan stared, then said sulkily, acknowledging
herself conquered :

"You may go — I will not— why should I?
— John is not in London — I shall stay here."

"I hope you will join us later," replied
Dora ; " but it is better that you should not
come with us now."

"And what will Mr. Templemore say?"
asked Mrs. Luan.

"Not much," answered Dora, "for he will

not care much, aunt. I shall write a few lines,
which you will give him when he comes, and
he will be angry at first — then forget it."

Mrs. Luan muttered something to herself,
then was silent. No more, indeed, was said
on the subject, and nothing occurred to delay
and impede Dora's departure. As twelve
struck, the tidal train left the Rouen station,
and leaning back in the carriage, where she
sat by the side of her amazed and dismayed
mother, Dora could say to herself, with a bitter
sigh, "It is all over ! "

But when is anything over in life? The
very step Dora had taken to escape her fate
only precipitated its course, and made its ac-
complishment more certain.

It was barely two when Mrs. Luan, who sat
alone moody and defeated, heard Mr. Temple-
more coming up the staircase. He came to
spend an hour with Dora. He came in more
sober mood than he had left her the night be-
fore, seeing the plain facts of his marriage
more as they were than as they had seemed
in that moment of seduction and fervor; but
he came also as a lover to woo his mistress,
if not with fear and doubt of her favor on his
mind, at least with sufficient tenderness for
her in his heart. Madame Bertrand was not
below, and there was nothing to warn him of
what had occurred when he entered the sitting-
room, and seeing its disorder, Mrs. Luan sitting
alone, and a sealed letter lying on the table,
he understood all in a moment.

"Where is Miss Courtenay?" he asked,
sharply.

" Gone ! "

" Gone ? "

He took the letter, broke its seal, read it,
then crushed it angrily, and looking at Mrs.
Luan, he exclaimed impetuously —

"How dare Miss Courtenay use me so ? "

Alas ! Dora was right — his first feeling was
not one of pain, but of wrath and offended
pride. How dare she, the poor girl whom he

196

DORA.

had honored with his regard, jilt him, Richard
Templemore, the master of Deenah ?

"What has occurred since last night to
justify so extraordinary a proceeding?" he
asked, after a pause, and, though still angry,
speaking more calmly.

" They tell me nothing," replied Mrs. Luan,
sulkily ; " I dont know anything. I would not
go — why should I? John is not in Lon-
don."

A light seemed to break on Mr. Temple-
mere's mind. Had Dora repented and recalled
her promise, because that John Luan, her
cousin, her early friend, was secretly dear to
her ? He was amazed at himself never to have
thought of this.

" Mrs. Luan," he said, looking hard at her,
" I believe I can guess Miss Courtenay's reason
for acting as she has acted. I forgive her
freely ; but why was she not open with me ?
Could you not have told her how willing I was
to do everything — and I can do much — that
would forward her happiness ? Why did she
not tell me all last night ? " he asked, a little
indignantly. " Was it honorable, was it fair,
to pledge herself to one man, when, in her
heart, she liked another ? "

The words roused Mrs. Luan.

"Who? — what?" she asked, with sudden
animation. " Who is it Dora likes ? "

Mr. Templemore remembered her old oppo-
sition to the scheme he had framed for her son
and Dora, and he hesitated to reply.

" I know nothing," he said at length, " I
can only conjecture. If any one knows the
truth of this, surely you do, Mrs. Luan ; and
surely, seeing bow strangely I am treated,"
he added, with some bitterness, "you might
enlighten me, that, once for all, I may know
how to act."

Mrs. Luan rose and confronted him.

" You want to know ? " she said.

"I do," he replied, turning red with anger
as he foresaw her reply, and felt certain that

he had been betrayed and sacrificed for a
rivaL

" And you will not tell Dora ? "

" No," he impatiently answered. " Why
should-I?"

" Well, then," deliberately said Mrs. Luan,
" she likes you."

Mr. Templemore looked on Mrs. Luan, as,
after uttering these words, she sat down again,
with amazement, on which followed incredu-
lity.

" Nonsense," he said, with something like
contempt for the attempted imposition. " I
know you do not want your niece and your
son to marry ; but you need not say that, Mrs.
Luan."

" You do not believe me ? " she stammered,
angrily.

" I cannot — no, I cannot ! " he answered,
with slight hesitation. " Like me, and run
away from me because I want to marry her !
Whoever heard the like ? "

" You do not believe me ? " said Mrs. Luan
again. " Then why did you ask ? Why did
you want to know ? Why did you make me
tell you ? "

►She shook with anger. Mr. Templemore
looked at her, and felt strangely troubled.
What if this sallow, heavy woman had spoken
the truth ? — what if Dora Courtenay loved
him, and had fled because she loved him ?

" No," ie said, after a brief pause, " it can-
not be — I should have seen it."

" Seen it, Mr. Templemore ! " rather scorn-
fully echoed Mrs. Luan. " Seen it, when you
are blind — blind as a mole I "

Yes, this man had been so blind hitherto,
he had fallen so easily into the snares she had
laid for him, that she could not help despising
him for his blindness, and, in the insolence of
her success, taunting him with it. Mr. Tem-
plemore turned sharply upon her. For a mo-
ment he had a double revelation: that the
girl who had pledged herself to him the night

HER ADDRESS.

107

before, and fled that morning, loved him — and
that the low-browed woman, who spoke to him
with such strange insolence, was his betrayer,
he saw by rapid intuition. But either one
vision chased the other ; either the intoxi-
cating consciousness of his triumph over one
proud woman's heart hid from him all trace
of his humiliating defeat at the hands of
another woman, or that integrity and ingenu-
ousness, which forbid us to suspect without
proof, helped his undoing by telling him not
to heed an angry woman's words.

" Mrs. Luan, I did not wish to offend you,"
he said, with a smile ; " but your tale is so
strange that I may well doubt it. Can you
give me any token, any proof of what you
say ? "

" No," she said, sullenly. " Would Dora put
it down in pen and ink, ' I like Doctor Rich-
ard ? ' Xo, I can give you no proof, but I wish
I may never see John again if it be not true ! "

The words " Doctor Richard " did more to
convince Mr. Templemore than the imprecation
which followed it. Doctor Richard ! There was
strange magic in the name, and in the recol-
lections it called up. Signs which he had not
heeded at the time came back, and each was
eloquent, and had its own tale to tell. Many
a blush, many a sudden paleness, looks both
proud and shy, the happy glow which over-
spread her face when he entered the room, its
seriousness when he rose to go, were now re-
membered, and for the first time understood.
Had she, then, liked that poor, careless Doc-
tor Richard, of whoru she knew nothing, save
that he was poor ? Had she liked him with-
out thinking of the owner of Deenab, or the
master of Les Roches ? Mr. Templemore
walked up and down the room with irresolute
steps, almost convinced, and yet still doubt-
ing.

" May I trouble you for Miss Courtenay's
address ? " he said, at length. " I must see
her, or, at least, write."

lie uttered the last word slowly, like one
whose mind is not yet made up. When he
said that he must write, Mrs. Luan's face fell.
Had she remained in Rouen — had she be-
trayed Dora's secret for this ? Write ! — was
Dora the girl to change her purpose for a letter ?

" They tell me nothing," she said, sulkily.
" I don't know where they are."

" But, Mrs. Luan," he argued, a little im-
patiently, " it cannot end thus between Miss
Courtenay and me. I must either see her or
write to her, and surely you will help me
to the knowledge, without which I can do
neither."

" They tell me nothing," again said Mrs.
Luan, stolidly ; " they are in London — that's
all."

With a mixture of pity and contempt for
her obstinate stupidity, Mr. Templemore sat
down by her side, and conceiving that he had
offended this foolish and sulky woman, he did
his best to coax her back into a good-humor.

" Come, my dear Mrs. Luan," he said, with
his most persuasive smile, " you must be my
friend in this. How can I direct a letter to
Miss Courtenay. London ? "

" Kensington," corrected Mrs. Luan.

" But even Kensington will not do. I can-
not, at least, trust to the chance of an unex-
ceptionably clever postman in so important a
matter as this. There are streets in Kensing-
ton — which is it? "

" It is not a street — it's a terrace," sharply
corrected Mrs. Luan.

" Come, we are getting on," good-humoredly
rejoined Mr. Templemore. "Just tell me
what terrace, and I shall not ask for the num-
ber." *

" Xumber 5," said Mrs. Luan.

" But what terrace ? " asked Mr. Temple-
more, in his most coaxing tones.

Mrs. Luan turned up her eyes, and seemed
to try and remember, then shook her head, in
token of denial.

198

DORA.

" I nave forgotten," she said ; " but the post-
man will be sure to know."

" Sure to know, when I dare say there are a
hundred terraces ! " said Mr. Templemore, in
a vexed tone. " Come, Mrs. Luan, you must
really try and remember."

But he might as well have tried to move a
stone wall as to move Mrs. Luan. She said
the postman would be sure to know that it
was Number 5, and a terrace, and beyond
this she could not be got. Vexed and wearied,
Mr. Templemore left her at the end of a quar-
ter of an hour, muttering, as he went down-
stairs, " There never was such a fool as that
woman ! '•'

CHAPTER XXXVI.

And now that Mrs. Luan's cross-examination
was over, Mr. Templemore had leisure to think.
Never in all his life had he felt so strangely
perplexed and troubled as he did then. Should
he write to Dora, or should he follow her ? — or,
in plainer speech, should he marry her or not ?
Even a man in love has been known to pause
before so formidable an alternative as this.
When his duty, as he conceived it — when his
honor had made him offer his hand to the girl
whose devotion to his child had in some sort
caused her ruin, Mr. Templemore had not felt
the hesitation he felt now. Then every gen-
erous impulse of his nature had urged him on,
and given strange sweetness to the sacrifice of
his liberty. But Dora had released him — she
had released him in language so proud and so_
cold, that, unless it was the veil of a strong
and secret love, it was offensive to his pride as
a man. He was free — free in honor as well as
in fact, since no man is bound to press him-
elf on a woman to importunity. He was free,
and Mrs. Luan might have deceived him, or
been herself mistaken. It was quite possible
that, though she felt no positive aversion
against him, Dora recoiled from wedded life

with him just as he now hesitated to venture
upon it with her. All this Mr. Templemore
felt and knew, for the sweet visions of the pre-
ceding evening had rather paled with the
morning sun ; but something else, too, he could
not help feeling. What if that idiotic Mrs.
Luan, as he mentally called her, had spoken
divine truths, like the ancient sibyls, who gave
forth oracles, and strewed them to the winds
of heaven, not knowing their worth ? What
if poor Doctor Richard had been fondly loved
by one of the brightest and most accomplished
girls he had ever met ? What if the very sin-
cerity of her feelings made her shrink from a
union in which she could scarcely hope to have
her husband's whole heart ? Here was a temp-
tation, indeed ! — here was a strange, unex-
pected triumph, made to intoxicate even a
wiser man than Mr. Templemore.

There was fever in the thought, and all the
seduction of her paleness, of her sad looks, and
low voice came back with it. Read by that
light, these tokens had a dangerous meaning —
dangerous, at least, to Mr. Templemore's free-
dom. As he walked through the streets of the
old city he again seemed to see Dora Courte-
nay. In vain liberty beckoned on one side,
and bade him beware how he lost her ; on the
other there appeared a fairer vision by far, and
infinitely more alluring.

" I am young," she said, " and attractive, a
tender, yet proud woman. Your marriage was
the folly of a boy ; your second choice did not
prove the wisdom of your manhood ; but what
you had not with the one woman, what you
could never have had with the other, I can give
you. For I am youth and I am love, and I
come but once in a man's life when I do come,"
and he whom I visit, and yet who fails to keep
me, was never worthy to have me."

A colder man than Mr. Templemore was,
might surely be forgiven if he listened to this
temptress. He paused, he hesitated ; should
he write and trust to that anonymous terrace,

MR. TEMPLEMORE IN PURSUIT.

199

and that number five, for the safety of his let-
ter ; or should he seek and find the fugitive,
and read, as he could surely read, with this
clew to guide him, the truth in her face ! He
could not resist this desire. He could not re-
sist the secret hope that the truth had been
told to him that day. Above all, he could not
resist the longing he felt to secure Dora Cour-
tenay, and call her his. She was to him in
this feverish hour as many an exquisite relic
of ancient art had been for the last year — a
wish to be gratified, no matter how extrava-
gant the cost might be.

" I dare say it were better for me that I had
never seen her," he thought, still pausing irres-
olute on the threshold of his fate; "better
for me that I had never gone to her house, and
brought her to mine ; but now it is too late to
think of this. She has lost all for me. Peace,
fair name, the world's esteem, the chance of
honorable marriage, everything perished in one
hour for my sake ; but am I so selfish and so
cold that I cannot atone — that I cannot repay
her tenfold, and turn her wrong into unex-
pected happiness ? "

There is something splendid in the power of
giving ; it is a glorious privilege, and makes
us kings and sovereigns for the hour, as with
the stroke of an enchanter's wand. Mr.
Templemore could not help smiling to himself
as he thought how he could change Dora's des-
olation into joy. She would never tell him —
never — but surely blind though Mrs. Luan
thought him, he could see it. He looked at
bis watch. It was not four yet. If he took the
evening train he could be with her to-morrow.

".And why should I not ? " he asked him-
self ; " if she really likes me, ought I not mar-
ry a woman who has suffered so severely for
my sake ? And if she does not — ought I not
know it, and be free in conscience and honor,
as I am in fact ? "

Mr. Templemore was no less prompt to act
on his resolve, than Dora had been to follow

up hers. He left that night, and was the next

day in London.

Dora's first act, on returning to Madame
Bertrand's rooms, had been to write to a
widowed lady in reduced circumstances, and
ask whether she would receive her. The re-
ply had come that Mrs. Robinson no longer
took in lodgers, but that she would accommo-
date' Mrs. and Miss Courtenay for a time.
Thus, on arriving at the station the two ladies
had but to take a cab and drive through well-
remembered streets, now wearing a strange
look, after the absence of a year, to that quiet
terrace with a garden wall in front, and nod-
ding trees, where Mrs. Robinson resided. Mrs.
Courtenay had been very ill at sea, and she re-
tired to her room almost at once. Dora sat
in the front parlor, sad, but calm, because her
fate, as she considered it, was now irrevocable.
She had placed it, as she thought, beyond the
reach of her own will, and she blest Heaven
that she had had strength to do so.

The day was now nearly worn, the gray
English twilight was setting in, and she was
looking at the trees before her, seeing them
not — seeing in their stead a gray old church,
with lilies growing midst its buttresses, and all
in a flame with the red light of a rich sunset,
when a tap at the door roused her. A demure
parlor-maid looked in, and merely saying,
" Please, Miss, Mr. Templemore wishes to speak
to you," she showed him in, as a matter of
course, and closed the door behind him.

The cab that had brought him had put him
down at the corner of the terrace ; he had not
knocked at the door, but rung, that she might
have no warning ; and now he stood before
her, as if called up by that vision in which she
had been indulging.

She rose and faced him, pale and trem-
bling. It is dreadful to be forever strug-
gling. Strength and courage may well fail
us ; well may we quail when the battle is
perpetual, and never won. With a sort of

200

DORA.

despair, Dora felt her heart going away from
her, rushing back to its old servitude. She
rebelled, she tried to brave this cruel subjec-
tion — one of the most humbling a proud
woman can feel, and in that first moment, at
least, she was powerless. The joy of hearing
his voice, of seeing his face again, was stronger
than either jill or pride.

" Am I again going to be conquered ? "
thought Dora, with secret anguish. " Am I
again going to do the very thing I condemn ?
— and has he but to appear in order to prevail
against me ? "

She could not bear the thought. Pity them
whose conscience is ever striving against in-
clinations ; pity them, and if they succumb,
condemn them not lightly. It is something to
.have striven ; and the defeat which tells of a
contest can never be all ignominious. Never-
theless, that habit of self-command which is
at the root of a woman's nature, came to
Dora's help in this hour of need.

" Mr. Templemore," she asked, calmly,
though sadly, " is this well ? "

" Miss Courtenay," he replied gravely, " al-
low me to reciprocate your question : Is this
well ? Did you use me well ? "

"Perhaps not," she said, with some emo-
tion ; " but I wished to have it all over. It
seemed best."

He looked at her. She had recovered her
composure, which his unexpected appearance
had somewhat disturbed, and she spoke very
quietly. He felt disappointed and perplexed.
Had Mrs. Luan deceived him? Surely he
would soon know.

" Your letter told me nothing," he said ;
" I come to know your reasons. You cannot
have changed your mind so suddenly without
a reason."

" I have no new reason," replied Dora.

" But you have some old reason," he per-
sisted ; " some old reason, which you had not
told me."

" No — none."

There was a sad passiveness in her tone,
that told him nothing save that the subject
was painful to her. He still felt perplexed,
and more irritated perhaps than perplexed.
He asked her to hear him, and Dora raised no
opposition. She sat down by the window,
and he sat facing her, watching every motion
of her features as he spoke. He urged over
again every argument for their marriage, and
against her refusal, which he had already used
— but vainly. Dora leaned back in her chair
with her hands clasped on her lap, and her
eyes downcast or fixed on vacant space, and
with a face as pale and as changeless as
marble. She heard him, she did not contra-
dict him much, but she said despondently,
" No, Mr. Templemore, it cannot be."

" Then I see what it is ! " he exclaimed,
reddening as he spoke, and speaking with more
warmth than he was conscious of using — " you
have a previous attachment, and v% ill not tell
me ! "

Dora reddened too, but whether with re-
sentment, shame, or any other feeling, it was
impossible for Mr. Templemore to tell.

" You are mistaken," she answered ; " if I
had any such feeling, I should not be ashamed
of it, and I would tell you at once."

" Then you dislike me ! " he said with some
impetuosity.

Dora smiled, but simply answered : " No ,
why should I ? "

Mr. Templemore was confounded. He was
stung too. All his fond visions had melted
away, and he only saw a calm, proud woman,
who did not seem to care much for him ; and
whom, spite her indifference — alas ! perhaps
on account of that indifference — he could not
help wishing to win. Had he hesitated
whether he should marry her or not, had he
followed her thus far in hot pursuit, had he
pleaded his cause for the last half hour with
every subtle and varied argument, to be

HE IS SUCCESSFUL.

201

balked in the end ? Mr. Tcmplemore was not
a handsome man, and he knew it; but he
knew too that woman is won by the ear far
more than by the eye ; and if he had never
guessed that Dora loved him, he had always
seen that she liked him. Again and again he
had prevailed with her, made her yield her
will to his, and not quarrel with her sub-
jection. And now, when he laid himself out
to charm, he failed. When he offered her
position, wealth, and what he justly thought
most of, himself, he failed. He was offended,
he was hurt, but he was allured too, and that
unexpected resistance was the last crowning
seduction which rendered Dora irresistible,
and made him resolve not to leave the room
till he had conquered.

" And so," he said, with a mixture of pathos
and anger in his voice, which moved Dora's
heart — "so that is your unalterable resolve,
Miss Courtenay ? We might be happy to-
gether — we must be wretched apart. Think
of it well ! You condemn me to solitude.
You know I cannot, I will not in honor marry
another woman whilst you live. I say it
again — you condemn me to solitude ! "

He had risen and was pacing the room in
some agitation ; but he came back to her as
•he uttered the last words, and standing before
her, seemed to appeal, more in sorrow than,
in wrath, against so harsh a sentence. Dora
felt much disturbed, but she tried to say com-
posedly :

" I do not, Mr. Tcmplemore. I trust, I hope
you will marry — as to that, so may I ! "

" Then you do want to marry ! " he ex-
claimed, jealously ; " you do want to marry ? "

"Why not, Mr. Templemore ? " she asked,
lifting up her head proudly, for both tone and
question offended her.

" Then why not marry me ? " he argued an-
grily ; " you say you have no previous attach-
ment, why not marry me ? "

" Because I will never marry a man who

marries me from honor," replied Dora, with
some energy. "I have said it, Mr. Temple-
more, and nothing shall make me gainsay it."

Mr. Templemore looked amazed.

" Honor ! " he said, impatiently ; " did I
speak of honor, Miss Courtenay ? "

Dora felt troubled. He had not, indeed,
urged that argument.

" You said you could not marry any other
woman in honor, Mr. Templemore," she re-
plied at length.

"Nor can I — but did I say that I wished to
marry you from honor ? On my word, Miss
Courtenay," he added, with sudden emotion,
" it is not honor, it is not the wish to right
you that brought me here this evening. I
know all you can urge. That a few days ago
I was to marry another woman — I grant it ;
but I also know this, that I am here, and that,
as I said before, it is not honor that brings
me. It is the wish — the irresistible wish that
you should be my wife."

Involuntary tenderness softened his voice
and look as he uttered the word " wife ; " and
no lover's protestation could have moved
Dora's heart as that word thus uttered by one
so dear. It comprised all — every eloquence,
every promise, every fond hope, every pledge,
every bond. Without a word of doubt or re-
sistance, with her whole soul in the act, she
placed her hand in his.

"And this time," said Mr. Templemore,
radiant and triumphant, " I shall keep you to
your promise! "

" You need not, Mr. Templemore," she said
with the brightest smile he had ever seen on
her bright face; "nothing shall make me
break it."

"Her aunt spoke the truth," thought Mr
Templemore as he looked at her; "but what a
strange, perverse creature to give me all that
trouble ! "

Perverse or not, he loved her. Perverse or
not, he grudged not the trouble she had cost

202

DORA.

him — be regretted not the strange turns of
fate which had given hiin this prize. She was
to him just then that something exquisite and
rare, which in certain moods the best and the
wisest man will purchase, no matter at what
cost, ay, even though the price should be life-
long liberty.

When Mrs. Courtenay, much recruited by a
long nap, thought she should like a cup of tea,
and came down for that purpose, she found
the tea-things on tbe parlor table, two candles
burning brightly, and by their light she saw
Mr. Templcmore looking perfectly happy, and
her daughter as gay as a lark on a summer
morning.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Nothing occurred to delay the fate which
one woman's folly and another woman's treach-
ery had brought down on these two. Mr.
Templcmore wished for a speedy marriage,
and he had his way. The morning on which
Dora was to become his wife was fixed, and in
the mean while he came daily to see her. He
came early and stayed late, and unless when
he was with her, he felt restless and unhappy.
He did not know himself what ailed him. He
seemed to be bewitched. It was as if he had
never seen before that this girl was worth win-
ning. He did remember having admired her,
but he could not now believe in his past ad-
miration—it seemed so cold, so dead. Some-
he had gleams of reason, and wondered
at himself; but they were gleams, and no
more. They passed athwart his mind trou-
bling it, and when they had departed, he only
felt more Btrongly impelled to rush on this
fate before him. lie was like the fisherman
in the ballad. The very waters that were to
devour him allured him irresistibly. Perhaps
h<: could not help i;. Perhaps this sudden
vehement passion, following on a Ion"-
quiet love for another woman, was the only

thing that could save him from the abhorrence
of marrying a girl his heart had not chosen ;
even as but for that passion he could never
have conquered Dora's pride and won her con-
sent. The feeling that turned his sacrifice
into sweetness had vanquished all her scruples,
and changed their bitterness to strange joy.

For, after all, she could not be blind. If
Mrs. Logan had been loved, she was loved ten
times more. If Florence had been dear, Dora
was far dearer. He made no professions —
perhaps remembering his involuntary infidel-
ity, he was silenced ; but there is another elo-
quence besides that of language, and a hun-
dred signs betrayed him.

And Mr. Templemore was not more blind
than his mistress. He kept his promise to
Mrs. Luan. He told D.ora nothing ; he put
no questions, but before two days were over
he knew more than Dora's aunt had betrayed.

Mr. Templemore was too imaginative to be
a clear-sighted man. He often remained blind
to the plainest things, because he could not
compel himself to see them under their real
aspects ; but once his penetration was awak-
ened, it became quick and searching as light-
ning, and his very imagination coming to his
aid, it left no recess unexplored. A sudden
paleness which passed across her face as he
recalled the past, and inflicted upon her the
sting of a retrospective pain — who said that
love was merciful ? The glow which sur-
rounded it when reminded of the time during
which he came to her as plain Doctor Richard,
and other signs as subtle, but as plain, con-
vinced him that the poor struggling medical
man had been as tenderly loved as the affluent
gentleman, and that either had been infinitely
dear to Dora's heart.

No man could remain indifferent to such a
discovery, least of all a man who had a gen-
erous nature, and who was himself very much
smitten. Passion softened into tenderness as
he remembered all that this now happy-look-

DORA COURTENAY BECOMES MRS. TEMPLEMORE.

203

ing girl had endured for his sake, and with
silent fervor he vowed to atone for the suffer-
ings of the past by the love and devotion of
the whole future. Alas ! how easy it was to
Mr. Templemore to keep that vow ! How
swift, how invading, how all-absorbing was
this new love which bad conquered the old,
and buried it fathoms deep ! How is it that
even fine and noble natures are subject to
this lamentable inconstancy ? We see it daily,
but who shall venture to read a riddle so per-
plexing ! Of voluntarily forsaking the woman
to whom he had been pledged so long, for
any other Woman, Mr. Templemore was in-
capable ; but honor is not love, and when he
found how willing he was to take Florence at
her word, and how eager he felt to do Dora
justice, he did not dare to question his own
heart. Had his affection for the one grown
cool since he had known the other ? Had
that irresistible attraction which had drawn
him to Dora day after day, made him bring
her to his house, and delight in her society,
been the guilty dawn of his present lawful
fondness ? It might be so ; but another ex-
planation as plausible, and more soothing to
his conscience and bis pride than this, was
also possible.

Mr. Templemore's nature was one of strong
passions — as, indeed, his countenance ex-
pressed plainly ; but though he was past
thirty, though he had been married to one
woman, and pledged to another, Passion had
never had her day, nor even her hour. Now
amongst the legends of science is one of his-
torical truth. Every eighty or ninety years
for the last three centuries a volcanic isle has
risen in the Mediterramean, near San Miguel
of the Acores. Flames and earthquakes mark
its birth. As it rises a burning stream flows
down its sterile peaks into the sea. When it
has reached its full height it remains motion-
less for a while, burning like a beacon, which
ships can see miles away ; then it slowly

sinks back again into the deep waters, and a
faint wreath of smoke shows the spot where
it has vanished.

Such cycles of passion and fever there arc
in most human lives. The feeling may take
the name of love, of ambition, nay, of devo-
tion itself — it matters not, forth it must come.
Mjdst catastrophe and bitter throes it must
rise from beneath those calm waters where it
lay so falsely sleeping. This might have been
Mr. Templemore's fate. He might have been
destined to love a woman passionately at a
certain time of his life, and for good or for
evil, as the future would show, that woman
proved to be, not Florence, but Dora. The
suddenness of this new feeling carried with it
a sort of intoxication, which was both sweet
and dangerous, and against which it was very
difficult to guard. Mr. Templemore did not
seek to do so ; he gave himself up to the
love which there was no law, human or divine,
to forbid, and which the woman who inspired
it shared in all its fulness.

And thus the brief days of the courtship
went by, and ended in a marriage morning
that made Dora Courtenay Mr. Templemore's
wife.

When Dora alighted from the carriage that
brought her home, she felt as if she were
treading upon air ; and Mr. Templemore, as
he led her in, looked as happy as a man who
resolves to marry a woman from honor, but
who has the good fortune to fall desperately
in love with her, can well look. That their
marriage was hurried, private, and contracted
under the ominous cloud of disgrace, with no
kind friends gathering around them to wish
them joy, neither heeded in that hour. They
were happy, and happiness, we fear, is rather
a selfish feeling. Still Dora had one keen
pang. Her aunt had promised to come and
stay with Mrs. Courtenay, but she had not
kept her word. Her mother must remain
alone, for Mr. Templemore would have his

204

DORA.

honeymoon to himself, and only smiled when
Mrs. Courtenay grew querulous, and Dora
looked imploring. He promised they should
not long be divided, but separated it was plain
they must be.

To Dora's great joy, therefore, though some-
what to her surprise, Mrs. Luan was found sit-
ting in the bedroom up-stairs when the bride
entered it to change her dress.

" Oh ! aunt, that is kind ! " cried Dora.
" But why did you not come earlier — why did
you not come to see me married ?"

Mrs. Luan looked at her ; never did bride
look brighter or happier than Dora, as she
stood before her aunt, resting her two hands
on Mrs. Luan's shoulders and gazing down
with the most radiant smile in her face.

" I began to think you did not care about
me," saucily continued Dora, putting on a
frown.

"Are you married ? " asked Mrs. Luan.

Dora laughed gayly.

" Why, aunt, this is not my every-day
dress — is it?" she asked. "You never saw
me in white with orange flowers before to-day
—did you ? "

" Well, but are you really married ? " in-
sisted Mrs. Luan.

Dora took off her glove and showed the
wedding-ring on her left hand.

" Now do you believe it ? " she asked good-
humoredly ; " besides, Mr. Templemore is be-
low, and if you will but come down you will
hear him call me Mrs. Templemore. He has
already done so twice ; and, aunt," she added,
fn the fulness of her joy, " I do believe he is
as happy as I am ! "

Everything in her betrayed joy and happi-
ness, not unmixed with triumph. She could
not help it. Some brides are pale and tear-
ful, some are dignified, and some are simply
cheerful. Doia was glad, and her gladness,
which she never thought of concealing from
her apathetic aunt's eye, which she scarcely

thought visible to that cold-blooded lady, now
shone forth without disguise. With Mr. Tem-
plemore, with her mother, even, she would
have been more shy, but with Mrs. Luan she
was not on her guard, and she looked as she
felt, the happiest of women. John Luan's
mother stared at her moodily. It was she
who had parted Mr. Templemore and Florence
Gale ; it was she who had given the rich man
to her poor niece ; it was she who had stimu-
lated his liking into passion, who had urged
him on with the lure of Dora's love. She
had done it, she felt no regret, and not an
atom of repentance, and yet this happiness
of Mr. Templemore's wife irritated her.

" How dare Dora be glad, when she must
know that her bliss wouid be John Luan's
grief! How dare she ! "

She could not speak her resentment, but
she was untying her bonnet-strings', and was
going to display her wrath according to her
usual fashion, when Dora nimbly took the
bonnet from her hands and laughingly put it
away.

"Xo, aunt," she said, "I cannot allow it.
I made that bonnet myself; and' I cannot
allow it. Besides, what is there to put you
out on a day like this ? Look, I have not for-
gotten you."

She opened a jewel-box, and produced a
handsome ring, which she slipped on Mrs.
Luan's finger.

" That is our gift," she said, " his as well
as mine ; I need scarcely tell you so," she
added with a smile, for the ring was evidently
an expensive one, " and you must look glad,
aunt."

A romantic, high-minded woman, if she had
felt what Mrs. Luan felt toward Mr. Temple-
more just then — namely, that he was robbing
her son of his mistress, and making his wife
of the very girl whom John Luan had chosen
years ago for himself — such a woman, we say,
would certainly have thrown the ring away,

DEPARTURE FOR NORTH WALES.

205

and probably have made a speech. But Mrs.
Luan, though she cared not one farthing for
the gift, and bated the donor with all the un-
reasonable bate of a wrong-doer, who wants
to vent on some one the resentment due to
her own deeds, was neither romantic nor
high-minded. She only looked angry and
sulky.

" Aunt, what ails you ? " asked Dora.

" What will John say ? " inquired Mrs.
Luan in her turn.

Dora's color fled at the question.

" I am sorry for John," she faltered — " very
sorry, aunt."

" And where are you going to live ? " con-
tinued Mrs. Luan, cbangiug her theme.
"Here?"

Dora smiled.

" Oh ! aunt, what a question ! " she said
gayly ; " is Mr. Templemore going to live in
an eight-roomed bouse ? "

" Well, but where is it?" — persisted Mrs.
Luan — " in what square ? "

" In no square at all," replied Dora, still
amused. "Do you think, aunt, Mr. Temple-
more has a bouse everywhere ? He has but
one of bis own that I know of — the house to
which we are going — and that is Deenab ! "

Mrs. Luan looked up with sudden interest.

" Then you are going away ? " she said.

"Ay, surely, after breakfast; and that is
why, aunt, I am so glad and so grateful, too,
for your coming. Poor mamma will not be
left alone."

" And you will cross over to-day," continued
Mrs. Luan — " this very day you will be in Ire-
land ? "

"No, Mr. Templemore wants to show me
North Wales. I do not know when we shall
reach Deenab."

She looked in some perplexity at her aunt.
She could not understand why this journey
seemed to interest Mrs. Luan so much, that
her face had cleared and brightened the mo-

ment Dora bad mentioned it. But it was so-
Mrs. Luan looked quite brisk and cheerful
now, and said that she would go down ; and
so she did, leaving Dora rather grave and
pensive.

Mr. Templemore was alone in the front
parlor waiting for his wife, when the lock
turned, and the door opened. He thought
it was Dora, and with that impulse which
prompts us to go and meet whatever we love,
he moved toward the door. When he saw
Mrs. Luan's clumsy figure and sallow face, be
almost stepped back, so unpleasant was the
surprise. A feeling which could not be a
presentiment, for it came too late, but which
certainly partook of repulsion and dislike, sud-
denly rose within him.

"I must get that woman's son some ap-
pointment or other," he thought; "and she
must leave Les Roches. I will not have her
near Eva."

He had not time to linger over the feeling.
Dora, who had quickly changed her dress, now
entered the room, no more a bride, but a wife ;
and with her came Mrs. Courtenay, who, in
doleful and hysterical tones, informed them
that breakfast was ready.

The meal was not a cheerful one; it was
soon over. Mrs. Luan's presence seemed to
Mr. Templemore to have brought a funereal
gloom with it. He was eager to be gone, and
pleaded that they would be late for the train
if they did not depart at once.

Mrs. Courtenay heaved several deep sighs,
and could not help remarking :

" I must say, Mr. Templemore, that it is a
very barbarous fashion to take away girls so —
it is like kidnapping to me. Or a taking away
of the Sabines, or anything horrible."

"But Dora is willing," pleaded Mr. Temple-
more, good-humoredly ; " so that makes a
great difference, Mrs. Courtenay, between me
and the sons of Romulus."

Mrs. Courtenay sighed again, but submitted.

20G

DORA.

She. even went through the trying ordeal of
bidding her daughter farewell, with a fortitude
for which Mr. Templemore, who was watching
Dora's quivering lip with some uneasiness, was
grateful to his mother-in-law. And when he
pressed her hand and bade her adieu before
entering the carriage where Dora was waiting,
he said warmly :

"My dear Mrs. Courtenay, you shall soon
see your daughter again, and she shall tell you
then, that if I take her from you it is to make
her a very happy woman."

With these words, he, too, was gone; the
carriage drove away, and Mrs. Courtenay burst
into half-angry, half-pitiful tears.

" I never knew anything so selfish as men ! "
she exclaimed, addressing Mrs. Luan. " To
think of Mr. Templemore taking my child from
me in order to make her happy! Could he
not have stayed here — Mrs. Robinson would
have given up the house — or taken me with
them to North Wales ? Why," she continued,
warming with the sense of her wrongs, and
rocking herself to and fro in her chair — " why
must he have Dora all to himself? I say he
is no better than Romulus. As to Dora being
willing, I dare say those Sabine girls were will-
ing too, or they could not have been taken
away. I have always heard, indeed, that
thieves are loth to attack women, because
they scream so. I wonder Mr. Templemore
could be so absurd ! "

The consciousness of Mr. Templemore's ab-
surdity, however, had one good result ; it so
far soothed Mrs. Courtenay's irritated feelings,
that her next remark could refer to the pro-
priety of making a cold dinner on the remains
of the welding breakfast. Great was her
amazement, therefore, when Mrs. Luan com-
posedly declared that she did not intend dining
with her sister-in-law.

'•And where, then, do you dine?" a
Mrs. Courtenay, sitting up, and looking con-
founded.

Mrs. Luan answered that she meant to dine
with Mrs. Smith. With this lady Mrs Cour-
tenay had long entertained a deadly feud,
and she, therefore, considered this declaration
doubly insulting. Moreover, it was simply ri-
diculous, as she kindly added, " for how could
Mrs. Luan want to dine with Mrs. Smith, when
she had not been two hours in London ? "

But Mrs. Luan, in her stolid way, replied
that she had gone to Mrs. Smith's first ; and
she completed the list of her iniquities by add-
ing that, as Mrs. Smith had a spare bedroom,
she meant to stay with that lady. Mrs.
Courtenay seldom got in a passion, but she
felt fairly enraged at such usage, and she
expressed her resentment with a warmth
which might have led to a final breach be-
tween the two ladies, if Mrs. Luan had been a
sensitive person, which she luckily was not.
Unmoved by her sister-in-law's reproaches and
tears, she put on her bonnet and left her.

Mrs. Smith used to Jive at Highgate, but she
had probably changed her quarters, for Mrs.
Luan took the Tottenham-Court Road omni-
bus, and having reached Bedford Square,
knocked at the door of one of its many lodg-
ing-houses, was admitted by an untidy servant,
and entering the front parlor, found John
Luan there, reading the Lancet.

" Why, little mother, where have you been
all this time?" he asked, good-humoredly.
" I came in early, just to spend an hour with
you, and, lo and, behold, you, the bird was
flown ! "

" I went to take a walk," replied Mrs. Luan,
sitting down — " why, you are pale, John," she
abruptly added.

" Pale ! " he echoed, with a hearty laugh,
which showed, at least, the soundness of his
lungs — " pale, little mother ! — why, surely you
do not call me pale ? " he added, walking up
to a low looking-glass above the mantel-piece,
and surveying therein his florid, handsome
face with that candid admiration which most

JOHN LUAN.

207

handsome young men feel for their own good
looks.

Perhaps seeing him so gay and happy
smote her — perhaps the knowledge of the
wrong she had helped to do him was too much
for her ; at all events, Mrs. Luan could not
bear to think of Dora, Mr. Templemore's
happy wife, and to look at her sou, whom
that day had robbed forever of his dear young
mistress. She flung herself on the sofa, and
burst into sobs and tears. Now, indeed, John
Luan was pale — pale as death.

" You have had a letter ? " he said— " news
— bad news ! " And he bent over her with an
eager, questioning gaze, that seemed as if it
would have snatched and devoured the very
words from her lips.

"No," sulkily replied Mrs.' Luan, recover-
ing her self-possession, and sitting up.

"Then, in Heaven's name, what is it?"
asked John, still anxious.

" I saw a child run over," she stolidly an-
swered.

John Luan looked profoundly indifferent.

" That," he said, coolly, " is an every-day
matter in London. I thought you had better'
nerves, little .mother. I wonder Dora does
not write," he added, a little impatiently ;
" you have been here three days, and I think
she might have written."

Mrs. Luan replied that Dora had no time —
Eva took all her leisure.

" Well, well," good - humoredly rejoined

John, " I trust she will not long be a govern-

■ess — I am almost sure of that appointment,

and — and I'll marry Dora as- soon as I get

it."

He looked at his mother rather doubtfully.
He knew, though a word on that subject had
never passed between them, that since the
loss of Dora's fortune, she was no longer a
daughter-in-law after Mrs. Luan's own heart.
But this was a matter in which John was
quite resolved on having his own way, and he

thought the present opportunity as good a one
as any to announce his determination.

" You can't marry," eagerly ' said Mrs.
Luan ; " you are first cousins."

" Come, come, little mother, kings and
queens marry their first cousins, and wliy
should not doctors have the same privilege? "

" You can't afford it,"' urged Mrs. Luan,
shaking with emotion ; " you can't, John."

" Yes', I can," he wilfully replied ; " I tell
you, I am almost sure 'of that appointment.
The place is pretty, and the cottage simply
delightful. You and Mrs." Courtenay shall
have two such nice rooms, little mother. And
Dora and I another, not so good as yours, but
quite good enough for young people.. Then
the parlors are so cheerful, and the garden is
one mass of flowers ; and do you think that
being rent free, and having a hundred a year
salary, besides such practice as I shall be
sure to come into — do you think, I say, that
I, a man of twenty-six, cannot support wife,
mother, ay, and child too, if need be," he
added, with a secure smile, though something
in the bright vision he thus called up made
his blue eye grow dim as he spoke.

Dream away, John Luan ! See that cot-
tage with its low, pleasant rooms, and its
blooming garden, and put Dora there, whilst
the dream is on you. Never, save in that
dream, shall her feet cross that lowly thresh-
old ; never shall child of yours r*est on her
bosom, save in the fancy of this moment.
Even now, and whilst you are speaking, her
hand is clasped in Mr. Templemore's hand,
and her happy face looks up to his. These
two are now taking together that journey of
love to end in a happy home, for which you
have saved twenty pounds. " Yes, we can
do it upon that," thinks John Luan; and lie
does not know that the rich man has robbed
him, and that the woman who sits by his side
and looks at him with so scared a face, has
more than abetted the despoilcr. But for her

208

DORA.

•

his prize would bave remained untouched, and
not be now another man's darling ; but for her
he would have had his cbance and won, per-
haps from sad weariness, what that other hap-
pier man owes to love.

" So you see," resumed John Luan, follow-
ing aloud the train of his reverie, and still
thinking of the twenty-pound note up-stairs, so
safely locked in his desk—" so you see, little
mother, that I bave plenty of money. Dear Do-
ra, I know, will never grumble at our poverty."

A light seemed to break on Mrs. Luan's
mind. She seized it eagerly. She did not re-
pent, she felt no remorse, but it would be a
relief if Dora had been faithless and perjured
herself.

" Then she promised ? " she exclaimed,
clinching her hands ; " she did promise ! "

" Promise to marry me ! " repeated John ;
" what if she did ? "

" How dare she ! — how dare she ! " cried
Mrs. Luan, working herself up to a sort of
frenzy ; " how dare she do it ? "

" Come, mother, " resolutely said John,
"you must not talk so. Dora and I have a
right to please ourselves in this. Your only
objection is her poverty — well, then, I say I
can support a wife."

" Byt how dare she promise ? " continued
Mrs. Luan, stamping her foot in her rage ;
" how dare she ? "

John had a mind to say the truth — that
Dora had not promised. "But if I tell her
that," he thought, " it will be all to begin
over again another time, better she should
make up her mind to it now."

If Mrs. Luan's anger had not been too great
for utterance, she would in her wrath have
told John Luan that Dora had that very morn-
ing become Mr. T< mplemore's wife ; but by
the time that her rage no longer impeded her
Bpeech, she remembered that if she spoke she
must account for her own treacherous silence
—and she was mute.

She looked sullen and conquered. John
felt rather uncomfortable, but putting on a
cheerful look, he kissed her, said briskly it
was time for him to go, and humming a tune
to show how unconcerned he felt, he walked
out of the house, and thought when he got out
into the square, "She took it better than I
expected. "

The door had no sooner closed on her
son, than Mrs. Luan's frenzy broke forth
anew.

" She promised — she dared to promise ! "
she said, rocking herself to and fro on the sofa.
And every fond word and look of John Luan's,
every happy blush and smile of Dora's that
morning, every sign of love she had read on
Mr. Templemore's face, came back to her then,
and exasperated her. She had wanted to sav*e
her son, but Dora had betrayed and Mr. Terh-
plemore had plundered him. She thought of
his jealousy and grief if he had known that this
was their wedding-day, and the thought ap-
palled her, and filled her with wrath for their
happiness and his despair. How dare they
be blessed at what would wring her son's heart
within him ? " Let them take care, that's all ! "
thought Mrs. Luan, as she sullenly calmed
down. " They are happy to-day ; but let them
take care, that's all ! " she added, nodding
grimly.

She did not question John when he came in
to dinner. She did not ask to know how and
when Dora's promise had been given. Mrs.
Luan wanted to know nothing ; she had moved
the intolerable burden of guilt from her own
shoulders to that of another, and perhaps she
dreaded whatever could enlighten her.

John, who was an arrant domestic coward,
felt much relieved at his mother's sHence, and
like most cowards of his sex on such occa-
sions, he took some glory in it.

" There is nothing like pluck, " he thought
complacently ; " women like it, and they need
the strong hand, the best of them. Your

MRS. TEMPLEMORE'S HAPPINESS.

209

health, little mother, " he added gayly, lifting
up his glass and drinking to her.

Mrs. Luan said nothing, but turned sallow,
and looked at him coldly ; it was as if, gifted
with second sight, she had seen Mr. Temple-
more that very same moment raising his glass
to Dora with the same act, and saying with
mingled pride and fondness, "Your health,
Mrs. Templemore."

" My little mother has not got over it yet,"
thought John ; and he prudently walked out
into the square to smoke a cigar. " But she
will," he continued in his mental soliloquy,
" because she must. I say it again, the best
of them need it — their nature requires subjec-
tion. Even my little Dora, good as she is, has
a saucy tongue at times, and needs control ! "

And then, as he walked slowly in the dusty
square, and looked dreamily at the stars that
came out in the dull London sky, he again
went to the cottage, and there indulged him-
self in a conjugal quarrel with Dora, which
ended happily with a reconciling kiss, and of
course with the assertion of John Luan's man-
liness, and of Mrs. Luan's wifely subjection.

Alas, poor John, your little Dora has already
found her master !

CHAPTER XXXVHI.

There is a cruel superstition among sailors.
If one of the crew should fall overboard and
be drowned at the beginning of the voyage, it
is a pity, to be sure, but then it is also a sure
token that the weather will be fair, and the
journey prosperous. That ship can never be
wrecked which has witnessed such a catas-
trophe.

Even so it seemed to be with Mr. Temple-
more and his wife. Death had taken hex-
brother, and a stormy wave removed his be-
trothed from their ken, whilst John Luan went

adrift all unconsciously; and now their two
14

barks could sail side by side on smooth seas,
beneath a serene sky, with the gentlest winds
to speed them.

Did they think of this as they entered Dee-
nah together ? Oh ! for the mutability of the
human heart ! The woman for whom Mr.
Templemore had prepared that home was now
forgotten, and as he had given every passion-
ate emotion of his heart to that bright-haired
girl by his side, so had she surrendered her
whole love to the happy rival of her own
adored brother. Yes, spite all the wrecks and
ruins of the past, spite its sorrows, and a
lonely grave, they were blest. Dora felt it as
they walked through the grounds, and she saw
the sky, the mountains, the woodlands, all in a
flame with the burning radiance from the west,
whilst the whole house glittered afar like a
fairy palace, in the hazy glow of the setting sun.
She felt it- as they passed beneath aged trees,
through the waving grass, and the blackbird
and the thrush sang so sweetly above them.
She felt it as they entered the house together,
and she stood in a large, bright room, with
pictures, and flowers, and books, a luxurious
room, but also a genial one, made to live in,
and which seemed to echo her husband's wel-
come.

Mr. Templemore watched Dora's eyes as they
scanned this room, half shyly, half freely. He
saw her look wander from a large view of
Venice oh the walls, to a glowing sketch of the
Eastern desert, and thence again to the exotic
flowers blooming in one of the windows, be-
yond which spread a grand view of heathy
mountains.

" Well ? " he said, gently drawing her tow-
ard him.

" Well," she replied, looking up at him with
proud humility, "King Cophetua has married
the beggar-maid."

" I hope she had brown hair and fine eye?,"
he replied, with tender admiration.

Dora shook her bright head, and the eyes

210

DORA.

which her husband praised, and which were
indeed very fine eyes, took a tender and wist-
ful look as she replied demurely :

" I know nothing about that ; but this I
surely know — that beggar-maid was a very
happy woman ! "

Yes, she was a happy woman, and as wedded
bliss rarely wanes during the first week of the
honeymoon, it is no great wonder that Dora's
little planet of love and happiness was still iu
the asceudant a fortnight after her marriage.
Mr. Templemore was out, though it was early,
and Dora was alone. The morning was bright,
and she felt as bright and as gay as the morn-
ing. With a sweet clear voice she sang aloud
to herself as she went through the § sunlit rooms
of Deenah. She sang an old Irish song, full of
sorrow, but her heart was light. Suddenly she
was mute. She had heedlessly entered a room
where dark blinds shut out the light, where the
air felt chill, and her heart failed her as she
recognized Mr. Courtenay's collection.

Dora had visited this apartment since her

arrival in Deenah, but she had seen it with

her husband ; alone she had not ventured

within it, and, now that she had crossed its

threshold, she knew not how to retreat or ad :

vance. Her heart beat, her head swam ; a

chair -was near her, she sank down upon it,

and looked around her. Every country and

every civilization, Christian and heathen, had

contributed to Mr. Courtenay's collection; the

history of mankind was in all that Dora saw,

but she only read in it the story of her brother.

eye wandered from one end of the room

to the other. Specimens of Palissy, Majolica,

m, mediaeval, and antique, were there

before her, some perched aloft on marble

columns, others more precious in black cabi-

, wkh glass fronts and brass locks. Here

and there a gold or silver cup shone, or a

piece of carved ivory gleamed faintly; and

:ii these things, saw herself a

i in her old home mar Dublin. She

saw herself sitting up for Paul, and preparing
a meal for his return. And she saw him too !
She heard his voice, she sat at his feet and
looked up in his face, on which the firelight
shone ; but the bitterness of these recollections
was too much for her. Dora buried her face
in her hands and wept. When, by a strong
effort, she at length compelled her tears to
cease, and looked, up, she saw Mr. Temple-
more standing before her with a letter in his
hand, and eying her thoughtfully.

She reddened as she rose, and went up to
him with some embarrassment.

" I could not help it," she said, depreca-
tingly, " I could not, indeed. I entered this
room unexpectedly, and everything I saw was
too much for me!"

Her quivering lip showed him that her emo-
tion was not over.

" How much you loved your brother ! " he
said, gently.

" Much ! — oh ! Richard, the word is cold ;
he was everything to me."

" Are you sure you have quite forgiven me,
Dora ? " he gravely asked.

She looked at him in some wonder.

" Forgiven you, Richard ! — if I had Paul's
death to forgive you, it would have been easier
for me to die than to enter this house as your
wife. Forgive that ! " she impetuously added
— " I fear I could not. I fear I never forgave
Mr. Courtenay, who lured my brother, and
Florence Gale, who urged him on, till he died
of the anxiety, the labor, the suspense., and,
last of all, the disappointment these two in-
flicted upon him. She would have been his
wife if he had won the day, but he had scarcely
lost it when she married another. Perhaps
you did not know this," she continued, seeing
the look of surprise that passed across Mr.
Templemore's face, " and perhaps I should
not have told you ; but it is true. She was
faithless to him, and though, if I am your
wife, it is her doing, not mine, I cannot help

MRS. COURTENAY'S LETTER.

211

feeling that I am Paul Courtcnay's sister, and
that all unconsciously and unwillingly I have
avenged bim. I have striven against the feel-
ing again and again, and again it has come
hack, and been too strong for me."

She was very pale, and she shook from head
to foot as she uttered this resentful confes-
sion ; hut Mr. Templemore only kissed her
soothingly, and smiled as he led her out of
the room, and locked the door behind him.
He could read Dora's heart better than she
read it herself, and he saw there more jealous
fondness of a living husband than angry
memory of a dead brother's wrongs. The
greatest sin of Florence Gale was ever to have
been loved by him. This Dora never could
forgive, and never could she cease triumphing
in her heart over her defeated rival. She
might, being a generous woman, strive against
the feeling ; but, whilst she loved her husband,
jealousy would be too much for her, and she
would strive in vain. It is not in a man's na-
ture to be severe against such sins, and Mr.
Totnplemore felt wonderfully lenient on hear-
ing Dora confess her triumph over Mrs. Logan.
He was not so vain, moreover, as to consider
that lady plunged in irremediable grief for his
sake, and he could not help thinking that, as he
had had predecessors in her heart, so might he
have a successor there too. But as he needed
no protestations from Dora to convince him
that he was her first love, so he required no
vows to feel certain that no other image
would replace his in her heart. He had known
in his boyhood a white-haired woman, bright,
gay, and cheerful, who had been three weeks
a bride and fifty years a widow. She was
witty and lovely, and was admired even to the
brink of age; but none of her lovers — and
they were many — could ever win her. Her
young love had outlived both grief and youth.
And as Mr. Templemore looked at his wife's
pale face — as he beard her boast with invol-
untary frankness of her triumph over Flor-

ence — as he took her away with a smile from
the dark room which bad evoked all this,
down to the cheerful room below, he thought :
" Dora is such another woman as my great-
aunt ; if I were to die to-morrow, and she to
live till threescore, I should still, dead or
living, be her husband." And we need not
wonder that, if Mr. Templemore was not so
inexperienced or so exacting as to expect this
exclusive affection, which is not, indeed, a
very common sort of thing, yet be was not
either so careless or so cold as hot to feel
mingled joy and pride in having inspired it.
Never, therefore, could his wife have read
more kindness in his looks than she could
have read then — never could she have found
more boundless indulgence for her imperfec-
tions than such as he was now willing to ex-
tend to her for this venial sin of loving him
too fondly.

" I have had a letter from Eva this morn-
ing," he said, as they sat down on the sofa ;
" she mentions Mrs. Courtenay's safe arrival
in Les Roches, with Mrs. Luan, I believe, and
here is, I suppose, Mrs. Courtenay's own letter."

He handed it to her, but she gave it back
ito him.

" Read it to me," she said ; " you will not be
vexed if mamma says you took me away from
her, like one of the Sabine maidens ? "

Mr. Templemore smiled and obeyed.

" My dear child," began Mrs. Courtenay, " I
really wish you would soon come back. Ever
since your wedding-day, as I already told you,
Mrs. Luan is unbearable. I cannot manage
nER ! I must say I think it hard that Mr.
Templemore compelled you to leave me m
that cruel fashion. I cannot imagine why he
thought me in the way. I wonder how he will
like it when some man comes and whisks off
Eva from him?"

" I shall not like it at all," candidly re-
marked Mr. Templemore, "but I shall have to
bear with it."

212

DORA.

" Eva was very glad to see me," resumed
Mrs. Courtenay's epistle; "but is longing to
have you and her father back. Miss Moore is
prosy and stupid, as usual." Dora rather re-
gretted having told Mr. Templemore to read
her mother's letter, but took comfort on see-
ing him smile. " However," kindly resumed
Mrs. Courtenay, " I attribute that just now to
the fact that there is a host of horrible childish
diseases about Les Roches. Croup, measles,
and scarlatina, says Miss Moore."

Mr. Templemore read no more. His very
lips had turned white with emotion. " I must
go — go at once, and take Eva away," he said,
scarcely able to command his voice.

" We must go," eagerly said Dora.

"No — no — I cannot make you travel so
fast," he said, speaking more calmly; you
must stay here ! "

" Stay ! — have you so soon forgotten your
promise?" asked Dora, with a reproachful
frown.

Yes, two days before she had extracted from
him a fond pledge that he would never ask or
expect to leave her. "I do not say that I
shall never let you stir without me," had said
Dora ; " but I must have the right of going with
you." If Mr. Templemore's honeymoon had
been over, he might have demurred, but hav-
ing been only thirteen days wedded, he knew
not how to resist this charming despot, and
he yielded all the more willingly that in the
intoxication of his new passion it seemed im-
possible to him ever to cease to wish for the
society of one so dear. So he promised, as
most men in love would have promised, and
now he was pledged to his word.

"And I shall not set you free," now said
Dora, with a bright, fond smile ; " I will be as
exacting as any sorceress with any knight of
romance. So let us go at once, and find Eva
sound and well at the end of our journey."

" Sin: is a sorceress," thought Mr. Temple-
more, as he left her to give orders for their

journey. "She is not beautiful, she is not
even what people call very pretty, and yet —
and yet." He needed no words to complete
the picture his fancy called up. A face bright
as sunshine, happy, radiant eyes, a light young
figure, told him Dora's spell more potent than
mere beauty, and infinitely more seducing.

But that bright face was clouded, and these
happy eyes grew dim when he left her. Dora
stood by the open window, and she looked out
sadly on the verdant wilderness below her.
She could not bear to leave that Eden — not,
at least, to leave it so soon. Spite all her
husband's fondness, Dora did not feel sure of
him yet. She wanted time to become to him
something more than a bright-haired girl, with
fine eyes. She wanted to grow identified with
and to be a portion of his daily life. She
wished for nothing, and no one to break the
fond spell she was weaving around him daily,
alluring him from that other charm she had
involuntarily cast upon him to a surer and
more durable tenderness. Already she had by
gentle arts won her way to some of the
chambers of his heart. Already she knew
thoughts which Mr. Templemore had never
told another, and which had escaped him in
fond and happy hours; but Dora felt that
there lay more behind, and that a road, not
arduous indeed, but mysterious, and with some
perils, still divided her from the goal it was
her fond ambition to win. She had no wish
to rule, no wish even to influence, but she
wished to be as near to Mr. Templemore as
one human being can be to another, and it
had rather disconcerted her to find that the
very passion she inspired was an obstacle
which retarded her progress. If even in per-
fect solitude, in unrestrained liberty, she could
not have her husband as she wished to have
him, how much harder would it be to have
him thus with Eva to share his love, and
others to divide his attention !

"And yet I shall prevail," she thought,

RETURN TO LES ROCHES.

213

rousing herself from this passing despondency;
" I shall prevail. Eva loves me so dearly, that
he cannot divide us in his affection ; and I am
too fond of her to be jealous. She is mine
now — mine as well as his, and the love he
gives her he also gives to me. Les Roches is
not so beautiful as Deenah, but surely my lot
is altered since I beheld it first. Those trees,
those alleys, that old house, are mine now —
mine at least whilst they are his. And in Les
Roches, because I have suffered so keenly,
must Fate atone, and I shall be fully blest."

There was a triumphant- gladness in the
thought which conquered fear, but not regret,
for solitude is sweet to love. When they left
Deenah that afternoon Mr. Templemore saw
the fond, wistful look his wife cast back tow-
ard the house, and as he happened to share
her feelings, he said with a smile :

" I shall take Eva and Miss Moore to some
safe spot, and then we shall come back here
for the summer."

" Will you — will you ? " cried Dora, with
sparkling eyes ; for she thought, " I have a
whole summer before me."

They travelled fast, and reached Les Roches
toward noon on a warm day in June. Dora's
heart ached for Mr. Templemore, as she saw
the agitation he could not repress when the
chateau came within view. But as her glance
wandered along the road, she uttered a sudden
and joyful —

" Look— look ! "

For there, walking with Miss Moore in the
shade was Eva herself, and Fido behind her.
In a minute they were down, Eva sprang tow-
ard them with a joyful cry, and it would
have been hard to say which of the two, Mr.
Templemore or his wife, looked the happier,
or kissed the child more fondly. For as she
felt Eva's little arms clasping her neck so
fondly, and heard her half sobbing, " Oh !
Dora — Cousin Dora !" Dora thought with a
beatincr heart —

" Tes, you love me, Eva — but can you ever
love me as I love you — you who, though you
do not know it, have given Cousin Dora the
great, the perfect happiness of her life ? Poor
Fido, you gave me nothing save your little
honest heart — but I love you, too, so do not
whine. Oh ! that the whole world, that every
creature, could be as blest as I am now ! "

She looked so bright, so joyous, so like the
poet's " phantom of delight," as these thoughts
passed through her, that Mr. Templemore,
looking at her with charmed eyes, exclaimed,
in very unpoetic fashion, however,

" Dora ! I am a lucky fellow."

Dora had no time to answer ; Miss Moore
now came up to them.

" It is such a comfort to have you here, Mr.
Templemore," she said with a sigh, meant to
express her satisfaction on his return, " we had
such a dreadful day yesterday."

" My mother is surely not ill ! " cried Dora,
with a sudden alarm.

" Oh ! dear, no, but that poor young man is
raving. He got a sunstroke on the way, I be-
lieve, and he was raving before night. He is
very bad to-day."

Dora grew white.

" What young man ? " she asked.

"Doctor Luan," composedly replied Miss
Moore ; " he arrived yesterday afternoon, look-
ing very odd, and flushed with that sunstroke —
gentlemen ought to have parasols, in my opin-
ion — and when he asked after you, and Miss
Courtenay told him you were on your bridal
tour, the surprise was too much for him. I
never saw any one look so bad. I assure you,
Mrs. Templemore, it made me feel quite con-
cerned for him, poor young gentleman ! Well,
before half an hour was over, he was violent,
but he is not so now — only quite delirious."

Mr. Templemore looked at his wife. She
seemed overwhelmed with confusion and grief, i
and could not bear her husband's fixed gaze.
He withdrew it, and they all walked in si-

214

DORA.

lence toward the house, Mr. Templemore
thinking :

"This John Luan loved her— but surely
Dora never cared for him, and yet how white
she is ! "

Some men are flattered to be the cause of
infidelity, but Mr. Templemore was more jeal-
ous than vain, and the thought of a rival, even
of one whom he had supplanted, was hateful
to him. Was it possible that his wife had
given to another those looks, those smiles, that
shy fondness which were his now ? He did not
believe it, but the mere suspicion made him
tremble with jealous resentment.

" Oh ! what calamity brought John here ? "
thought Dora ; " and how is it his mother never
told him ? But I know what he thinks, and
he must not — oh ! he must not ! "

" Let Miss Moore and Eva go in without us,"
she said in a low voice to her husband, " I have
something to say to you."

Mr. Templemore's color changed, but he
complied with her request, and instead of en-
tering the chateau, they stayed out in the
flower-garden. Dora's heart felt very full.
John, her cousin and her friend, was dying,
perhaps, and Mr. Templemore suspected her
of having jilted him. She forgave him, but
she would not enter his house and cross his
threshold with that suspicion upon her.

" I have something to say to you," she said
again.

Mr. Templemore winced, and prepared him-
self for indulgence and forgiveness, but his wife
id neither from him.

11 Richard," Bhe said, "you told me that you
married me for love, not for honor; let me tell
you that if I, too, had not liked you, I could
never have income your wife. I could no more
sell myself fur fair name than for money," she
added, with a sudden light in her eyes.
i There was a pause.

"Is that all you have to tell me, Dora?"
asked Mr. Templemore.

" No ; I am twenty-four, and I am not aware
that if I had felt affection for any other man
before I met you, it would have been a wrong
in me to do so, provided such affection was
true ; but it so happens that I never did —
never for one second — for one moment. I am
content to be your last love ; but it may be
right you should know you are my first."

She spoke with a sadness that tempered the
fondness of her confession. But the words she
had uttered sent the blood up in a burning
tide to Mr. Templemore's dark face. That
last love of his, as Dora called it, was surely
not the weakest. It was jealous and exacting.
It would be denied nothing ; and on learning
that it had all, the past as well as the pres-
ent, it was glad and triumphant, even though
John Luan might be dying. But Dora could
not forget the lover of her youth — the poor
man who had come to woo with his cottage
and his hundred a year; and her voice was
subdued and low as she said :

" That is all I wished to say. Let us go in
now."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Thf cards spread on the table before Mrs.
Courtenay must have been going all wrong,
for Mrs. Courtenay looked troubled and sad as
Dora entered her room. On seeing her daugh-
ter, however, she uttered a joyful cry, and
looked beaming.

" My dear child, I am so glad ! " she ex-
claimed, running up to her ; " how Well you
look ! — and where is Mr. Templemore ? "

" lie is with poor John. Oh ! mamma,
what is the meaning of this ? "

" We should have sent him cards, I suppose ;
he had a sunstroke, and hearing of your mar-
riage finished him. Oh ! what a life we have
had of it ! Miss Moore has so worried about
measles, that I wish we were all dead and
buried. I told her so ; also, that it was amis-

DR. LUAN'S ILLNESS.

215

take of hers about measles, and that I did not
believe in them."

Dora sighed ; she had left Paradise for earth
and its cares.

" Have you seen your new room ? " asked
Mrs. Courtenay — " such a lovely room ! Such
beautiful things, all new — come and look at
it."

She rose and led her to the apartment
which had once been intended for Mrs. Logan.
It had altered its aspect for Dora. She saw
so at once, and the change smote her.

" I do not like her," she thought, " but why
must I be happy at her expense ? Why must
John suffer because I am so blest ? "

" Is it not pretty ? " asked Mrs. Courtenay ;
" and Miss Moore cannot leave off wondering
how fond be is of you ! Every time some-
thing new came for you, she cried, ' Why, he
dotes on Miss Courtenay ! ' "

" Oh ! I am happy — very happy, " replied
Dora ; " but my heart aches for poor John."

" And so does mine ; only, you see, you
could not marry them both," innocently re-
marked Mrs. Courtenay.

"Oh! how good — how kind he is !" ex-
claimed Dora, looking around her and seeing
with every glance new tokens of her husband's
affection ; " only why cannot we be happy but
that others must suffer ? "

"I wish John would get well, and would
marry Florence," gravely said Mrs. Courtenay ;
"it would be so nice, and so like a novel,
where people change about, you know ! "

If Dora could have smiled then, she would
have smiled at the suggestion. Florence los-
ing the master of Deenah, and taking up with
a poor doctor ! It was like her innocent little
mother to think of such a thing !

"And where is John ?" she asked with a
heavy sigh ; " I must go and see him."

" In the room next his mother's ; only, my
dear, you must go alone, please — it makes me
miserable, and does poor John no good — lie-

sides, Mrs. Luan, poor soul, is so fierce that I
am afraid of her."

Again Dora sighed, for again she thought,
" Oh ! why must my happiness cost others so
dear ! "

Mrs. Luau's room was vacant, but through
the half-open door of the next apartment Dora
saw her aunt sitting alone by a large white
bed. That room was darkened, and though
Dora saw her aunt's bending figure very plain-
ly, she guessed more than she perceived, that
the bed was occupied. Mr. Templemore she
did not see. He was already gone. With
something like hesitation and fear, Dora en-
tered the sick-room ; and standing on the
threshold she said : " Aunt, may I come

9 "

Mrs. Luan raised her head, and Dora started
back at the sight of her face. It is said that
criminals shrink into old men within the few
minutes that precede their execution ; and even
so had age — decrepit age — overtaken this
sullen, heavy-looking woman within the last
few hours. She stared at Dora with a dull,
vacant stare ; then suddenly recognizing her,
she started up, and walked up to her with an
aspect so fierce that Dora involuntarily shrank
back.

" And so you come to look at him ! " said
Mrs. Luan, with rage sparkling in her eyes,
" you come to look at him, do you ? "

" Aunt, I am grieved to the heart."

" Grieved ! " interrupted Mrs. Luan, stamp-
ing her foot and shaking her head at her —
"grieved, are you ! Then how dare you marry
Mr. Templemore, when you knew it would kill
John ? "

Dora could not answer one word.

" And that is my reward," continued Mrs.
Luan, her wrath rising as she spoke. " I made
you all you are, and all the time you had
promised to marry John ! I tell you you had
— I tell you you had ! " she cried, her voice
rising as she read denial in Dora' " deny

216

DORA.

it if you dare — deny it if you dare ! " she re-
peated defiantly.

" If I were on my deathbed I would deny it ! "
cried Dora, roused into self-defence. "You
wrong me — you wrong me ! Why did you
not tell John 1 was married ? Why did you
let him come here ? Aunt, I know you did not
wish John to marry me since I lost my money ;
but I say it is you, not I, who have been piti-
less to him. "

Mrs. Luan started at her. It was this girl
whom she had raised to her present height
who could thus taunt and reprove her.

" Oh ! you are very grand and proud be-
cause you are Mr. Templemore's wife," she
said, nodding at Dora, "but you might remem-
ber you would not be his wife -but for me. "

Dora colored deeply. " I know you must
have told him where he could find us in Ken-
siugton," she faltered.

"Oh ! pretend you do not understand —
do ! Pretend you do not know who told Mrs.
Logan he was with you that night. Eh ! "

Dora looked petrified. Her lips parted,
her eyes wera fixed on Mrs. Luan, then a
dreadful light seemed to break upon her.

" And was it you who did that ? " she said
at length — " was it you ?'"

The question enraged Mrs. Luan.

" Ask me — do ! " she cried ; " ask me ! "

"Aunt," piteously exclaimed Dora, "can
this be ? Did you do it to make Mr. Temple-
more marry me ? "

" I did," replied Mrs. Luan with a sort of
shriek — " I did ! — and because I helped you to
a rich husband, to fine clothes and houses and
money, my 1>< j must die— he must die!" she
repeated, with a low, wailing moan; "and
hear how be laughs at it all ! " she added, as a
loud fit. of laughter came from John Luan's
bed, " hear how merry he i

"No, I do not believe you — it is not pos-

. I cam: ible- Eeaven i-;

too ju-t to allow such things," cried Dora in

the despair of her heart. " Aunt, you are ill,
quite ill with grief — you have dreamed all this
— you never did this thing — never — never ! "

"I did!"

"But why did you do it? Oh! why?"
asked Dora in a voice full of agony. " Why
do it, aunt — why do it ? "

" Because I never liked Florence — and be-
cause he was rich."

" And because you did not wish me to
marry John," said Dora, in a transport of
anger she could not repress ; " you ruined
Mrs. Logan's happiness, you risked my fair
name, you robbed Mr. Templemore of his
liberty — and all that I might not marry John."

"And so you taunt me with it!" sullenly
said Mrs. Luan ; " wait awhile, my lady — wait
awhile ! I have been silent, but I can speak.
I wonder what he will say when he knows it.
Ha ! ha ! I have you there. You have robbed
me of a son, but perhaps I can rob you of a
husband. He .will turn me out of the house,
but I don't care — you and he shall not be
happy whilst John is dying."

She spoke calmly now, but her calmness
was more terrible than her wrath. A great
agony came over Dora as she heard her, and
she was seized with a faintness as that of
death. Her husband loved her, but how
would he feel if" he learned that he had been
cheated into marrying her !

"Aunt," she said, recovering by a strong
effort, " you must not do that, you must not.
God knows, if I could repair Mr. Templemore's
wrong, ay, or even Mrs. Logan's wrong, I
would do it, though my heart-strings should
break ; but I cannot — we are married, tied for
life — you must not speak, you must not."

She raised her hand with a quiet gesture of
command, like one who has uttered an unan-
swerable proposition. But Mrs. Luan shook
back two dark locks which had fallen over
her face, and looked at her with the defiance
of a tigress whose cub has been wounded.

MRS. TEMPLEMORE AND HER AUNT.

217

" Think of my boy," she said, " and expect
no mercy. I have given you a rich husband,
and you only mock and upbraid me for it. Do
you think I will see him die," she added, nod-
ding toward the bed, " and see you both sleep
sound and live happy? No — no ! "

It was useless to argue with her. This was
not remorse, repentance, or even sorrow, it
was the madness of despair. It was useless
to argue, but it might not be useless to en-
treat. Dora felt distracted with fear and
grief. She went up to her aunt, she caught
her two hands, she pressed them to her bosom
with passionate emotion.

'• Aunt, spare me," she said ; " what have I
done that you should hate me ? Was I not
like a daughter to you ? "

" Why does he rave about you ? " inter-
rupted Mrs. Luan. " I bore him, I suckled
him, I reared him through privation and sor-
row, I would have died for him, and it is you
whom he raves about. Would he be lying
there in brain-fever if he had found me dead ? "

"Then you will have no pity?" said Dora,
dropping her aunt's hands.

Mrs. Luan looked at her in sullen silence.
All the passionate Irish vehemence of Dora's na-
ture awoke within her. She sank on her knees
before her aunt, she raised her clasped hands.

" Have mercy ! " she cried, " for John's sake
have mercy on me. Be silent, in order that
Heaven may hear your prayers, and grant us
both his life. Leave me my husband — leave
him to me. He is my life, my only supreme
good, and he loves me — he loves me. Do not
shake that love in his heart by so cruel a con-
fession. Remember that he is my husband ;
he must forget Mrs. Logan now, and love but
me. I know that as yet his is only a mau's
passion for youth, and what he thinks beauty
— but give me time, aunt, give me time, and
that love shall be more. I shall have his
whole heart yet. I will be his friend, his
companion, his mistress, his wife, everything

which a woman can be to her husband, if you
will but give me time."

Oh ! if he had seen her then ! If he had
seen that pale face, breathless with entreaty,
those deep, impassioned eyes — if he had heard
that pathetic voice vainly imploring one who
knew not mercy ! Dora saw she had failed,
but she still prayed.

"Give me a few days," she said, " just a
few days, aunt."

Mrs. Luan laughed bitterly.

" Well, then, aunt, give me one day, give
me one," entreated Dora ; " let me be happy
and beloved till to-morrow." Mrs. Luan
shook her head in obstinate denial ; but Dora
clung to her with ardent importunity. " Give
me one day," she entreated. " Oh ! aunt, give
me one. I have not been married three weeks.
Let me be happy a few hours longer. Let me
— let me. And — oh ! if prayers are heard in
heaven, how I will pray that John may live ! "

Poor Dora, she asked to be happy Avhen her
happiness was her sin.

" Let me go ! " said her aunt, sullenly.
" John wants me."

Dora rose without a word, she released Mrs.
Luan from her clasp ; she compelled herself
to say calmly :

" Aunt, I trust you will meet with more
mercy than you show to me ; " and with these
words she left the room and went down-stairs.

She walked out into the garden bareheaded,
and reckless of the hot sun. She felt distract-
ed with sorrow, ner pride was stung to
think that she had been forced on Mr. Tem-
plemore, and her heart was tortured before-
hand at the thought of what his feelings
would be when he knew it. Would his love
go back to the wronged woman, whom her
aunt had betrayed, and leave her, his wretched
wife, all plundered and forlorn? It was agony
to think it — an agony so keen that she stood
still, and wondered she did not expire with
grief at the thought.

218

DOHA.

" Dora," said a fond, reproving voice.

She turned round with a thrill of joy. He
knew nothing; he loved her still. Yes, for a
few moments, for a few hours, perhaps, her
husband was her own.

" What brings you out here bareheaded in
that hot sun ? " he asked, with gentle chiding.

" Yes, he loves nre still," thought Dora,
looking at him with sad, earnest eyes ; but
her only answer was : " Have you seen him ?
—how is he ? "

" In great danger, I fear."

"And Eva — when do you take her away ? "
she asked, almost eagerly, " she must not stay
here, you know."

" No, she must not. Miss Moore is getting
ready. They leave this evening."

"But you go with them — do you not? —
you go with them."

" Xot whilst that poor fellow is all but dy-
ing in my house."

A sort of anguish passed over Dora's face,
but Mr. Templemore did not read its meaning.

" He may live," he said, kindly.

" God grant he may ! " she replied in a low
tone ; " but wdiat w ill your presence here do
him ? — I shall not feel happy if you do not
accompany Eva and Miss Moore." Mr. Tem-
plemore looked so amazed at this speech that
Dora added, " I have a presentiment of evil —
-boding I cannot conquer."

She looked so deadly pale, that Mr. Temple-
more was filled with concern.

'• You have seen that poor young man, and
it has been too much for you," he said.

" No, I only saw his mother. How strange
e i*!— don't you think she is
mad?" she added, standing still in the path
they were following.

" Mad !— she was perfectly calm half an
hour ago, Dora."

"Yes, Bhe is always so with you," replied
Dora, with involuntary bitterness.

Mr. T mi' lemore did not answer, but ho

thought his wife's manner strange. They
walked on in silence till they reached that
old bench on which Dora had seen her hus-
band and Florence sitting side by side. Never
had the quiet spot looked darker or cooler
than it did now. Never had its green shade
been more delicious and alluring than it was
on this warm afternoon.

" Let us rest," she said.

He sat down, nothing loth. Later, he knew
the meaning of a change in his wife's manner
which now perplexed him — later, he knew
why she passed thus suddenly from the sad-
ness of despair to this feverish joy. He would
not go — he would not believe anything she
could urge against Mrs. Luan ; she was doomed,
she was hopeless, then let her be happy and
beloved whilst happiness and love were still
within her grasp. She rested her head on
his shoulder with unwonted familiarity ; she
looked up at him with sad though undisguised
affection, and she said, with the daring of
despair :

" It seems impossible sometimes that you
should like me — do you ? Tell me so, that I
may believe it, and feel sure."

Mr. Templemore was not given to the lan-
guage of protestation or endearment, but
something in her look and tone now stirred
the very fibres of his heart. He answered
her question as a man in love might answer
it when such a question is put by a wife young
and fondly loved — half in jest, half in earnest,
yet with unconscious and involuntary fervor.
Dora heard him in silence. The spot was
beautiful, and cool, and lonely, fcati she
could not forget that a month before she
had seen Mr. Templemore there with another
woman. The birds that sang so sweetly
above them had not changed their mates,
the young leaves on the trees had not lost
their spring beauty, and yet his love for that
woman was sere and dead.

" now will he feel when he knows he was

DORA'S ANXIETY.

219

cheated into marrying me?" thought Mr.
Templemore's wife. Then she remembered
her dead brother, whom this man, now so
dear, had supplanted in his fortune, in Flor-
ence Gale's love, and lastly, in her own heart ;
she remembered John Luan lying up-stairs,
and raving about her, and his mother mad
with grief: and thus surrounded with calami-
ties, past or present, or yet to come, she felt
like the .ancient criminals before whom a de-
lightful feast was set, because they were to
die. " Wby shoutd I not do like them ? "
thought Dora — " the past is irrevocable, the
future is uncertain, but the present is mine.
I may be a beggar to-morrow, but I am a
queen to-day."

She roused herself, she compelled herself
to be happy and gay, and, above all, she put
by the silent shyness of her usual manner
with Mr. Templemore, and she did her best
to charm him. The task was an easy one.
This bright young creature, so full of life and
gladness, enchanted him. Few men like tame
happiness, and most are pleased with variety.

" I have got a new Dora to-day," he could
not help saying to her — " I have had a silent
Dora, a shy Dora, a proud Dora, and to-day I
have a brilliant Dora."

"A proud Dora!" she repeated — "when
was I proud ? "

" You will not let me give you anything."

" You have given me a wedding-ring," she
replied, with sudden emotion ; " provided you
never repent it, I shall be happy."

Repent it! — be seemed amused at the
thought ; but he again reproached her for her
pride.

" Oh ! give me anything you please," she
said, a little carelessly — " diamonds, if you
like."

" Why not ? " he asked, a little shortly—
" why should I not give you a diamond brace-
let ? "

Dora looked at him very earnestly.

" Not a bracelet — give me a cross ; it is an
emblem of suffering, and when I feel too
happy, it will help to subdue me, and remind
me of to-day."

Mr. Templemore smiled, and replied that
she should have a diamond cross to wear
around her neck.

"Yes, I believe I have a pretty neck, and
that he admires it," thought Dora, with silent
despair; "but what will he care for that to-
night ? "

She could not forget it, and when Mr.
Templemore rose from the bench, and said it
was time to go in, she gave a start of terror.
She had but one thought — to delay the fatal
moment. To some extent she succeeded ; she
never left his side. At first Mr. Templemore
did not object to this fond inquisition, but it
was inquisition, and he soon felt it, and won-
dered at it. He wondered, too, at Dora's
silence ; her fitful spirits were fled, and she
looked deeply depressed.

" You are as mute as a bird when the storm
is coming on," said Mr. Templemore, who little
knew how aj>t was his simile. "You are
tired. Lie down on the sofa."

They were in her old sitting-room on the
ground-floor when he spoke thus.

" Yes, I shall lie down," said Dora, languid-
ly. She closed her eyes, in order not be
obliged to speak. He thought she was sleep-
ing, and soon rose to leave her ; but ere he
had reached the door she had started to her
feet and stood before him in breathless fear.
" Do not leave me," she entreated. " I can-
not bear it."

Mr. Templemore could scarcely believe his
ears. Fear, real fear, was in her whole
aspect. It was very unlike Dora Courtenay,
so proud, so brave, to be thus childishly afraid
of solitude.

" I shall ring for Fanny," he said.

" Xo, no, stay with inc. I want you."

She was petulant, wilful, and yet fond, and

220

DORA.

she had her way. Mr. Templemore was
ashamed and vexed to yield. He began to
think that he had a capricious Dora as well
as a charming one ; but her tender and obsti-
nate entreaties prevailed. Mr. Templemore
chid her, but he did not go; that reprieve
was granted to her.

" What if I were to tell him myself? " once
thought Dora, seeing how kind and indulgent
he was ; but her heart failed her at the
thought — besides, faint hope crept into her
heart as time passed. If John got better, her
aunt might relent, and she might yet be saved.

CHAPTER XL.

Mr. Templemore's sister-in-law wanted to
speak to him, and Mr. Templemore, it was
found, after a quarter of an hour's search,
was with his wife in the room which had been
the governess's sitting-room. But Miss Moore
had good reason for not choosing to speak to
him there, and she sent a civil message, full
of apologies, but implying plainly her wish for
a private interview. Dora, who held her
husband's hand, as if she had feared he
should escape her, was obliged to relinquish
her hold. She could not go with him, she
could not bid him stay, she could only say :

"You will soon come back ? "

" Very soon," he replied, cheerfully.

ne went, rather pleased at having made his
pe, for he wished to see John Luan again,
and he did not want his wife to accompany
him and encounter that sad sight. " Shall I
go and sec him first?" he thought, as he
went up the staircase. "Miss Moore can wait
a few minutes." So, instead of entering the
drawing-room on his right, he turned toward
Mrs. Luan's room on his left.

But scarcely had Mr. Templemore entered
the sick-room, when the door which he had
closed opened again, and Dora appeared, pale

and breathless. She had guessed all, and
followed him.

"My darling, what brings you here?" he
asked, with gentle reproof. "It is a sad, a
very sad sight for you."

A loud, appalling fit of laughter from the **
sick-bed confirmed his words.

"Mrs. Luan raised her bowed head and
looked at them. Dora stood near her hus-
band. His arm was passed around her with
protecting tenderness ; her eyes were raised to
his with something beyoncf love in their gaze
— something of the worship and despair of a
lost spirit looking her last of paradise, for she
thought, " Now the time has come ! "

John Luan's mother rose on perceiving
them, and Mr. Templemore saw aunt and
niece exchange a look so strange that it
amazed him. Why did Mrs. Luan's eyes gaze
so fiercely on his wife, and why did Dora turn
so deadly pale as her own eyes met them ?
He began to understand that something which
concerned him, but of which he was kept igno-
rant, lay hidden under those silent looks — some
war, some contest ! What could it be ? Why
had Dora followed him ?

" How is your son, Mrs. Luan?" he asked,
gravely.

" How is he ! " she angrily echoed. " Why
do you ask ? Why do you come ? What
brings you both here ? Could you not stay
away ? Is it to taunt him that you come ?
Look at them, John, look at them ! "

"Is that woman mad, as Dora says,"
thought Mr. Templemore, " or what is it ? "

She stood by the bed looking at her son,
and pointing with a scornful forefinger to Mr.
Templemore and his wife. Then turning upon
them with sudden fury —

" Begorte ! " she said ; " begone, or I will
make you repent having come near him ! "

Mr. Templemore did not move, and Dora
only clung closer to him ; but she looked at
her aunt with mingled dread and entreaty.

SCENE AT DR. LUAN'S SICK-BED.

221

" Ha ! I can make you quake, my lady ! "
said Mrs. Luan, nodding at her pale niece.
" I gave you a husband, and you robbed me
of a son in return — but I can make you
quake ! "

"Aunt — aunt! " implored Dora.

Mrs. Luan laughed, and John Luan, who
had been silent awhile, tossed restlessly in his
bed, and laughed with his mother.

" You hear him ! " she cried, stamping her
foot and looking angrily at Dora ; " go, I say !
— go both of you this moment ! "

" Richard, let us go away ! " entreated
Dora ; " oh ! let us go away ! "

But no more than before did Mr. Temple-
more stir. He darted piercing looks from Mrs.
Luan to his wife. There was something —
some hidden quarrel between these two women
— a threat on one hand and fear on the other,
for he felt Dora tremble in every limb.
What was it? — what could it be?

" Dora," he said, in a low, kind tone, and
drawing her more closely to him as he spoke
thus, bending over her — " Dora, what is it ?
Trust in me."

The words were like dew from heaven. She
threw her arms around his neck. " Oh ! for-
give me ! " she cried ; " forgive me ! — I could
not help it ! "

He returned the caress, and again he said,
" What is it ?— trust in me."

Mrs. Luan answered that question.

" So you could not help it, forsooth," she
said, her eyes sparkling with rage. " Are
these my thanks for making you Mr. Temple-
more's wife?" she added, rolling her head
from left to right, as if confounded at Dora's
ingratitude. " Are these my thanks for parting
liim from Mrs. Logan, whom you so hated ? "

Mr. Templemore, who had listened astound-
ed, now started as if he had been stung.

" You part me from Mrs. Logan ! " he cried,
his eyes flashing ; " 'tis false ! — you dare not !
— you could not ! "

"Yes," replied Mrs. Luan, with a sullen
nod, "you always scorned me — I was stupid,
was I? But I could make you put by one
woman and marry another, clever man though
you were, and foolish woman though you
thought me."

The insolence of this boast exasperated Mr.
Templemore. " I tell you 'tis false ! — false ! "
he said sternly ; " you never did it ! "

" Did I not, though ? Who made Florence
jealous? 'Twas I, Mr. Templemore. Who
gave something to Eva that made her ill, and
who told you to go to Dora that night whilst
Florence was watching ? 'Twas I. Ask her,
ask Florence, ask Mrs. Logan, if you do not
believe me."

Mr. Templemore looked thunderstruck.

"No, you could not be so base," he said ;
" you could not be so cruel as to tamper with
my child for that object — you could not. I
had heaped you and yours with benefits — you
could not pay me back thus ! "

" Benefits ! Yes, you robbed me and John
and Paul and Dora of my brother's money,
and you threw us a bone in return. And you
wanted to marry that Florence Gale, who jilted
Paul. No, no, Mr. Templemore, I said you
should marry my niece, and you did — you
did ! "

Dora, overwhelmed with shame and grief,
hid her burning face in her hands. Mr. Tem-
plemore could not speak.

"You thought me stupid," said Mrs. Luan
again ; " you thought me stupid, eh ? " She
said no more, bust sat down again by her son.

There was a brief silence. A sorrow too
keen for anger or indignation had fallen on
Mr. Templemore.

" Poor Florence ! " he said, with a quiver-
ing lip ; " poor, foolish Florence ! "

nis troubled eye fell on Dora as he spoke.
Perhaps he did not see her, but that look, so
far away, so remote, cut her to the heart.
She withdrew from his side, and he did not

222

DORA.

detain or call her back ; he stood as the blow-
had struck him — pale, motionless, and, save
those words, silent. Dora forgot her own
grief in the sight of his.

" Richard," she said, coming back to him,
and her tears flowing, "forgive me if I cannot
set you free ! — forgive me ! " Her eyes were
raised to his, tears were on her cheeks, and
her look seemed to say, " Oh ! dare I be happy
again ? "

He laid his hand on her shoulder, he looked
down at her very sorrowfully, but with return-
ing tenderness, and that sad look seemed to
reply : " Be happy, my darling, be happy ! "

John Luan's mother stared at them with
jealous, angry eyes. Her son, whom the hap-
piness of these, two had brought to death's
door, lay on his sick-bed, pale, breathless, ex-
hausted with delirium, and they stood there
happy and fond, braving her with the inso-
lence of their love.

"'You little hypocrite ! " she cried, starting
to her feet, and shaking her resentful hand at
Dora, " how dare you make me do it ? How
dare you, and be jilting John all the time ? "

" I ! " cried Dora, amazed at the imputation ;
" I made you do it ? "

" Yes — deny it now — do ! "

" Oh ! Richard, Richard," said Dora, with
sudden anguish ; " you will never believe that,
will you V "

"Believe that you could abet this miserable
woman," he replied, with scorn ; " believe that,
Dora ! "

" And so I am to bear the burden of the
sin, and you are to reap the benefit ! " cried
Luan, enraged— "you who made me do
it. I say it again '. "

"Peace!" said Mr. Templcmore, turning

ly upon her. " But for your son's sake,

you should leave the house this instant. As

it is, I forbid you from this day forth ever to

my will' again !"

"Of course not," answered Mrs. Luan, with

much scorn ; " I am too wicked, and she is
too good. I promised her she should become
your wife, and now that I have kept my word
I must not speak to my lady ! '

Mr. Templemore looked both indignant and
incredulous.

" Dora," he said — " Dora joining in a plot
so shameful ! — Dora abetting you in entrap-
ping Mrs. Logan ! — Dora helping to work her
own disgrace ! It is false ! "

" "lis true," doggedly replied Mrs. Luan.

Dora turned crimson with indignation and
shame. She left her husband's side. She
went up to her aunt, she laid her hand on Mrs.
Luan's arm, and, looking her steadily in the
face, she said firmly :

" Aunt, how dare you say it ? — how dare
you say it, with John Luan lying there ? "

" And how dare you deny it ? " cried Mrs,
Luan, placing either hand on Dora's shoul-
ders, and looking at her wildly ; " did I not
promise the first day we all entered this house
— did I not promise you should become its
mistress ? Deny that if you dare ! "

Mr. Templemore looked at Dora; she was
ashy pale, and her lips quivered, but she was
mute.

" And did you, or did your mother, ask me
how I was to. make you Mr. Templemore's
wife ? — how I was to part him and Florence
Gale ? Did either of you question or try to
know, or say, ' Do not do it ? ' Not once —
not once."

Mr. Templemore again looked at his wife.
She could not bear that look ; her eyes sank
before his.

" She can't deny it ! " triumphantly ex-
claimed Mrs. Luan. " You know," she added,
turning pitilessly on Dora, "you know you
taxed me with it the next morning. ' Aunt,'
you said, ' who did this ? ' You knew 'twas
I, but you said nothing to Mrs. Logan — you
liked Mr. Templemore. Deny that — and also
that vou hated Florence ? n

MRS. LEAN'S PLOT REVEALED.

223

Dora denied nothing. The net that en-
snared her was drawing so close around her
that she felt both fettered and tongue-tied.
No, she could not deny her aunt's predictions,
she could not deny her love and her hatred,
qow both turning against her with such venge-
ful power. She had boasted of both to him,
and both now stood up as implacable witnesses
to condemn her. She felt it, and she also felt
lost, ruined, and undone.

Cold drops of perspiration stood thick on
Mr. Templemore's brow. Once more he had
been cheated and betrayed, but this time how
frightfully ! He had been robbed of the woman
he loved, and entrapped into marrying another,
and the best feelings of his nature — gener-
osity, pity, honor — had been enlisted to work
out his undoing. A colder man, or a less gen-
erous one, a man of inferior nature, could
never have thus succumbed nor fallen into this
mean trap. He had been duped by the con-
temptible woman before him, and Dora had
been her tacit accomplice. An innocent though
foolish woman had been driven into the mad-
ness of jealousy that this family, whom he had
treated with romantic generosity, might fasten
upon him for life, and he, the rich man, might
become the poor girl's husband. And Dora
had shared the baseness even as she had
reaped the benefit.

She had not laid the trap ; no — but she had
let him fall into it, aud never, by helping hand,
or even by word or sign, tried to save him.
She had done nothing deliberate, but she had
allowed another to act; and when all was
ready — when Florence and he had become her
victims, when pity and honor had made him
turn to her, she had appeared before him with
the pale and troubled beauty of a proud and
fair martyr — she had ensnared him with her
youth and her hidden love, and wakened in
his heart a passion so violent and so engrossing
that it completed her double triumph over Mrs.
Logan. . Yes, and as these thoughts passed

through him with the cruel rapidity of !
ning, it stung Mr. Templemore to feel that she
had robbed Florence of her lover, even more
than of her husband. He turned upon her,
wrath and grief in his looks.

" Madam, speak ! " he said impetuously and
imperiously. " Do you not hear that you are
accused ? — speak, I say 1 "

Thus adjured, Dora looked up.
" I am innocent," she said.
"Innocent!" said her aunt; "yes, you
never questioned — you did not want to know —
you let me do it, and now, like a coward, you
want to escape the blame. Let Mr. Temple-
more ask your mother if I did not promise
that you should marry him, that's all."

Dora saw the angry light that passed through
Mr. Templemore's eyes as her aunt uttered
these words ; she looked from him, her judge,
to Mrs. Luan, her accuser.

" I am innocent," she said again.
Mrs. Luan laughed scornfully, and Mr.
Templemore was mute. For a while she too
stood silent, then a coldness as that of death
seemed to fall on her heart. She turned away
and left the room without a word.

Mr. Templemore walked up to Mrs. Luan,
and seizing her arm, he looked down in her
face, and said sternly,

" What was your motive ? "
His look, his tone, alike mastered her.
" I did not want her to marry John ? " she
answered.

He smiled bitterly. He had been sacrificed
that John might be safe.

" And what was her motive ? " he asked
again.

" You know it," sulkily replied Mrs. Luan ;
" she liked you."

Yes, some men are betrayed for their money,
but Mr. Templemore had been cheated out of
his liberty for love. For love ! He bit his
lip till it bled, and he grasped Mrs. Luan's
arm so tightly that she said with some anger,

224

DORA.

" Let me go ; you hurt me. Why do you
put it all upon me ? Mrs. Courtenay was al-
ways talking about it, and Dora was fretting
to have you. I did you no wrong, after all —
you liked Dora, you know you did."

" I liked her ! you dare to tell me that ? I
liked your niece whilst I was pledged to Mrs.
Logan."

" Never mind, you like her now," was Mrs.
Luan's ironical reply.

" I like her now ? "

" Yes, and let me go— I say you hurt me."

" Let you go ? " he replied, dropping her
arm with a look of the deepest contempt.
" Mrs. Luan, I leave the house to day — let me
not find you here, or your son, or your sister,
when I come back."

"And Dora," defiantly asked Mrs. Luan,
" are you going to turn out Dora ? — you can't,
you know — she is your wife."

" She may rue it yet," he said, his eyes flash-
ing with anger, " but she shall stay here, of
course ; as for you, Mrs. Luan — do not trust
to my forbearance for your son — leave soon —
leave quickly."

He left the room as he uttered the words.
As he closed the door he met Mrs. Courtenay.
Without a word of preface or courteous greet-
ing, with a sternness which she had never seen
in him, he stopped her and said :

"Mrs. Courtenay, is it true that when I
brought you to this house, with your sister-in-
law and Dora, you contemplated that I should
marry your daughter ? "

Mrs. Courtenay knew nothing, but Mr. Tem-
plernore's manner and looks frightened her.

" Oh ! Mr. Templemore," she implored, " do
not be angry with poor Dora, do not."

" Oh ! I am not angry— not at all, Mrs. Cour-
tenay, I only want to know if Mrs. Luan did
" ;i11 be tellfl me, promise Dora that she

should become my wife? "

" She did," eagerly replied Mrs. Courtenay,
by no means loath to throw all the blame on

her sister-in-law, " she did, as soon as she found
out you were Mr. Templemore."

" Oh ! of course not before," ironically re-
plied Mr. Templemore ; " and your daughter,
Mrs. Courtenay, she raised no objection ? "

" Mr. Templemore, she liked you."

" Ah ! to be sure ; an excellent reason.
Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Courtenay,"
he added, sarcastically.

He turned away, but his mother-in-law fol-
lowed him anxiously.

" Then you are not angry with Dora ? " she
said.

" Oh ! not at all," replied Mr. Templemore.
" I am too happy to have your daughter on any
terms ! "

The words were very bitter, if Mrs. Courte-
nay had but understood them rightly, but the
mood in which they were spoken was far more
bitter still. Love, tenderness, passion, every-
thing that had once made Dora dear, seemed
to have vanished in the humiliation of his be-
trayal. To be duped, to be deceived, to be
made a tool and a jest of— such had been Mr.
Templernore's lot.

OHAPTEK XLI.

" Miss Moore is very anxious to speak to
you, sir," said Fanny, meeting her master.

" Very well," he replied, with bitter impa-
tience, and, retracing his steps, he went back
to the drawing-room.

Miss Moore was not alone. A lady stood in
the middle of the room, attired in a travelling-
dress, with a shawl on her arm, and looking
as if she were going to step that moment into
a railway carriage. And that lady was Mrs.
Logan. She laughed at Mr. Templernore's
amazed look, and curtsied to him with mock
politeness.

" Oh ! but I must see Mrs. Luan too," she
said, nodding ironically. " I am not afraid of

FLORENCE'S EXPLANATION.

225

ber now, though I was so silly as to think her
mad, you know. I must see her with you, Mr.
Templemore."

" Never ! " he answered angrily. " Mrs. Luan
leaves this house today, and never will I ad-
dress her, or willingly remain five seconds in
the same room with her."

Miss Moore clasped her hands and said piti-
fully, " I knew it could not end well ; " whilst
Mrs. Logan exclaimed scornfully, " Poor Mrs.
Luan ! is it so soon over ? "

Mr. Templemore looked angrily at these
two women. His blood was boiling within
him, and seeing Florence fresh as a rose, and
taunting him so lightly with his lost liberty,
he forgot her wrong, and only remembered
that her folly had abetted Mrs. Luan's cun-
ning, and helped to his undoing.

" Dear me, Mr. Templemore, how odd you
do look ! " ironically said Florence. " Well, I
shall not trouble you long. I owe you an
answer to a. question, and I come to give it. I
have been waiting for your return this fort-
night. I would not write — letters get opened
by the wrong people, and not delivered some-
times to the right person. I am getting
shrewd and clever, you see. Well, I must not
miss the train, so you will excuse me if I come
to the point. You wanted to know, when I
last had the pleasure of meeting you, through
whose agency I had entered this house and
surprised you with Miss Courtenay on the
night of the storm. You were kind euough
to suppose that I bribed the servants. Allow
me now to tell you that the person who ad-
mitted me, who received, and guided, and
helped me, was your wife's aunt. To her, Mr.
Templemore, you thus owe your present hap-
piness, and I am not so cruel or so unjust as
to rob that good and kind Mrs. Luan of your
gratitude."

"Yes, Mrs. Logan," replied Mr. Temple-
more, with emphatic bitterness, " you fell into

a trap, and now that you see it, it is too late."
15

" I can't help it," she said, desperately.
"You might as well tell a bird not to be
caught as tell me not to be deceived. Besides,
why did you let them deceive you, Mr. Tem-
plemore ? "

His color deepened, his dark eyes flashed,
he bit his lip to check the angry words that
might have come up as she put the taunting
question. Ay, he too had been snared by the
net of the fowler, and its meshes were woven
thick around him. Adieu to a noble life,
adieu to liberty, ay, and almost adieu to
honor ! Never more should his footsteps be
free, never more should he know the happy
solitude of his own thoughts; he was tied, till
death should part them, to that girl who, in-
nocent or guilty, had stepped in between him
and all his desires. What though she had
wakened in him the folly of a moment ? Was
he the man to go on loving a woman for the
soft, shy look of her eyes aDd the pretty turn
of her neck ? She loved him, perhaps — she
had said so, at least, and he remembered . her
fond confession with a sort of fury — but had
she entrapped him because of that love ? Had
he given her a double triumph over him —
that of tirst deceiving his judgment, then of
conquering his proud heart?

" Yes," he said, " you are right, Mrs. Logan
— I, too, have been cheated, and where is our
remedy ? " he added, the veins in his forehead
swelling with anger, as he felt both his wrong
and his powerlessness to avenge it. " Where
is our remedy ? We have been deceived and
betrayed. Mrs. Luan was the arbitress of our
fate, though we knew it not, and we must bow
to her decrees."

" Yes, it was Mrs. Luan's doing, but it was
Dora Courtenay's too," cried Mrs. Logan,
with her old jealous anger. " She planned
it, and she did it, Mr. Templemore."

ne turned pale as death, and moved away
from her side; and when he came back he.
looked at her and Miss Moore, and said :

22G

DORA.

"Do not say it — do not believe it, Mrs.
Logan. She is my wife. You made her such,
remember that, and also that her honor and
mine are one."

" You want me to be silent ! " she cried.
" I will not— I will not, Mr. Templemore. The
world shall know, and the world shall judge
between her and me."

" Do as you please. You will find my wife
guarded by something to which the world,
skeptical though it may be, ever adds faith —
the respect of her husband."

"Your wife!" repeated Mrs. Logan, turn-
ing pale at something in the tone with which
he uttered the word "wife." — "Yes, I know
she is your wife, Mr. Templemore, and you are
newly married, too, and, of course, your
honeymoon not being over — "

She ceased, and looked at him. The blood
had rushed up to his very brows — his very
heart was thrilled at the remembrance of his
lost happiness. He could not help it. A pas-
sion, even though it be but two weeks old,
cannot be conquered at once in a man's heart ;
and as Florence spoke, there came back to
him, not the remembrance of the love which
had bound them — not the resentment of the
fraud by which they had been divided, but
fervid and sudden, like the glimpse of a warm
summer landscape, the memory of those two
impassioned weeks which he had given to an-
other woman. Florence stood before him,
beautiful, angry, and jealous, and he saw
Dora, pale, beseeching, and sorrowful — Dora,
witli love in her upraised eyes and her parted
lips. lie saw her, do what he would; but
with angry wonder he also asked himself
what brought her image before him then, why
days had been stronger than years, and why
he thought of the girl who had ensnared him,
whilst he looked at the chosen one of his
heart ?

" She is not innocent ! " cried Mrs. Logan,
breaking off from sarcasm into impetuous ac-

cusation. " Did I not say to her, ' Tell me
how it happened — explain it, Dora, and I will
believe you,' and did she not turn away with-
out a word — without a word ? I tell you, Mr.
Templemore, that she plotted to marry you
from the moment she entered your house. " «_

" She did not ! " he said, sullenly.

" Then why did she marry you ? "

" She had her fair name to redeem, thanks
to you. "

" Ay, she risked much, but she won — she
won, and I lost ; but it is not all gain to her,
Mr. Templemore. The world will have some-
thing to say to her yet."

" Then the world will lie ! " cried Mr. Tem-
plemore, his dark cheek crimsoning, and his
voice trembling with passion as the pure and
pale image of his young wife seemed to rise
before him. In all his misery it was some-
thing to know that — so far, at least, she was
innocent. Of that knowledge nothing and no
one could rob him. Mrs. Logan looked at him,
then clasped her hands in indignant amaze-
ment.

" Mr. Templemore, " she said, " were you
Mrs. Luan's accomplice, and was all this a plot
to make me break my engagement, and set
you free ? "

He gazed at her more in sorrow than in an
ger. She was unchanged, after all. She read
the meaning of his cold, grave looks, but she
would persist in this new outrageous fancy.

" I know what you think, " she said, speak-
ing very fast — " you think she is the same silly
creature she ever was ; but I am not so fool-
ish as you imagine me to be, Mr. Templemore >
and I say that you always liked her — always,
Mr. Templemore — and that, if she had been a
plain girl, you would not have married her
from honor. "

" If Dora Courtenay had been a plain girl,
you would never have suspected her, Mrs.
Logan. "

"Yes, yes, I know; but tell me, if you can,

HER DEPARTURE.

227

'I did not marry her for love' — just tell me
that, if you can, Mr. Templemore ? "

" I decline your right to put such a ques-
tion," he coldly answered; "you broke our
engagement, Mrs. Logan."

She sank down on a chair, and burst into
tears. Mr. Templemore stood by her side,
and as he beheld her sorrow, he looked around
him with mingled grief and shame — the shame
which a noble heart feels at its own frailty.
That room, those pictures, those familiar
objects, all seemed to upbraid him with infi-
delity. Here he had been calmly, purely blest.
Here gentle love, not feverish passion, had
held him in tender bonds. Here an innocent,
though not brilliant woman, had loved him —
here it had been sweet to sit with her day after
day, forestalling the peace of marriage,^ and
not taking into marriage the troubled joy of
unwedded love.

Florence wept on as if her heart would
break, but dull and heavy felt Mr. Temple-
more's heart. He did not love her — he did
not love his wife — he loved no woman then.
Twice love had cost him so dear, that now he
felt as if he were too poor ever to buy it back
again. The tears of Florence pained him, but
so would those of Eva if they had had the
same bitter cause to flow. With- a sort of
wonder at his own coldness, he remembered
how dear this wronged woman had once been,
and now he could gaze on her as if from a re-
mote shore. His love was dead, and dead,
too, felt that other love which had suddenly
flowed between them, and wrought in a few
weeks the work of time.

" I must go now," said Mrs. Logan, rising
as she spoke.

Even as she said it, the door opened, and
Dora entered the room. Miss Moore looked
scared, Florence defiant, and Mr. Templemore
turned crimson. Dora looked at them quietly.
Whatever she might feel, no token of it ap-
peared on her pale face. No wonder, no

anger, no jealous indignation were to be read
there.

"I beg your pardon, Richard," she said,
with a proud and tranquil smile ; "I did not
know you were engaged." And, bowing to
Mrs. Logan, she passed on. Slowly and
leisurely she crossed the long drawing-room
leaving it by another door than that through
which she had entered. Mr. Templemore
could not help looking after her. She might
be an adventuress and a schemer, but she
would never, if jealous, have betrayed that
jealousy by watching her lover ; she would
■never have come to that lost lover's house and
humbled her pride so far as to reproach him,
or to accuse her more fortunate rival. Yes,
she still had, even in her humiliation, that
cold charm which reserve and pride give a
woman, and which allures man far more than
the fondest seduction. Florence felt stung,
for she saw that look, and half read it. Dora's
sun might be under a cloud just then ; but a
wife's day is a long one, and in how calm, how
cold a voice she had called him "Rich-
ard ! "

" I beg your pardon ! " exclaimed Florence,
bitterly ; " I came to enlighten you, but find
you enlightened. I might have spared myself
the trouble of coming ; but you see, being silly
and foolish as ever, I thought I had but to
speak to confound Mrs. Luan and justify my-
self, even though it was too late."

Mr. Templemore could not help feeling a pity
both tender and deep for this beautiful but
very foolish creature as she spoke thus. She
had no judgment, no pride, no dignity, no gen-
erosity even, but she had been shamefully
wronged, and it stung him that he, who had
once so loved her, should have been made the
instrument of that wrong. Dora would never
have acted thus. But surely her very folly
ought, like a child's, to have made Florence
sacred to generous hearts, for how could a crea-
ture so frivolous resist even the most transpar

228

DORA.

ent artifice, or save herself from perfidy?
There was indignation, there was sorrow and
emotion in Mr. Templemore's voice as he now
said to her :

" Good-by, Florence— God bless you ! We
are cousins ; we have been friends, and we
wore to have been more. Let not the base-
ness which parted us so prevail as to break the
old tie. You have no brother to protect you,
no near relative to befriend you, but remember
that you have me."

Mrs. Logan did not answer, but her color
deepened, and as she stood with her hand
clasped in his, she thought, looking at the
floor, "Ah! if Dora were to die — but she is
sure to live. Good-by, Miss Moore," she
added aloud.

Miss Moore, who had prudently kept her
handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed a good-by,
which darkened Mr. Templemore's face. How
he hated all this ! How bitterly he felt his
lost privacy ! He said not a word to detain
Florence. He went down with her and accom-
panied her to the gate, where a carriage was
waiting. She entered it, he saw it drive away,
then he walked down the sunburnt, dusty road,
brooding over his odious, intolerable wrong.
He had been cheated to save John Luan from
a poor marriage — also for his money. Such
things take place in life daily ; Mr. Temple-
more had often seen them, and looked on with
mingled scorn and pity for the victim. And
now the case was his. These three women
bad ensnared him as only women can ensnare
man, with the subtle arts which nature lias
p*en theii ■ ■. as the compensation for weak-
ness. Mr. Templemorc had a credulous, gen-
erous nature, loath to suspect; a nature which
made him liable to deceit, mid lie knew it, and
could laugh at it once the first vexation of dis-
•'■r. Bui be had never thought
the ould take this aspect, or that the

1 1 aid wear Dora Courtenay'e face.
ii-h of that thought overpowered his

fortitude, and conquered even wrath. His
whole flesh quivered with the pain, and he
stood still, mastered by grief, and unable to
go on. When he looked around him, Mr.
Templemore found that, led by habit, a more
faithful guide than love, his steps had brought
him to Mrs. Logan's door.

Again the house was closed and silent. Flor-
ence was really gone this time — she was gone,
after having made Dora's guilt deeper and
plainer. She was gone, and never, unless in
some great crisis, must Dora's husband cross
that once friendly threshold, or enter those
once-loved rooms, now haunted with the spec-
tre of the past. With cold and gloomy eyes
he looked at that silent dwelling. If Florence
could have seen him then, she would have
known it was not her loss that had brought
that dark meaning to his face ; if she could
have read his heart she would have felt more
jealous of his grief than she had felt of his brief
happiness.

Dora had said it truly — his love for her was
man's passion for youth and that beauty which
his eyes see in a loved woman ; but a noble
nature is the alchemy which transmutes the
baser metal into pure gold ; and Mr. Temple-
more's love for his young wife could not live
on the fleeting charms which had subdued
him. He wanted to revere, he wanted to trust ;
and now that he could do neither, his love felt
expiring — but in what throes — in what ago-
nies ! He roused himself from that mood, both
passionate and bitter — he walked back to Les
Roches. He had thought enough over his
wrong. It was clear, it was certain, it was
irremediable.

" Now I must see my wife," he thought.
His wife ! Oh ! bitter, insupportable
thought ! She was his wife. It was the fond-
est name she had heard from him — the most
tender he had found it possible to give her,
and now it sounded so dreary, so ominous, so
fatal !

"A SEVERE TRIAL."

229

CHAPTER XLIL

"When Dora left John Luan's room she tried
to think, but she could not. She went down
to the garden, and walking along one of its
gravel paths, she bade herself be calm — and
calmness would not come at her bidding. Her
misery was so new that she could not believe
in it yet — not at least with that settled belief
which we give to great and undoubted calami-
ties. It flowed upon her like a torrent, stun-
ning and overwhelming her, ere it carried her
away down to the dark deep waters whence
there was no returing. For if Mr. Temple-
more believed her guilty, she could see no
escape from her grief — nay, she would accept
of none. He could no more detest the pro-
faned tie that would bind them than she
would. If love be not reverence and honor, it
is nothing to the pure and the proud. But
could she have lost his esteem ? Was it pos-
sible ? No, he was staggered and deeply hurt ?
and perhaps even he could love her no more,
so great was his sense of his wrong — but how
could he doubt her ? It was a sweet and aveng-
ing thought, that though no longer adored, she
must be honored. Let love be lost — there are
many such bitter wrecks in life — but let her
innocence be confessed.

" His liking will go back to Florence,"
thought Dora, and tears rushed to her eyes,
and her heart swelled ; " but he must do me
justice. There will be a great darkness be-
tween us — it may last years — but light will
return, as morning follows night; and though
age should have come and youth fled in the
meanwhile, his love shall be welcome were
it but for the sake of the two happy weeks he
has given me. But he must do me justice —
oh ! he must ! "

She turned back toward the house. She
wanted to see him — to speak to him that
moment. She felt upon her a flow of proud
and tender eloquence — of words that would

come from her heart, and must needs reach
his. She asked where he was. In the draw-
ing-room, said Fanny ; but she did not add
that Florence was with him. The blow fell
full upon Dora when she saw these two ; and
calm though she looked, her heart was bitter
to overflowing when she left them. He was
with Mrs. Logan ! If she could have avoided
one enemy, she could not, it seems, escape
the other. If her aunt had not spoken,
Florence would. She went up to her own
room — it was vacant. The sun shone in
through the open window, and the breeze
fluttered the muslin curtains ; but no foud
husband sat in the arm-chair waiting for his
wife's return ! He was below with Mrs.
Logan !

" I must dress for dinner," thought Dora
with a sigh.

She shook out her long hair, and began
combing it slowly. A gleam of sunshine fell
on the glowing tresses and turned them into
gold, and Dora remembered how one morning,
at Deenah, her husband, coming in upon her
and finding her thus, had admired that beauti-
ful hair, and lifting it up with a caressing
hand, had said it was matchless.

" He loved me then ! " thought Dora.
" Yes, he loved me then ! "

And was all that over ? She could not be-
lieve it. It is so hard to fall asleep a queen,
and waken a beggar. She hoped, but that
hope died as the door opened and Mr. Tem-
plemore entered the room. With her two
hands she parted her long hair, put it back
from her face, and looking at him calmly, she
said :

" How ill you look, Richard ! What ails
you ? "

She could put the question.

" Something does ail me," he replied,
" something which I need not tell you,
Dora."

"You have seen Mrs. Logan," she said,

230

DORA.

wilfully misunderstanding him, " but I am
not jealous."

She said it, and she looked it so thoroughly
that he felt strong.

"Mrs. Logan told me nothing I did not
know," he said, very coldly.

" And what do you know ? " asked Dora,
with a proud, sad smile.

" I have no wish to enter on that subject,"
he replied ; "I do not wish to wound, or
offend, or even seem to accuse you, Dora."

" Accuse me ! — of what, Mr. Templemore ? "

" Of nothing. I tell you I do not wish it.
You are my wife — I do not forget it ! "

She clasped her hands and looked at him.
Was this her fond, impassioned husband?
Was this the man who for two weeks at least
had adored her ? She was his wife, and he
did not forget it. That was the end. She
had been the toy, the pleasure of an hour, the
sultana of a day, but he was no Eastern
despot, he was a Christian gentleman ; and
there was the law, too, and she was his wife,
and he did not forget it.

" God help me ! " was all she said, or could
say.

He looked at her. He had denied her
guilt to Florence ; but in his heart he believed
it. He believed that she had been her aunt's
tacit accomplice, and that she had betrayed
him, perhaps for ambition, perhaps for love.
Whichever it was, he felt her prey and her
victim. It was not in Mr. Templemore's na-
ture to think that, and not resent it. He
almost hated her just then, not merely for
the fraud which she had abetted, but because
she had shaken the very foundation of faith
within him. If she was false — who was true ?
But bitter though his resentment was, he was
master of himself now, and lie scorned to be-
tray it; the magnanimity of his nature re-
volted at the thought of crushing that hum-
bled woman, and there was pity in his tone —
a pity which stung his wife, as he said —

" Dora, this is a severe trial ; let us go
through it as wisely as we can — we have a
whole lifetime before us. Let us be patient ! "

" I would give my life to set you free," she
replied in a low tone ; " I would give my life,
Mr. Templemore, that the last three weeks had
never been ! "

No other word of deprecation or regret
passed her lips. Mr. Templemore saw no
signs of genuine sorrow or repentance in his
wife ; nothing but pride and sin — defiant,
though conquered and revealed.

"Dora," he said again, "this is a cruel
trial ; perhaps we could not pass through it
safely if I were to remain here. I do not wish
the wrong I have suffered to make me forget
the relation in which we stand to each other.
Therefore, I shall go away for a time. When
I return we shall both have learned to be silent
on a subject which must never be mentioned
between us."

He spoke very coldly, " When I return ! "
No gleam of joy shone in his eyes, but dull
and heavy remained his look, as the words
were uttered. He bore his burden as patiently
as he could, but it was a burden, and in his
heart he hated it. Again she clasped her
despairing hands ; she raised her eyes to
heaven in wondering appeal at his injustice
and her misery.

" I am not jealous," she said, " but there are
wrongs beyond endurance, and this is one.
You married me two weeks ago, and now my
presence is irksome to you, and you go. I
am not jealous, but if you had married Flor-
ence, would you treat her so ? "

" If I had married her," he sternly replied,
his cheek flushing with anger, "I should not,
at least, have been cheated into it."

Dora felt tried, judged, and condemned,
everything which a human being can feel in
the way of condemnation, as he said this.
Duty would bring him back to her, but love
was over. She had no hope to win that back,

THE WORD OF HONOR.

231

but she made a desperate effort to save her
honor.

" Mr. Templemore," she said, ** your wrong
is great; but so is mine. I am a proud
woman ! Then imagine, if you can, my shame
and my humiliation. Your gifts, your caresses,
y.our tenderness can only sting me, now that I
know treachery and fraud made them mine. I
have said it already ; I say it again — I would
gladly die to give you back your liberty."

Her pale face was very fine ; there was a
light in her eyes, and a proud smile on her
lips, which went to her husband's very heart.
The embers of love were there still, and it
would have taken very little — a few caresses,
a few fond words — to kindle the old flame
anew, and subdue him. But Dora was a
proud woman, as she said — one whom sus-
picion wronged, and she could not do that.
Not to secure an eternity of love could she
now have thrown her arms around the neck
of the man on whom she had been forced, and
who so plainly thought her an accomplice in
the fraud. Some questions are not questions
of will merely, but also of power, and the
power to do that was wanting. Her coldness
was fatal to her cause. Mr. Templemore could
reconcile all she said with guilt, and though
the thought of that guilt wrung and tortured
him, he could not dismiss it. Had not her
aunt declared it? — had not her mother be-
trayed it? — had not Florence asserted it? and
did not his own judgment confirm it ? Was it
possible that such a plot could bo carried on
under her eyes for her benefit, and that,
though warned from the beginning, she should
never suspect it ? Oh ! that he could believe
her to be so simple and so guileless ! But he
could not, and his agony spoke in the very
tones of his voice as he said :

" Oh ! Dora, Dora, how could you allow it ?
— how could you die so to your better self?
I had such faith in you ! If there was a being
whom I respected, it was you ; you seemed to

me so pure, so stainless. I could have placed
my honor in your keeping, and placed it blind-
fold. And oh ! that you should have come
to this ! Would to Heaven that all else had
perished, and that I stood a ruined and penni-
less man, with Eva and you, so I still had that
innocent wife, whom I looked at sleeping this
morning ! "

She could not bear this. Her pride melted
before the sight of his grief. Looking up to
heaven, she said, passionately, "I am inno-
cent ! — oh ! believe that I am innocent ! — only
believe that, and love her, if you like. Look
at me, Mr. Templemore, and believe that I am
innocent."

He looked at her as she asked, but he only
read love and despair in her face ; he did not
see innocence there, but with a deep, sad sigh,
he made one desperate effort for belief.

" Dora," he said, " I do not wish to wound
or offend you, but tell me this : Is it true that
when you came here for the first time, Mrs. Luan
promised that you should become my wife ? "

Dora felt the blow, but she replied, calmly,

" She predicted — she did not promise it."

Her lips quivered as she uttered the words.
He pitied her, and made no comment upon
them.

" Is it true," he continued, " that when Flor-
ence asked you what had taken me to you
that night, you refused to reply ? "

" It is true," she answered, and she smiled
rather proudly.

There was a pause, then he said, gently,

" Good-by, Dora."

As he uttered the word, the smile passed
from her face, as sunshine passes from the sky.
Her eyes darkened in the intensity of their
gaze ; her lips turned white, and her features
grew rigid as stone or death. From head to
foot she shook like an aspen-leaf in a strong
wind, but she looked bravely in his face.
The storm that might rend her asunder should
not, at least, conquer her.

232

DORA.

" Then you are going ? " she said — " on
such testimony you condemn me! I am a
schemer and a plotter in your eyes — a woman
who will do anything to win a husband ! Did
I ever seek you, Mr. Templemore ? — was I for-
ward or alluring ? "

"No," he said, with sudden energy. "If
ever a girl was free from that vice, you were.
If ever I saw modesty in woman, it was in you."

" That much justice you do me," she said,
and her lip quivered a little as she spoke ; " but
perhaps you think me mercenary — perhaps you
think that, being a poor girl, I must needs covet
being a rich man's wife, Mr. Templemore ? Mr.
Templemore," she said, the tears rushing to her
eyes, and her voice broken by the weeping she
could not check, " I know a poor girl who met
a poor man, or one who seemed such, and who
liked him though he looked a man of broken
fortunes. I know a poor girl who thought
that, if he liked her too, it would be pleasant
to lead a life of toil and poverty with him, and
whose heart ached sorely on the day that
proved him wealthy. That girl — " She could
not go on ; she buried her face in her hands,
and when she looked up, she was in her hus-
band's arms, and his eyes were dim. " No,
you must not kiss me," she said, turning her
head away; "I will not' be caressed if I can-
not be loved, and I will not be loved if I am
not honored. I am a proud woman, Mr. Tem-
plemore, and I warned you not to take me. I did
not want to marry you — it frightened me — I
ran away from you, and you followed, and
persuaded me, and now I am your wife. If
heaven and earth were to tell me that you had
broken your honor, would F believe them ?
Then, as I trust you, so must you trust me —
bo must you think me incapable of a falsehood,
implied or spoken. You must trust me even
though every voice should condemn me — do
you ? "

She turned upon him suddenly, with a flush
on her cheek and a light in her eyes, that

made him feel both dazzled and bewitched.
He had never loved her more than at that mo-
ment. He could not resist her — he felt sub-
dued and won over. With tears and caresses
he said he loved her — that he believed in her ;
in her his wife dear, honored, and beloved.
. " And you will not go ? " said Dora, smiling
through her tears.

Go ! he had forgotten all about going — all
about doubt and estrangement. He was her
lover once more — her fond, enamoured lover,
and what could part them ? But there are
many jealous recesses in a woman's heart.
This sudden return of tenderness was not what
Dora wanted — for this, perhaps, she had never
lost. She gently moved away from Mr. Tem-
plemore's side; she put her two hands on his
shoulders, and looked up in his face. - Never
had he seen that piercing glance in her soft
bright eyes.

"Mr. Templemore," she said, "give me
your word of honor that there is not a doubt
left on your mind against me."

Honor ! there is something strangely solemn
in the word. It is more than a mere appeal to
truth, and sacred though that be, it is more
than truth. Honor ! it is the pure stream
from which some of our noblest virtues spring-
it is the grace of manhood. It is what neither
man nor woman can sully nor taint in vain.
We can sin, repent, and be forgiven; but-,
upon earth, at least, a lost honor can never be
restored. Mr. Templemore would have given
anything to be able to comply with his wife's
request. Some of the words she had spoken
had stirred the very depths of his heart. Ho
would have given her anything — done any-
thing to please her but this. And this he
could not — he could not. He could not give
her his word of honor that no shadow of doubt
remained on his mind against her.

"Dora," he said, " is not all this over? "

"Yes," she replied vaguely; " it is."

She had seen and read his troubled face,

I ■'■"-

"no, YOU MIST NOT KISS me."

•

END OF THE HONEYMOON.

233

and she could read, too, the very tones of bis
voice, so fond, and yet so hesitating.

" Dora," he said, " have pity on me. I be-
lieve in you ; I know you are innocent and
good."

" But you cannot give me your word of
honor ! " she said.

He took a few turns in the room. He felt
dreadfully agitated.

" Have pity on me," he said again, coming
back to her. " You would despise me if I
could utter the shadow of a lie to please
you."

" Yes, I should," she replied calmly. She
did not reproach him — she did not even look
at him ; but Mr. Templemore felt that a wall
of ice had risen between him and his wife.
He could better forgive the sin than she could
forgive the doubt.

He looked at her very moodily.

" I see I must go, after all," he said, bitterly.

" I suppose so," she replied, apathetically.

" I shall soon return," he continued, looking
at her ; but she did not answer.

And so they must part ! These two, who,
but a while back, had been clasped in so fond
an embrace, must part. One had split on the
rock of pride, and the other was lost in shoals
of doubt, and the waves of life must, for a
time, at least, flow between them. The bond
of love was strong still — strong and ferveut ;
but the nobler bond of faith was broken.

" Yes, I must go," he said, desperately ; " it
is best."

Dora had not believed she could suffer so
much. She had been married two weeks —
not three — and he left her either because her
presence was an infliction he could not bear,
or because the conviction of her guilt was one
he could not conquer. All wish of justifica-
tion died within her. She felt turned to
stone. He might go, he might stay; not
another protest of innocence could now pass
her lips.

" Good-by," he said again, and he. kissed
her ; alas ! how coldly now, and he left her.

" He will go soon," she thought ; and, having
locked herself in, she went to the window, and
stood there waiting. She looked down the
road. How often had she watched for his re-
turn when'he had no thought of her ! She
remembered how he and Florence had once
entered the house together. She remembered
how her laughing face was raised to his, and
how their two sunlit figures dazzled her with
their brightness. The jealous thrill that shot
through her as she looked at them, the flush
of pain which rose to her face as she turned
away from the sight, and Eva's wondering,
" Oh ! how red you are, Cousin Dora ! " She
remembered them every one, and thinking of
all she had suffered for the sake of that man,
and how she was requited, she passionately
wished that she had never been born.

No one came near her. Solitary was her
bitter hour. Its keenest pang was soon over.
She heard the carriage-wheels grinding on the
gravel, she saw it going down the steep road.
She sank on her knees and looked at it
through blinding tears, and when it had van-
ished she remained there still weeping, how
long she knew not.

When Dora rose, at length, her heart felt
changed within her — a bitterness, a resent-
ment were there which even his accusation
had not wakened. " Deserted," she thought,
" betrayed, wronged, and cast away at the end
of two weeks ! "

CHAPTER XLIII.

It was thus Mrs. Luan kept her promise of
making Dora Mr. Templemore's wife ; but her
boon had been fatal — like that of the evil
spirit in the legend, it had turned into calam-
ity, and only led to the deepest woe. Mr.
Templemore was gone; he had left his wife.
Whether in doubt or in weariness, in coldness

234

DORA.

of heart or in aversion, for howsoever short or
how long a time, he had left her. It was best,
no doubt, not to pass from such fervid affec-
tion to the desolation of coldness and doubt ;
it was best, but, oh ! how dreary !

" And Miss Moore and Eva are gone too,
and they have taken away Fido, "indignantly
exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay.

Dora smiled bitterly. The dog too ! And
the child had not so much as bid her good-
by. She was an outcast in her husband's
house. But she did not complain. She felt
wrecked on a shore which no joy could reach,
and no murmur passed her lips. It was so
useless to repine. " I suppose it is all right,
after all," thought Mrs. Courtenay, seeing her
so calm ; and when they met that evening in
the garden, whither Dora had wandered to
seek that peace which came not, Mrs. Courte-
nay's mind was full of another theme.

" Dora," she said, mysteriously, " I met
Mrs. Luan here awhile back. What ails her ?
How came she to leave John ? "

" I don't know," apathetically replied Dora.
"What should ail her?"

" Why did she creep along that avenue,
Dora ? And, when she saw me, why did she
smile, and look as cunning as a fox ? "

Dora put her hand on her mother's arm and
looked at her. Each saw what the other
meant, and Dora at length said it in covered
speech.

" If she be so," she said, " she has been so
years."

"But surely — surely," gasped Mrs. Cour-
tenay, " Mr. Templemore would have seen it."

"Has John seen it? I gave him a hint
once, and he received it with scorn. No, Mr.
Templemore could not see it. She was never
the same when he was by — never. Every-
thing was against me — everything."

"But, Dora, what are we to do?" asked
Mrs. Courtenay, looking frightened. " What
arc we to do ? "

" Nothing," said Dora.

" I wish Mr. Templemore were here," said
Mrs. Courtenay, looking wistfully at her
daughter.

Dora could not answer this. Even her
mother felt how desolate they were without
him — how his presence would have brought
security with it, how his absence meant uneasi-
ness and dread.

" The first time he took me in his arms,"
thought Dora, " I felt, ' Now have I found a
refuge against every ill man can inflict, now
God's hand alone can reach me here ! ' That
was on our wedding-day — not a month back
— and now where is he ? — where am I ? "

" Dora ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, for Dora'a
tears were flowing.

" I did not know I was crying," she said,
trying to smile. " Do not mind it, mamma."

" I am afraid it is not all right," began Mrs.
Courtenay, hesitatingly.

" Hush ! " whispered Dora. " Look at
aunt ! "

She did not see them. She was going down
an avenue, peeping first on one side then on
the other, evidently seeking something or
some one.

"Why has she left John?" asked Mrs.
Courtenay.

" I don't know," replied Dora, with a
wearied sigh.

At that moment Mrs. Luan turned round
and saw them. She immediately came tow-
ard them with a cheerful aspect.

" John is so well," she said, " that I have
come out for a walk."

Her manner was calm and composed. Dora
looked at her, and thought bitterly : " Mad !
she is not mad; but she hated me with a
deadly hate, for John's sake."

They entered the house together. Dora
neither looked at nor spoke to her aunt, and
Mrs. Courtenay whispered confidentially, as
Mrs. Luan left them to go back to John —

MRS. LUAN'S INSANITY.

235

" I dare say she is all right, after all."
The two ladies retired early ; but Dora did
not retire in order to sleep. She long stood
on the balcony of her room, looking at the
sky, black and starless, and when she came in
she did not go to bed at once. She sat by
her toilet-table, undid her hair, and looked at
herself in the glass. It already seemed so long
ago since the sad face she saw there had had
so bright a story. Was this indeed the beg-
gar-maid, the girl with gray eyes, and hair of
brown gold, whom King Cophetua loved ?
Was such a change possible — was it credible?
" I know he will come back," thought Dora ;
" but that is not it. I do not want Mr. Tem-
plemore, I want my husband, and something
tells me that I shall find him no more. If
he could forgive — I cannot. And yet, who
knows ? If he should come back as he said
he would — if sitting thus I were to see the
door open — "

She paused in her thoughts. The door was
opening — she did not hear it, so softly did it
move on its hinges — it was known later that
they had been oiled — but a wax light burned
on her toilet-table, and its pale gleam reflected
in the glass showed her, though dimly, every
corner of the vast room. Thus she saw the
door open — her heart beat — could it be her
husband ? — no, it was Mrs. Luan's head she
saw in the aperture. A sudden and deadly
fear paralyzed Dora. Her heart beat no
longer, her tongue clove to the roof of her
mouth, she was voiceless and motionless. The
door continued to open, Mrs. Luan stepped in,
but no velvety-footed creature could have
made less noise than she did. Swiftly she
shut the door behind her, and, as Dora, who
had not stirred, saw distinctly, she bolted it.
" She has come to murder me ! " thought Dora.
She did not look round, she did not cry, but
as Mrs. Luan slowly crept toward her with
the serpentine motion of a feline beast, she
suddenly blew out the light, and stepping

round the toilet-table, was out on the balcony
in a moment.

A baffled cry of rage burst from the mad
woman when she thus suddenly found herself
in the darkness of the vast room. She groped
about for Dora, shrieking in her frenzy ; and
Dora, standing on the balcony, never moved,
never spoke, never by the slightest motion
gave her enemy the least clew to the spot
where she stood sheltered by the darkness of
the night.

But Mrs. Luan's screams had roused the
house. Dora heard exclamations of alarm in
the garden, on the staircase, but she also
heard her aunt saying, " I shall get you ! —
I shall get you ! — you are out on the bal-
cony ! — I shall get you ! "

She heard her groping near the toilet-table
— within a few paces of her — she felt the
window move, and still she had self-command
enough to keep in the wild scream of terror
which nearly passed her lips. Meanwhile the
sounds of help came nearer, they gathered
round her door, it was tried, shaken violently,
then burst open. Mrs. Courtenay and the
servants rushed in, and with them came a
flood of light. Pale as death, but- still calm,
Dora stepped out from her hiding-place, and
standing with the crimson window-curtains
behind her, she said, pointing to Mrs. Luan,
who crouched and cowered in a corner of the
room, "She has gone mad! — take care! — she
wanted to murder me ! "

There was a pause of wonder, of fear, and
doubt ; then the men approached the mad
woman. The struggle was violent, but brief
and silent. Neither Mrs. Luan nor the men
who tried to master her uttered one word. In
a few moments they had succeeded, and Mrs.
Luan, firmly bound, sat silent and sullen in
Dora's chair. Dora gtood and looked at her,
and as she looked, she could hear John laugh-
ing up-stairs. That fierce, wild creature, as
dangerous as a wild beast, and as fell in its

236

DORA.

instincts, was the mother who had borne John
Luan, reared him, and loved him with such
passionate tenderness, that it had helped to
make her what Dora saw. As she stood thus
gazing at her moody aunt, with the dishevelled
hair falling around her sullen face, Mrs. Tem-
plemore heard a voice near her saying, " Please,
ma'am, here is a letter Mr. Templemore left
for you. Jacques was to give it, but forgot it."

Dora started, and waking from her dream,
she saw Fanny. With a trembling hand she
took her husband's letter and broke the seal.
A bundle of silk notes fell out, and fluttered
on the floor; but Dora did not heed them.
With feverish eagerness she read the first
letter Mr. Templemore had written to her
since their marriage. It was brief, cold, but
strictly courteous. Mr. Templemore placed a
large sum at his wife's disposal, and informed
her that he should expect to find her alone on
his return to Les Roches. Dora turned very
pale. Money and her mother's banishment!
— this was her sentence. He had gone to
seek his pleasure, and place his child in safety,
and he had left her at the mercy of whatever
sorrow or evil chance might come in his ab-
sence. Was this what he had promised on
their wedding-day ? Fanny had picked up the
notes, and she handed them to her mistress,
bnt even as she put them back in the envelope
Dora felt that her resolve was taken. "I
will die before I eat his bread or live on his
money," she thought.

Mrs. Luan now spoke for the first time.

" I have made a lady of you," she said — " I
have made a lady of you, Dora."

"You have," answered her niece, looking
at the madwoman with a passion of grief she
could not control — " you have, and I know
the cost."

Even as she said it, John laughed again in
his room. He, too, had paid the price of
Dora's elevation to the rank of Mr. Tcmple-
more's wife.

" Oh ! Dora, Dora," pitifully exclaimed Mrs.
Courtenay, "what does it all mean?"

Dora looked at her and smiled — oh ! how
sadly ! — how drearily !

CHAPTER XLIV.

We may decree a thing in the first bitter-
ness of our resentment, and Providence may
so far favor us that we shall not be able to
fulfil our angry desire ; but it was not so with
Mr. Templemore's wife. The day after he had
left Les Roches, Dora received a letter from
Mr. Ryan enclosing a check for fifty pounds.
The shares of the Redmore Mines had turned
from so much waste paper to gold, and Mr.
Ryan, in the exuberance of his joy, wrote to
Miss Courtenay, advancing a sum which he
considered that she might need. That she
had left Les Roches, and gone back to Ma-
dame Bertrand's he knew, but happiness is
selfish, and Dora had forgotten to tell him of
her marriage.

" People should send cards," very sensibly
remarked Mrs. Courtenay.

She said this by John's sick-bed, where a
nurse had now taken Mrs. Luan's place. The
young man's case had been pronounced des-
perate, and for his sake Dora had resolved
to wait till all was over. But neither was
that to be. The peril which had cost her so
dear passed away. John's life hung on a
thread for a few days, then youth and strength
prevailed, and he came back to life, and, alas !
too, to grief. He bore his sorrow manfully,
but the place where he had suffered so ter-
tibly was hateful to him. He would not wait
till his recovery was final to leave Les Roches,
and Dora did not detain him. The sooner
all was over the better it would be.

Mrs. Courtenay had been very unwell since
the terrible evening on which her sister-in-
law's insanity had broken out, and Dora went

HER SON'S DEPARTURE.

237

no farther than the gate of Les Roches with
her cousin. There they parted. He was go-
ing to resume a life of labor shorn of every
hope which had once made it dear, and he
looked at her in sad silence.

Mrs. Courtenay's querulous complaints that
Mr. Templemore did not write, had told John
a sad story, which Dora's pale face now com-
pleted. He knew nothing of the circum-
stances which had attended her marriage,
nothing of the causes which had estranged
her husband, nor of his own connection with
her grief; but that grief he saw, and when
she stood so wan and languid before him, he
looked at her with sullen and jealous sorrow.
Who was that cold husband, that Dora should
love him thus ? What right had that stranger,
that man whom she had detested years, the
successful rival who had laid Paul Courtenay
in his grave, thus to go robbing other men,
snatching the sweet prizes of life from them —
then casting them away so ruthlessly ? For
a moment John Luan was his mother's son ;
if a thought, a wish of his could have an-
nihilated Mr. Templemore, Dora's husband
would have ceased to exist. What ! had he
lost her for this ? Was the girl whom he
had loved years, about whom he had dreamed
so fondly, whose loss had brought him to
death's door, was she to be treated like a
cast-off mistress by the man who had deprived
him of all joy ? " If I could kill him I would ! "
thought John Luan, setting his teeth. Yes,
he would gladly have murdered Mr. Temple-
more just then, and, of course, have married
his widow.

It is well that a man's feelings are not al-
ways spoken ; it is well, too, that the thoughts
and wishes which enter his heart when he has
left the door open to the tempting devil who
comes to all in such evil hours — it is well,
we say, that these abide not, unless with the
dangerous and the . bad. John Luan was
neither. But neither was be very good, for

good-nature is not goodness, ne could be
sullen and revengeful when ho thought himself
wronged, and from that hour he hated Mr.
Templemore, whom he had not loved before.

Something of this Dora saw, for she
thought : " Yes, John, the living husband has
avenged the dead brother on the faithless
sister ; " but all she said, as she looked down
the road was —

" I envy you — I envy you, John Luan.
Your cares are heavy, your sorrows are cruel,
and you are alone, and yet I envy you. You
can go forth and strive. You can go forth
and conquer, perhaps."

" Conquer what ? " he asked, moodily.

" What you need, John— forgetfulness."

With what passionate longing she looked
down that white road which wound away to
the busy city below ! If it had led to that an-
cient world of the poets, that world where
Lethe flowed, her gaze could scarcely have
been less intent and yearning than it was. It
could scarcely have taken less heed than it did
of him. He saw and felt it.

" I must go," he said, a little hurriedly.
" Good-by, Dora."

" Good-by," she replied, listlessly.

She gave him her cold hand. He might go,
he might stay — John felt it changed nothing
in 'her life. He walked down the road, fol-
lowed by the servant who carried the carpet-
bag, and he never looked back. Yet Dora long
watched him. Even when he was out of sight
she stood there, envying him. He might go
away and strive, as she had said, and forget.
" If I could but forget," she thought, as she
at length turned away. "Oh! if I but could ! "
Her heart beat — her whole being trembled.
" Forget ! " she thought. " God, forbid that
I should ever forget ! "

And she was right. There is something both
passionate and sweet in the memory of lost
happiness. It is one of the few sorrows to
which we cling. Proserpina never forgot, wc

238

DORA.

are told, the flowers wfiich she was gathering
in the plains of Enna, when the dark king
bore her away. If he had taken her to
Olympus itself, and not to Hades, she could
not have forgotten them. Never again should
there have been such perfumed violets and
anemones so fair. Goddess though she was,
and immortal, she, too, had a youth, and looked
back with vain yearning to its golden gates
closed forever. Time could not wither, age
could not fade her beauty, but something
there had been for her, something which there
could be no more. But to remember is not to
forgive, unfortunately, and though there was
a smile on Dora's lips when she went back to
her mother, there was also a settled resolve in
her heart. She found Mrs. Courtenay much
depressed.

" I cannot get over it," she said plaintively,
in answer to her daughter's question. " Poor
Mrs. Luan ! I miss her so, Dora. And then
Mr. Templemore stays away so long."

Dora did not answer at once. She sat with
her look fixed moodily on empty space. The
walls with their pictures, the brown and grave
furniture of her mother's room, the window
and the landscape it framed, had vanished
from her view. She saw a sea-beaten shore,
a rocky coast, a low village straggling aloug
the beach, and there she made a refuge and a
home, far away from Mr. Templemore's house
and his money.

"Mamma," she said suddenly, looking up
at her mother, "you want a change, and you
must take one."

"Of course I want a change," said Mrs.
Courtenay, a little peevishly; "and if, instead
of running away, Mr. Templemore had stayed
here, he could have taken us somewhere."

Never was unconsciousness of the offence of
her presence more complete than Mrs. Courte-
nay's.

"Mr. Templemore is enjoying himself in
London, I dare say," replied Dora ; " and Lon-

don would not do for us, mamma. You want
rest and quietness, after the shock you have
had. Why should we not go to Ireland ? "

" My dear ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, much
startled, "what would your husband say to
that ? "

" Why should he say anything ? " com-
posedly replied Dora ; " I have no reason to
believe that he misses me just now. He will
come and look for me when he wants me,
mamma."

She spoke so calmly, with so little appear-
ance of resentment, that her mother was de-
ceived. She did not, indeed, yield an imme-
diate assent to Dora's proposal ; she hesitated
and demurred, but Dora's quiet arguments
conquered her resistance in the end. Little
by little she gave way, and finally she saw
nothing that was not right or feasible about
this expedition to the Irish coast.

"A child could cheat her," thought Dora,
looking at her guileless little mother with tears
in her eyes ; " and it is this innocent being —
my mother, too, for whom there is no room in
Les Roches ! It is she whom Mr. Templemore
could believe an accomplice in a base plan to
rob him of bis liberty. If his heart had
not already been turned from me, would my
poor mad aunt's story have prevailed against
us?"

It is dangerous to sting a woman's pride,
and most dangerous of all when she loves.
Indifference is a wonderful peacemaker, and
there are few wounds it will not heal. Dora
longed, though perhaps she did not know it,
to pay Mr. Templemore back in coin, and to
show him that she, too, could live without
him. And yet she prepared but slowly for
their departure, and lingered over the task ;
perhaps she had a secret hidden hope that her
husband would return suddenly, and prevent
her flight, but he did not. Slow though Dora
was, everything was soon ready, and she said
gayly to her mother one evening :

LES ROCHES FORSAKEN.

239

" We go by the first train, and I am so glad ;
the change will do us a world of good."

" I hope so," answered Mrs. Courtenay,
rather languidly.

" I am sure of it," said Dora, still cheerful ;
and she went out for a lonely walk, but look-
ing " as bright as sunshine," thought Mrs.
Courtenay. The evening was fair and still.
A dewy freshness was falling on the garden.
Never, it seemed to Dora, had its flowers sent
forth a fragrance so penetrating. She bent to
gather some, then, turned away, leaving them
on their stems. "Stay here," she thought
— "stay and blow and wither here. If I
leave this place, what have I to do -with
you ? "

She entered the shady grounds. How cool,

how fresh, how mysterious they looked — but
t

how sad, too, was their loneliness ! In these

alleys Eva's loud, joyous laugh had rung. On
that old bench Mr. Templemore and Florence
had sat and talked of love. Dora stood be-
fore it, looking at it as moodily as if it were
an altar on which her youth had been laid and
sacrificed by some pitiless Calchas.

" Why did I ever come between them ? " she
thought ; " why did he ever seek me ? The
sordid cares of life would have saved me from
love. I dare say I would have married John
Luan in the end — out of very weariness, as so
' many girls do marry. And I would have read
novels, and wondered at that happy love-match
one reads of so much and sees so seldom, and
my life would have been as a quiet dream.
And now it is all woe and bitterness. I am
as a usurper who cannot abdicate. I cannot
set him free — and he cannot love me. For a
few days he was bewitched ; something was
on him which looked like love, but was not it ;
and now that something has left me, and his
heart has gone back to her. And I must
either see it and suffer agonies, or leave him,
as I do — and suffer still. Never again can I
be happy— never, and I am not twenty-five !

Paul — Paul — my brother, why did I forget

you

!»

She sank on her knees on the damp earth,
and laid her fevered cheek on the stone bench.
She could not weep, but she let the flood of
bitter thought rise and overwhelm her; and
when remembrance returned, and she left the
past and its dead for the present and the
living, she was shivering, and the dullness of
the spot and the hour seemed to have reached
her very heart. She went back to the house
and entered it, but she did not go to her
mother's apartment. She took a light and
went over every room that had once been dear
and familiar to her. " After all, I could stay,"
she thought, "and he would come back. I
could stay, but I will not; and when he re-
turns, he shall find that solitude he went so
far to seek. No more need he leave his home
to shun me."

Dora was standing in the school-room as she
came to this bitter conclusion. Eva's globes,
her books, her piano were there, and Dora's
own chair by the window. Some pleasant and
some severe visions haunted this apartment.
She had been very happy here, but here too
she had suffered keenly. Well, both that joy
and that sorrow were over now. She had en-
tered a dull, cold world, where neither abided,
where all was shade and endurance. " I will
write to him here," thought Dora. She sat
down, and taking up the pen which had so
often corrected Eva's exercises, and lay there
unused, she wrote to Eva's father. She did
not complain, she did not reproach, but she re-
fused to accept the fate he laid upon her. It
was a proud, cold letter, but it was also, though
Dora did not think so, the letter of a woman
who still loved the husband whose house she
was leaving. It lay before her, and leaning
back in her chair, she looked at it, thinking :
" This is my first letter to him. I wonder
what love-letters are like, and how they feel
who write or read them ? " She wondered too

240

DORA.

how he would feel when this letter was placed
in his hands. Would he seek and follow her,
fond and repentant ? Would he come and
claim his wife, angry and authoritative, or
would he simply leave her in scornful sileuce?
" I could burn it and stay," she thought ;
" nothing compels me to go — nothing. It is
time yet, and to-morrow it will be too late."
But what avails time when we will not take
that inestimable boon ? Nine times out of
ten that Fate, of whom we speak with mysteri-
ous dread, lies in our hand, and is the servant
of our own will. " He left me," thought Dora ;
" days and weeks have passed, and he has not
written, not made a sign — I do not know where
he is — I do not even know the abode of his
child. His last act was to signify my mother's
exile, and to give me money."

She rose as this stinging thought came to
her, she went up to her room, she took out the
bank-notes from her desk ; she enclosed them
with her letter, sealed the packet, then rang
for Fanny.

" We leave early to-morrow morning," she
said, trying to speak calmly ; " Mr. Temple-
.more will soon return. It is not worth while
sending this by post — you will give it to him
when he comes back, Fanny."

The girl held out her hand, and mechanical-
ly Bora gave her the packet ; but, after a few
moments' pause, she took it back, and put it
in the drawer. "You will find it there to-
morrow," she said.

" Very well, ma'am," replied Fanny. She
looked as unconscious as she well could look,
but she had felt the soft, limp notes through
the envelope, and she knew the meaning of
Bora's journey.

" He may follow me if he chooses," thought
Bora ; " but never unless he seeks for me shall
I enter the house where he left me after we had
been married a fortnight. The sin, if sin there
be, lies with him, and not with me."

CHAPTER XLV.

The long sleepless night was over. A dull
gray light told of coming dawn when Bora rose
and dressed. It was too early, and she knew
it, but she was wearied of her own restlessness,
and it seemed as if motion alone would calm
the fever within her. Besides, she wanted to
go to Rouen before leaving Les Roches with
her mother.

The porter at the lodge was taking what he
called his morning nap when the voice of his
young mistress unexpectedly roused him by re-
questing the iron gate to be opened. The por-
ter's conclusion was that he was dreaming, and
that this was not his morning nap but his mid-
night sleep, and he made no attempt to stir ;
but Bora's voice rose higher, and by knocking
at his door she convinced the porter that he
was not. asleep and dreaming, but that Mr.
Templemore's wife wanted to leave Les Roches.
So he rose wondering, and let her out, and
looked after her as she glided down the gray
road where the light of morning was gradually
stealing, wakening the tall trees from their
long, calm sleep, and giving a token to the
closed daisies in the dewy grass that *.he sun
was coming fast.

Swiftly, and with a sort of longing, Bora
went on till she reached her old home and*
Madame Bertrand's house. Madame Bertrand
was in the act of opening her shutters, aud
she still wore the cotton handkerchief around
her head, preliminary to the donning of the
close white cap by which it was to be suc-
ceeded. She smiled brightly and nodded
cheerfully on seeing Bora.

" Good-morning, mademoiselle — madamc, I
mean," she added, correcting herself, " for I
have been told you are madame now, the wife
of Boctor Richard."

Bora stood like one transfixed. The wife
of Boctor Richard ! How much happiness had

AT MADAME BERTRAND'S.

241

once seemed comprised in these words ; and
now what was their meaning ?

" Will you not come in ? " asked Madame
Bertrand, still bright and cheerful ; and as
Dora nodded cousent, she came and opened
the door to her with a look that had a world
of knowing and shrewd congratulation in it.
Dora soon recovered herself, and tried to look
like a happy bride.

" I have come to bid you good-by, Madame
Bertrand," she said ; " we are leaving Les
Roches, and as I do not know when we shall
return, I would not go without seeing you once
more."

Madame Bertrand was very grateful, and
made a few inquiries which showed that she
concluded Mr. Templemore to be bent on the
same journey with his wife. Dora did not un-
deceive her, there was no need to do so, but,
after a brief pause, she said : ■*>

" I see your rooms are not let. Will you
let me see them again ? I always intended
drawing the view from my room window, but
I never did ; I fancy that if I look at it now I
can make a sketch of it."

Madame Bertrand felt delighted and flat-
tered at the request. She always had said the
view from mademoiselle's room was a pretty
view, but a Parisian family who had looked at
the apartment yesterday had declared it was
trisfe, and enough to give one the spleen, and
had gone to live near the Rue de l'lmpera-
trice, which was so glaring that it was enough
to dazzle one's eyes out, in Madame Bertrand's
opinion.

Thus she chattered as she went up-stairs

with Dora, but luckily she did not stay. The

baker and the milkman summoned her below.

Her sabots clattered down the staircase, and

Dora was alone in her old room. Madame

Bertrand had opened the window ; the sun

was up now, the outlines of the gray old

church were cut on a blue sky, and though its

body was still in shadow, the flowers that
10

grew in the buttresses stirred gently in the
little wiud that came from the river, and had
an air of young, bright morning life about
them. How gay they looked on that carved
stony background, from which centuries had
taken away its first hardness, giving instead a
tender though massive grace ! How pure and
transparent was the green of the vine-leaves
through which the fresh morning breeze was
playing, as if to toy thus with Nature's beau-
tiful things were the end of its being, and how
everything she saw seemed to Dora to be tell-
ing her again the story of her lost happiness !
She stood and looked with a beating heart.
Her hand was idle, no pencil traced that view
on paper, and yet she was drawing it all the
time — drawing it in outlines which man's hand
could never efface, in colors which time could
not fade, on a poor, frail mortal tablet, in-
deed, but one which would last as long as her
own being.

"Doctor Richard's wife," she thought, turn-
ing away as she remembered how she had sat
waiting, watching and dreaming too, by that
window. " Yes, thus it might have been well ;
but I am like you, Griselidis, I too have been
taken from low estate, and I too must pay the
cost, for the full price is not told yet ; but oh !
how bitter these first instalments have been ! "
She lowered her veil and went down-stairs
hastily.

" Good-by, Madame Bertrand," she said —
" good-by. God bless you ! "

Madame Bertrand looked for the drawing ;
she uttered an exclamation. She wanted to
see it, also to send her respectful compliments
to Madame Courtenay, but Dora was gone.
Swiftly though she went away, however, Ma-
dame Bertrand had seen tears glistening on
her checks through her veil.

" The dear young creature ! " she said, when
mentioning the fact of Dora's visit to one of
her gossips. . " She was so affected at parting
from me, that she wept. But all my lodg-

242

DORA.

ers doted on me, excepting Monsieur Theo-
dore."

Another errand, besides the wish of seeing
Madame Bertrand, once more had brought
Dora to Rouen ; but this was soon fulfilled,
and Mrs. Courtenay had only finished dressing
when her daughter entered her room.

" My dear, where have you been ? " said
Mrs. Courtenay. " Fanny told me you were
out — I got quite uneasy."

" I went to order a carriage," replied Dora,
calmly; then, seeing her mother's amazed
look, she added : " you know how particular
Mr. Templemore is about his horses. I can-
not say what the coachman would do, once he
had put us down at the station."

Mrs. Courtenay supposed her daughter was
right, but it was plain that, as the hour for
leaving Les Roches drew nigh, she felt bewil-
dered and perplexed. Dora looked very
cheerful, though she also looked very white.
She was lively and talkative, but she ate no
breakfast; yet Mrs. Courtenay was lulled to
sleep, and she innocently said, as she looked
out at the garden from the breakfast-table :

" I like going, because I like a change ; but
do you know, Dora, I shall also like coming
back to Les Roches ? It looks so bright and
gay this morning."

A strange expression passed across Dora's
pale face, but she sat with her back to the
light, and Mrs. Courtenay's sight was not very
good, so the meaning, which a person of
keener mental and physical vision than she
was might have read there, escaped her.
Jacques came, with the intimation that the
carriage had arrived, breakfast was over, and
it was time to go. Dora went up to her room
to put on her bonnet, also to give the letter,
which had lain in the drawer all night, into
Fanny's hand. The girl noticed how cold and
pale her mistress looked, also how her little,
nervous hand shook ; bnt well-bred servants
Lave eyes, and see not, and nothing in her

pretty, stolid face betrayed that she had
guessed Mrs. Templemore's secret.

This was the end of the long, bitter struggle.
It expired with the last pang. What remained
to be gone through was mere mechanical en-
durance. Dora went down to her mother ; they
entered the carriage, it wheeled round the
gravel path, passed through the gates, then
went down the road at a rapid pace. The
trees, the hedges, the villas on either side
rushed past them. Children in gardens, ser-
vants at bedroom windows, were seen, then
vanished. The cool streets of Rouen were
entered. Sunshine stole down the roofs of
houses, lit up dark alleys, and poured in full
broad radiance on church fronts, rich with
carving.

" That is Saint Ouen," said Mrs. Courtenay,
looking out of the carriage window. But
Dora leaned back and closed her eyes. She
would not see the entrance to the Gallery.
She had gone through sufficient bitterness
that morning, and needed no more.

The rest was nothing. It was merely get-
ting into a railway carriage, and being con-
veyed through a green landscape, which
Dora's eyes saw not, whilst Mrs. Courtenay
made pretty childish remarks, or uttered little
screams of wonder, which her daughter did
not hear. Both speech and exclamations
ceased rather suddenly, and Dora did not
miss them. She was again going through
that meeting in the parlor at Kensington,
when, reading sudden and unexpected love in
Mr. Templemore's eyes, she had placed her
hand in his. Had she been all deceived, then ?
Surely he had cheated himself before he had
thus convinced her, and led to their mutual
loss and betrayal. But even if it had been so
— even if he had loved her for a few hours —
what mattered it now ? Was not every second
of time separating them, and had she not her-
self done it, and did she repent it ?

Dora roused herself, and compressed her

MRS. COURTENAY AGAIN ILL.

243

lips, and kept in the quick, troubled breath
that would come with that vain yearning tow-
ard a broken past. The tame, commonplace
parlor, the trees, the gray twilight, all faded
away, and the bright green landscape, and the
railway carriage, and her mother's presence
came back. Suddenly she uttered a sort of cry.

" Mamma ! mamma ! " she said, seizing Mrs.
Courtenay's hand, " what is it ? — what ails
you ? "

" I — I am not very well," faintly said Mrs.
Courtenay.

The change in her countenance was so
striking and ominous, that a cold terror struck
on Dora's heart. This was no trifling ailment,
no passing weakness or fainting-fit.

" Mamma," she cried, her voice rising with
sudden anguish, "mamma, do tell me what
ails you ? "

" I — I don't know," stammered Mrs. Cour-
tenay. " I felt very strange all night — but I
thought it would go."

She leaned her forehead on her hand and
seemed unable to say more. They were alone
in the carriage.

" We shall alight at the next station'," said
Dora.

Mrs. Courtenay did not answer. Her coun-
tenance was vacant, and the hand which Dora
held was cold and clammy. How drearily slow
felt the motion of the train, yet it soon slack-
ened its speed and stopped at a branch station.
The line here passed through a green park, at
the end of which Dora could see the closed
windows of an old chateau; no other dwelling
was visible, yet Dora remembered the place at
once. She alighted, put a few questions, and
learned that they were, as she thought, within
a quarter of a mile of that, village inn where
they had once dined with Mr. Templemore.
Mrs. Courtenay was helped down, and a mes-
senger was dispatched to the " White Horse "
for a vehicle ; it came, after a brief delay. Mrs.
Courtenay was lifted up into it, and they drove

slowly through a green, happy landscape, that
made Dora's heart ache. Yet her mother was
no worse when they reached the " White
Horse." She even said she felt better.

" The doctor is waiting," said the landlady,
coming out to receive them.

Nothing was changed about the old place,
and this homely woman's face was not altered.
Time had told her no sad story, her bright blue
eyes and ruddy cheeks spoke of unbroken con-
tent and steadfast cheerfulness. That gulf which
existed between Mr. Templemore's wife and her
lost happiness had all been smooth level ground
to her. Small cares and daily tasks had filled
those days which Dora had found so dreary
and so eventful. But she had no time to linger
over these thoughts ; her mother was conveyed
to the best room of the house — she remembered
it too — and there they found Doctor Gentil, a
brown old man, a real village doctor, rather
rough of aspect, but kindly in manner. He
put a few questions to Mrs. Courtenay, wrote a
prescription, and left, saying he would call in
the afternoon, Dora followed him out.

" Is it a serious case ? " she asked, in a low
tone.

He read her face. It was pale but brave,

" Very serious," he replied, gravely, " but
not hopeless."

" Not hopeless ! " The words seemed to
stun Dora; but she rallied at once, and re-
turned to her mother with a smiling face.

" We shall have to stay here a few days," she
said.

" I suppose so," vacantly replied Mrs. Cour-
tenay. "Yet I feel better — only so strange,
quite stupid."

Dora looked at her silently. She had never
before seen Mrs. Courtenay with that pinched
face and those sunken eyes.

" I do believe I could not make out a pa-
tience," resumed Mrs. Courtenay ; then she
added, with sudden liveliness : " Did you bring
the cards ? "

244

DORA.

" If I did not we can buy some, mamma."

" Buy ! — why buy ? Why not use our own ? "
But she could not follow out this train of
thought. It proved too much for her, and she
shook her head rather drearily. "It is no
use," she said. " I am getting stupid."

In the afternoon Doctor Gentil came again.
He found Mrs. Courtenay neither better nor
worse, and still he said, " It was a serious case,
but not hopeless." Two wearisome, anxious
days passed thus. On the third Mrs. Courte-
nay was slightly better, but also very restless,
and toward evening she insisted that her
daughter should go out. Dora resisted, then
yielded to please her.

" You want fresh air, you know," said her
mother, " and that good old soul, the landlady,
will stay with me. You know I like old peo-
ple."

Dora went, but her heart still felt heavy and
sad as she walked up a green, winding path
that led to the church. Her mother was not
out of danger, and she feared the worst. It
seemed as if some terrible doom weighed upon
her, and as if every step she took in life only
helped to work out its fulfilment. The strong
wind of calamity, division, and impending death
was sweeping everything and every one from
her side. A little more, and she would stand
alone, with the great desert of life around her.

It might have been better for Dora's nature
if her lot had not been so hard a one just then.
"We are not always the wiser for sorrow, for v, e
do not always know how to receive that severe
chastener, grief; and there was too much re-
sentment, not against Providence, but against
one of its human instruments, in the heart of
Mr. Tcmplemore's wife. She could not forgive
her husband, ne had left her for a few days
only, but these had been calamitous as years,
and by giving her no clew to his whereabouts,
he had signified very plainly that he wanted to
forget as well as to leave his wife. " Be it so,"
she thought , " it is his act, not mine — the sep-

aration, the forgetfulness, shall be as deep as
ever he can have wished them to be."

She was walking with her eyes bent as she
thought thus. She looked up as the path
widened. The village was far behind her, and
before her stood the little gray church, with
its churchyard around it. "I have been here
once before," thought Dora, with a pang, " and
shall I soon come here again ? " Yet she
could not resist the bitter temptation of sur-
veying the spot that might soon be her
mother's last home. A few graves were scat>
tered within the narrow space which a low
wall enclosed around the ancient edifice.
Through the open door Dora could see the
altar, and above it a richly-painted glass win-
dow. Purple hues, with bright streaks of
ruby and emerald, fell on the white altar-cloth,
and on the cold stone floor. But not a soul
was visible. No old woman had gone in to
say her prayers ; no lingering urchin had
strayed in to loiter away time. Equally silent
and lonely was the little churchyard. Tall
trees rose everywhere around it, making a
background of green gloom, and shutting out
from the dead the friendly aspect of human
dwellings. But to Dora, in that dark hour, it
seemed well that it should be so. Such a
mound of red earth as that of a new-made
grave, which her eye fell upon, might soon
hold, if not all that had been dear, all at
least that now faithfully loved her. "One in
Glasnevin and one here," she thought. " Oh !
if I could but go down there with you, my
poor darling — if* when he comes back, he
could but learn that mother and child are lying
in the same cold bed, he would be free at
List — free and happy, who can doubt it? "

She could not weep, she could not pray —
there are thoughts too bitter for tears, feelings
too earthly to soar on the strong wing of
prayer. She could only stand there looking at
that grave, and brooding over a blank future.
For a blank it must be. " Never, if I leave

THE STRANGE ENGLISH LADY.

245

her here, 1 ' thought Dora, " never shall he find
me. I will vanish from his life, as she will have
vanished from this earth. I will beg my
bread, I will toil like a hireling before I go
back to his house and live on his money."

Suddenly a keen, remorseful thought smote
on this resentful mood. What was she do-
ing here, brooding over irreparable wrongs,
when her mother might be dying ? Eagerly,
swiftly she retraced her steps. She hurried
down the path, through the village, and she
was breathless when she reached her mother's
room. On seeing her, the landlady rose, and,
looking mysterious, made a sign. Dora fol-
lowed her out. With many needless words
the good woman informed Dora that au Eng-
lish lady, young and richly-dressed, had come
to the inn in consequence of an accident on
the line, but that on learning Mrs. Courtenay's
presence and illness, she bad looked alarmed
and left hastily.

" She thought it was some contagious dis-
ease," said Dora.

"No, no, mademoiselle. I am sure she
knew you," shrewdly answered the landlady ;
" I saw it in her face."

"You are mistaken," sadly said Dora; "no
one knows me." And she went back to her
mother.

" I am glad you came back," said Mrs.
Courtenay ; " I want to sleep, and I did not
like to do so while you were away. Of course
the poor old thing is honest ; but having all
that money — "

" What money, mamma? "

"All those notes Mr. Templemore sent
you."

Dora said nothing. Where was the use of
enlightening and troubling her ?

"And so I am glad you came back," re-
sumed Mrs. Courtenay, " for I am very
sleepy."

Dora smoothed her mother's pillow. Mrs.
Courtenay's head sank back upon it with a

luxurious sigh, and, saying languidly, " Oh !
what a sweet sleep I am going to have ! " she
closed her eyes and fell into a deep, calm
slumber.

Dora looked at her in a sort of dream.
Forth from the recesses of memory there came
to her an Eastern saying which Doctor Richard
had once told her — " It is better to sit than to
stand ; it is better to lie than to sit ; and
better to be dead than lying."

A fatalist first said this ; and yet how it
answers to a feeling within us — to a weariness,
a languor, and craving for repose, which
nothing mortal can content, and which goes
forth to meet that something more than mor-
tal, of which death holds the keys !

"My poor little mother!" thought Dora,
looking at her with dim eyes and quivering
lips. "She is so innocent, so guileless, so
childish, that if she were to pass away thus
from life like a sleeping baby, I could feel no
uneasiness, no fear — no more than if she were
a child indeed. And for her it would be well,
but oh ! for me — for me ! "

She could not bear the thought. She rose
and went to the window and stood there. The
summer beauty of the day was gone. Sullen
clouds were gathering in the sky. A south-
westerly wind bent the summits ot a few tall
trees that rose above the village. Dora knew
them by the church spire which rose amongst
them — these were the trees that overlooked
the churchyard. The inn was very quiet ;
the village, indeed, looked lonely and almost
deserted. There was a great fair iu the neigh-
borhood, and the men and women had gone
to it. A few old people and young children
alone had remained behind. One house facing
the inn attracted her attention by a group at
the door. An old man and two children
stood looking up the road. Presently the
elder of the boys ran toward a man and a
woman who walked slowly. They were heavi-
ly laden, and the woman looked footsore ; but

246

DORA.

she put her hand in her pocket and drew out
something which the boy flourished aloft like
a prize till his brother came jealously forward
to claim his share. Then they all mingled
and entered the house together; and present-
ly a bright fire sprang from the kitchen
hearth ; and through the open window Dora
saw them all on the vivid background, and
as she looked a feeling of great desolation
fell upon her heart. She thought of her hus-
band, of Eva, of the home she had left, of her
mother, who might die in a village inn, and
be buried with unknown dead in a village
churchyard — and the bright, happy picture be-
fore her was lost in tears.

The clouds broke into rain — soft summer
rain, that would renew the drooping aspect
of nature, and give it a more brilliant beauty ;
but the tears which Dora shed, as she thought
over the bitterness of her lot, brought no
relief to her full heart. For her there seemed
no bright, no happy morrow in store — no
renewal of love and joy. Nothing but a long,
sad darkness, deep and melancholy as that of
the coming night.

CHAPTER XLVL

It might have softened the bitterness at
Dora's heart, if she had known how keen an
agony it was for her husband to doubt her,
and leave her with that doubt upon him. He
had told her, and told her truly, that the loss
of Florence had been to him as the lopping of
a limb; but to lose his wife thus was like
death itself. Life and health do not perish
because of the pangs of amputation, and Mr.
Templemore, once the surgeon's knife had
gone through him, had felt a sound and living
man again. He would not, indeed, have
chosen such a time to love and marry ; but
marriage having seemed compulsory to him,
he bad neither wished nor sought to avoid
love. And love had come to him delightful

and engrossing as a second spring. Dora had
gifts which he had always appreciated, but
which he prized keenly and very fondly when
they became his. He liked her bright youth-
ful aspect, her warm heart, her joyous laugh,
and her fine clear mind. He admired her, he
was tenderly proud of her, and he loved her
with a passion as sudden as it was engrossing.
She was his wife — bis dear wife, linked to him
by ties sweet, sacred, and indissoluble — linked
to him for years, for life, and with no parting
possible but the bitter inevitable parting of
the grave.

And now this fervid dream was over. Love,
honor, admiration were dead. It was over,
and he left her stung and mortified with his
wrong, ashamed and humbled at his mistake,
and even at the gleam of passion which had
survived it, and nearly betrayed him anew,
and again made him her slave. He left her,
angrily feeling that he must return to her
some day — yes, this guilty wife, w r hom he had
thought to go on loving less passionately, per-
haps, as time passed, and youth fled, but not
less truly, held him fast, and he must return
to her. He was thrown on a lifelong com-
panionship, from which the soul of love had
departed. Bitterness and indignation availed
him nothing ; he was Dora Courtenay's hus-
band.

Passion is like a stormy sea. It has waves
that rise high or fall back as with the breath
of the tempest. If Dora had but known it,
there had been a moment when, innocent or
guilty, she had prevailed — when a word, a
look, a caress, would have kept Mr. Temple-
more forever. But she had let him depart,
and when the door of her room closed be-
tween them, his longing for faith, her charm,
and her power, had all vanished alike. She
had allowed those full waters to go back to
their fountain-head, and the doubt and anger,
allayed awhile by the seduction of her pres-
ence, to rise anew when she was seen no

MR. TEMFLEMORE IN PARIS.

247

more. She had allowed Mr. Templeruore to
* remember that a fraud had made him her
husband, to believe that she had looked on
and accepted all passively, the sin and its
reward, and the higher had been the tide that
bore him to ber, the stronger was the reced-
ing power of that which now carried both
love and him away from Dora.

To give and to receive is one of the strong-
est of human ties, and perhaps because man
and woman can never give or receive more
than in the marriage state, is that link held so
sacred, and felt to be so potent. The more is
given, and the dearer grows the bond ; but
woe to the day when the once generous supply
is stinted — when the heart has no more to be-
stow, and feels no joy in receiving. That sad day
now seemed to have come for Mr. Templemore.

" Never, never can I love her again ? " he
thought, as he leaned back in the railway
carriage that took him on to Paris, after he
had left Miss Moore and Eva at St. Germains.
" And yet I must go back to her, or take on
myself the frightful responsibility of utterly
forsaking a young and attractive woman, who
has not been my wife three weeks."

The alternative sickened him. If he left
her to her fate, might she not, in the bitter-
ness of her heart, turn desperate, and give
him cause to rue his abandonment ? Mr.
Templemore was not of a jealous nature, and
he did not even then doubt his wife's virtue ;
but he remembered that John Luan loved her,
and that Dora never forgot a wrong. His
conscience and his pride alike told him that
he must return to her if he wished to avoid
for both the risk of ruin and shame. Yes, he
must go back, and though he had never con-
templated not doing so, the necessity galled
him. He must go back to the woman who
had entrapped him, and who had now a legal
right to his name, his home, and his love. The
thought chafed him, and added its irritation to
the despair of that dark hour.

Two ladies — well-dressed women — were Mr.
Templemore's travelling companions. He had
not seen them at first, but now he became
conscious of their presence. They were young
and pleasant-looking. They were cheerful,
too, and seeing him so gloomy and absorbed,
they talked pretty much as if he were not
there. The younger one of the two took off
her gloves. He saw her rings flash on her
slender fingers ; the scent from her little per-
fumed handkerchief was that which Dora
used ; the rustling of her silk dress reminded
him of the pleasure with which he used to hear
his wife move about the house at Deenab.
Something in her attitude, as she looked out
on the green landscape, made him remember
with a sharp pang his happy wedding-day, and
Dora's radiant face as they journeyed togeth-
er, and Mr. Templemore felt the happiest of
bridegrooms. And now, what was left to him
of all the dreams he had that day indulged in?
The graceful, elegant woman whom he had
wedded was his still — the woman who had a
charming figure, a pretty hand, fine eyes, and
hair of a beautiful color — yes, she was his till
death should them part, and long after those
fleeting charms should have faded she would
still be his. But that other dearer woman,
the companion and friend — she who had
already made him feel that there is a tie
stronger than blood, more potent than the af-
fection of habit, sympathy in some of the noble
things for which God gave man life — she was
gone — she was lost ; and seek for her long as
he would, he could find her no more.

Oh ! if he could have believed her to be
guiltless ! If he could have forgotten how she
had tried to prevent her aunt from speaking
and him from hearing ; if he could have for-
gotten her pale face, and her silence, her
weak defence, her assertions of innocence, un-
supported by proof; if he could have forgotten
all those tokens that had condemned her, and
risen before him to say, " Whether from love,

248

DORA.

or hate, or vengeance, or cupidity, she has
abetted it — she let it be done, and she reaped
the gain ! " But he could not. He tortured
his mind to acquit her, and he could not. She
had not warned him, she had refused to answer
Mrs. Logan — if ever silence was guilty hers
was. But if the cloud which doubt had called
up would not be dispelled, if it ever floated
between him and his wife's image, and only
grew darker and denser with every effort he
made to break it, so there also rose in his
heart a bitter resentment against every human
being connected with his wrong. He hated
Mrs. Luan and Mrs. Courtenay for having
plotted it, and he could scarcely forgive Miss
Moore or Mrs. Logan for having helped to
reveal it. Toward Dora his feelings were too
implacable for either hate or forgiveness. She
was the embodiment of his misery — the being
whose betrayal had caused it, and whose false-
hood had given it a more cruel and a keener
pang.

On reaching Paris Mr. Templemore went to
one of the hotels in the Rue de Rivoli, where
he was in the habit of stopping. " And now,"
he thought, as he entered rooms gay with sun-
shine, and beyond which he caught a bright
glimpse of the Tuileries gardens, "now how
am I to get rid of this pain ? " Question hard
to answer. Pleasure, which had never had
any charms for Mr. Templemore, was now
odious. He hated crowds, and solitude he
knew is cruel and dangerous. He would not
have Eva or Miss Moore with him, for one
could only remind him of his fond illusion, and
the other of its bitter wakening. So, as he
suffered cruelly and keenly, he did wdiat the in-
tellectual and the strong often do in such emer-
gencies, he took refuge in study from his pain.

There were few branches of knowledge which
he had not already tried, but for some he had
never felt any ardent devotion. Statistics and
political economy had been least favored by
him. He now took to them with a sort of

fury. Population, shipping, standing armies,
disease, had their turn ; he heaped his room
with blue-books, and covered quires of paper
with estimates, returns, and calculations ; be
worked night and day, not caring all the time
for the result of his labor, and he succeeded in
bringing on himself a fit of illness which lasted
a fortnight, and from which he issued languid,
listless, and more unhappy than ever.

Neither time, nor work, nor illness had
cured him. Time had only added to the re-
sentful bitterness of his feeling, and to the
severity of the condemnation his judgment had
passed on the offender ; but it was still the
same wound which bled inly, it was still the
cruel thought that Dora was his wife, and that
she was worthless of a man's love. Integrity,
honor, delicacy, were the ruling feelings of Mr.
Templemore's mind. The woman who had
failed in these, even though for love of him,
could never be again to him the woman whom
nothing and no one could have tempted to
sin. And yet, and though his sense of her
error grew keener daily, his feelings had un-
dergone a change. If he still thought of her
guilt, he now thought very little of his wrong.
He did not regret Florence, he scarcely re-
gretted his liberty, but he passionately regret-
ted his wife, that innocent being, all love and
brightness, whom he had had for a few days,
and who had so soon worn the common hues
of mortality. Oh ! to go back to that time of
dear illusions, to possess a girl so happy, so
fond, and so true ! To feel bound to her for
life, to dread no wakening, to look forward
without fear to the long future !

But it is no relief to think a once loved be-
ing unworthy, and these thoughts seemed so
bitter to Mr. Templemore, one evening as he
sat by the window of his room looking out on
the stirring scene in the Rue de Rivoli below,
that he could endure them no longer. He re-
belled under their torture, and taking his hat
walked out.

THE THEATRE.

249

He went forth idly, neither knowing nor
caring whither his steps took hina. On turn-
ing the corner of a street, he suddenly found
himself on the Boulevards. The night was
black, not a star shone in the cloudy sky ; but
• the two rows of lamps made an endless avenue
of light before him. The shops were brilliant
and gay ; cafes glittered like fairy palaces,
and crowds were abroad to enjoy what fresh-
ness there was in the stormy air. Mr. Tcm-
plemore found none. Close and sultry felt
the atmosphere. The young trees which rose
dimly before him, their trunks and lower
branches lit, and their summits vanishing in
gloom, seemed to him as oppressive as the
roof of a forest. Yet he went on, leaving
boulevard after boulevard behind him, and he
never thought of stopping till a dense group
suddenly checked his progress. Mr. Temple-
more then looked up. Before him he saw the
rising steps and the columned front of a
theatre. People were going in eagerly. He
hesitated awhile, then he too went up the
steps, paid for his place, and within five
minutes he was seated in one of the galleries.

Mr. Templemore had not gone to the play
for several years. He liked none save the
finest acting and singing, and, being a man of
fastidious tastes, he did not admit the exist-
ence of such very readily. Weariness of
spirit had alone tempted him this evening to
enter a second-class house, where the actors
were probably suited to the plays they per-
formed in. He wondered at himself for hav-
ing done so ; he looked around him, and
wondered still more at the gay, eager faces he
saw. The musicians in the orchestra we're
talking and laughing together as they tuned
their instruments — he wondered at them too.
Amongst them was a lively little dark man,
who could not lie quiet a moment; he shook
his black head of hair, he rolled his eyes, he
screwed his mouth, and looked very like an
animated nut - cracker. Mr. Templemore

watched him with a sort of interest ; the
vitality of that swarthy little musician was
attractive to one whose present mood was so
drearily languid. The curtain rose, the per-
formance began, the actors spoke, and ^still
Mr. Templemore's eyes were fixed on the
orchestra, aud he thought, " What a curious
idiosyncrasy that man must have ! "

" How charmingly she is dressed, whispered
a voice 'near him. He glanced toward the
speaker. She was a girl of eighteen or so,
plump and good-humored-looking. She ad-
dressed another girl, her sister, evidently, as
plump, and seemingly as good-tempered as
herself. Beside them sat their mother, a
bourgeoise of forty, who had been at twenty
what they were now. What absence of all
care appeared in these three faces ! Nothing
was there, not even the excitement of pleas-
ure ; nothing beyond the calm, sensual content
of satisfied animal existence. Mr. Temple-
more turned back from them to the musician,
but in so doing his look passed across the
stage, and he uttered a deep, startled " Ah ! "
which was heard over the whole house, aud
drew every eye upon him.

But Mr. Templemore saw and heeded but one
thing ; for there, on the stage before him, stood
his wife, dressed in white muslin, gay, young,
and lovely. She stood alone in a gloomy room,
with a dim and sombre background behind her
solitary figure, and her head half averted. It
was she — so said the first look ; that was the
turn of her neck, her figure, aud her attitude ;
but she looked round, and the charm was bro-
ken ; she spoke, and it was gone. But the shock
which that momentary illusion had caused could
not vanish with it; nor the subtle thrill of joy it
had wakened, cease. When this girl l->
at the audience, Mr. Templemore could not
look at her ; but when she turned away and
became once more the image of his young
wife, in her light motions and easy attitudes,
he leaned forward, with his elbow resting on

250

DORA.

the crimson velvet of the balustrade, uncon-
scious of the observation which his eager gaze
attracted. His very heart was moved within
him with a soft and delicious emotion. It was
like going back to the first wondering happi-
ness of his marriage to feel as he now felt.
All that love, which had seemed buried in
arid desolation, like sweet waters beneath the
sand of the desert, welled back to his heart
with tenfold power. Mr. Templemore did not
strive against it — he let that full tide come
and rise and master him, and he felt blest to
the very core in his subjection.

When the curtain fell, on the first act,
and she vanished, he breathed deeply, and
for the first time he tried to think and be
calm. Vain attempt ; thought would not
come at his bidding — nothing came but a
vague, passionate yearning to be gone, and
be with her once more. He could scarcely
resist the desire which bade him rise and de-
part that moment. An express-train left in
the middle of the night. It would take him
to Rouen in little more than two hours ; he
could be at Les Roches before dawn — long be-
fore Dora had wakened !

The two plump girls and their mother gave
him wondering looks, and he did not heed
them. The little fantastic musician played
strange tricks with his violin, and Mr. Tem-
plemore had no eyes for him now. His
thoughts were far away in a large room, hushed
and dim, where his wife lay sleeping. A lamp
burned faintly on a white toilet-table, and was
reflected in its oval glass, half veiled by lace
and muslin. A far door opened, and he saw
himself enter slowly, with step that fell noise-
lessly on the carpet. He saw that wraith of
his own being approach, then stand still, and
look at Dora's face as it rested on her pillow.
And now the vision swiftly became retrospec-
tive. He remembered looking at her thus
once in Decnah. He remembered wondering,
as he looked, at the childish calmness of her

slumbering mien. The bright hair which had
strayed on her pillow, the closed lids, the calm
breath, came back to him with a sense of
pain. He felt as if he had wronged and de-
serted a child intrusted to his keeping.

" I should have stayed with her," he thought ;
" innocent or guilty, I should not have left her."

" Innocent or guilty ? " repeated a secret
voice.

" Oh ! my God, if she be guilty, what a lot
is mine ! Am I tied to treachery, to sin so
perversely allied with that look of innocence ?
Am I tied to grace and youth, it is true, but
also to horrible iniquity ? "

All his old anguish came back at the
thought. If his passionate nature, ardent and
susceptible to loveliness — as indeed is that of
most men — felt but too keenly the power of
his young wife's bright face, the nobler nature
within him made him revolt from the thought
of this ignoble bondage. He could not en-
dure the contrast between that fair outside
and the sullied soul. Ay, truly, it is hard to
us all to think that sin can abide behind the
roses of those cheeks and the star-like radi-
ance of those eyes. It is hard that we should
not ever find the breath of innocence on those
fresh young lips, which give us heaven when
they smile. It is a cruel case, but Mr. Tem-
plemore had not reached thirty without know-
ing that it is a frequent one — only he had
never thought it would be his. The bitter
doubt now waxed higher and higher, sweep
ing away before it every tender fancy, every
flower of love or hope. His neighbors
watched his darkening face and gloomy eyes
with something like uneasiness. What had
brought him here, a sullen, uncongenial
stranger, freezing the mere thought of pleas-
ure away !

The curtain rose, the second act began.
At first he heeded nothing, but the girl who
reminded him of Dora appeared again, and
again the subtle thrill ran through his veins

AT THE JEWELLER'S.

251

and subdued him. This time, too, lie paid
some attention to the" play. It was a love-
drama, with many a passionate scene, and no
doubt some pathos, for the two girls next Mr.
Tempi emore brought out their pocket-hand-
kerchiefs, and used them freely. Indeed, he
saw a good deal of this going on around him,
but he remained callous and unmoved, till,
all unwillingly, he was conquered. This hero-
ine had married a man whom she did not like,
and her husband, discovering it too late, felt
and said, " I shall never be loved — never ! "
The curtain fell as he uttered the words,
which rang through Mr. Templemore's brain,
wakening a whole train of fond recollection.
Dora was his wife, but she loved him. Ay,
though her sins were of the deepest and the
darkest dye, she loved him and she was his —
for better, for worse, she was his. He could
not renounce her or exclude her from his life
and his heart. Religion, duty combined with
love to say to him, " Why did you leave her ?
Had you not vowed that your arms should be
her shelter from every ill ; and is it not ber
right to live and die by your side ? You can-
not banish her thence without sin — then thank
Heaven that her affection, her youth and its
attractions, make obedience to this duty so
easy and so sweet."

Mr. Templemore heard this secret monitor,
and he did not answer it at once. He leaned
his forehead on his hand, and let a vision
come before him — a vision of a tearful yet
happy Dora, who welcomed him back with
a smile and a kiss. Often had she come thus
to him before this hour, and as often had he
banished her with a stern " Begone ! " But
now he could not — he would not. She was
his wife, and there was a protecting tender-
ness in his embrace. She was his wife, and
his heart yearned toward her with infinite
charity. His love should cover all her errors,
and lead her back to those pure paths whence
she had strayed ; his love should be to her as

a human redemption, making more easy her
return to the divine source of all goodness.
She was his erring lamb, who had wandered
in the wilderness, and whom he would bring
back to the gentle fold of love and home.
He remembered the solemn precept, too, much
forgotten by a passing world of the great
Apostle of the Gentiles :

" Husbands, love your wives, as Christ
loved the Church."

He remembered it in that vanity fair of
pleasure and its votaries, a theatre. For what
spot, howsoever profane, is there which the
voice of God will not pierce to reach man's
heart ? And if human passion and tender-
ness still mingled in Mr. Templemore's breast
with holier feelings — if he could not forget a
fair face and a soft voice — if one was the joy
of his eyes, and the other the sweetest of
music to his ear, yet over all ruled that feel-
ing of duty that had been the great guide of
bis life, and which had given him in Dora
Courtenay its mingled joy and torment.

How long these thoughts kept him, Mr.
Templemore did not know. The third act
was progressing, and bad reached its great
crisis of despair and passion, when he looked
at his watch, rose, and left the house. The
two girls and their mother looked after him
in some wonder, and exchanged puzzled
glances, then placidly returned to the play.
Truly they little guessed what a drama of
doubt, and love, and regret — ay, and of pas-
sion too — had been silently enacted near
them that evening.

CHAPTER XLVII.

The night was darker than ever when Mr.
Templemore went out once more on the Boule-
vards. The crowd was thinning, in expecta-
tion of a storm. Mr. Templemore's mood was
not one which such contingencies affect. He

252

DORA.

had but one thought, and that mastered him ;
yet he suddenly paused, as he reached the Rue
de la Paix, and saw its shops alive with light.
He remembered the diamond cross he had or-
dered from one of the jewellers there, and he
wondered if it were ready. It was only ten
o'clock ; he had time to go and try.

These jewellers' shops in the Rue de la
Paix were a wonderful sight at night during
that year. Crowds gathered around them
evening after evening, gazing in eager admira-
tion at the treasures displayed within. Oue dia-
mond shop outrivalled all the others, and out-
rivals them still. Tiaras, necklaces, bracelets,
ear-rings, blazed in their immortal splendor.
Fair brows and fairer bosoms, on which they
glittered once, have shrunk into dust, and it
matters very little. They will outlive genera-
tions; that gorgeous bracelet will clasp the
slender wrist, that diadem will shine all light
in the dark hair of some beauty yet unborn,
and flatterers will tell her, "Your eyes are
brighter by far than these," and — who knows ?
— perhaps she will believe them.

As to that, all the diamonds in this shop,
which he now entered, could not have matched
Dora's eyes in Mr. Templemore's estimation
just then. ITe knew, indeed, that their lustre
would grow dim — that the blooming cheek
would fade, and the fair skin lose its youthful
beauty — but all the better reason was this for
holding them dear, and adorning them whilst
they lasted. With somethiug like eagerness,
he now asked if the cross he had ordered was
ready.

This temple of the god worshipped in Gol-
conda had a high-priest worthy of his office —
an aged man, with a lofty brow, white hair,
that flowed from beneath a black silk cap, and
eyes which had gazed so long on diamonds
that they could see little else in life. On
hearing Mr. Templemore's request, he opened
a drawer near him, and produced a small
morocco ease, which he handed to his cus-

tomer. Mr. Templemore opened it. On a
bed of blue velvet lay a diamond cross, con-
sisting of eleven perfect diamonds, not of large
size, indeed, but of sueh exquisite water, and
such dazzling lustre, that he uttered an excla-
mation of pleasure and admiration, qualified,
however, by the words :

" This is surely more expensive than the one
I asked from you ? "

" It is," mildly replied the jeweller ; " double
the price, I believe ; but, then, it is three
times more beautiful than you expected it to
be."

Mr. Templemore could not deny that. He
took the cross and looked at it in the hollow
of his hand. Each of its eleven diamonds
was pure and clear as a drop of morning dew
sparkling in the early sun. " Will you take a
check for this ? " he asked ; " I have not
money enough to pay you — besides, I am going
off at once."

" A cheek will do very well," replied the
jeweller, in his mild tone. " This is the
fifteenth, sir — the fifteenth of July."

And as Mr. Templemore sat down to fill up
the blank check which he took from his
pocket-book, the jeweller opened the drawer
again and took out another morocco case,
which he silently placed before him.

" I only ordered the cross," said Mr. Tem-
plemore, looking up, puzzled.

"Perhaps you would like a necklace," sug-
gested this mild tempter ; and he opened the
case and stepped back.

Mr. Templemore was dazzled. He had never
seen such a necklace as this. A queen alone
could have wprn it. This was no conjunction
of small diamonds artfully mounted in leaves,
and flowers, and pendants, and spread out to
the greatest possible extent. No, it was one
plain row of large stones, every one of which
seemed priceless to Mr. Templemore. Dora-
had a beautiful neck, soft and white — truly
these diamonds would lock well upon it. But

THE DIAMOND CROSS AND NECKLACE.

253

was he a nabob, that he should even ask to
know the price of a gift so costly ?

" I chose every one of those stones myself,"
saM the jeweller; "I went to Russia for this
centre one, and to London for that, one of the
smallest, but, as you see, it matches the ninth
stone perfectly, and unless in London I could
not have found it. It cost me three months
to negotiate for it, for it was in hands that
were reluctant to part with it — they knew its
value and its beauty, and it is one of the small-
est in the necklace. Guess from that, sir,
what toil and trouble the other stones have
given me."

" It is a wonderful necklace," said Mr. Tem-
plemore, taking and handling it — " a wonder-
ful necklace ; only there is no art in it. It is
plain and gorgeous."

" There should be no art in diamonds," re-
plied the jeweller, with a strange light in his
eye. " They are above and beyond it, sir."

" Well, perhaps they are," said Mr. Temple-
more, but he put down the necklace, and did
not ask to know its price.

" I believe, sir, you are newly married,"
continued the jeweller, in his mild tone; "this
would be a beautiful wedding-gift."

Mr. Templemore felt almost provoked at this
cool seducer, who spoke of a priceless neck-
lace as a " beautiful wedding-gift." He little
knew that its owner offered it to every one of
the customers who entered his shop, pressed it
upon them even to importunity, and yet would
not have parted to a monarch with one of its
smallest diamonds. He little suspected that
these glorious bits of liquid light, all fire and
pure effulgence, slept every night in the bed
of that white-haired man — that he loved them
with something of the guilty, insane love which
two hundred years before made Cardillac
murder the men and women who bought his
jewels ; and that when they were stolen from
him a few months after Mr. Templeniorci's
visit, the shock of their loss, though they were

recovered within the week, sent him to the
grave a maniac.

Unconscious of the strange love which was
to lead to so tragic an ending, Mr. Templemore
only felt provoked at the persistence with which
the jeweller pressed this necklace upon him,
and putting the cross in his breast coat-pocket,
he left the shop. The jeweller, however, fol-
lowed him to the door, and still said in his mild
voice :

" It is a rare necklace, sir. You will never
get another like it — better have it."

Mr. Templemore walked away without giv-
ing him any answer. " The man is crazy, and
I am crazy too," he thought, taking the direc-
tion that led to his hotel ; " I suppose those
glittering pebbles have bewitched me, for here
am I foolish enough to wish I could buy them
and throw them round Dora's neck.

It was folly, no doubt, but it did not go away
at once. He saw the diamonds glittering be-
fore him like stars in the darkness of the night.
He saw them sparkling on his wife's bosom,
and if diamonds look strange and ominous on
yellow necks and bony shoulders, who can
deny their fitness and their beauty when they
rest on a satin skin and rounded outlines like
Dora's ? Mr. Templemore was fascinated with
the vision, ne felt almost tempted to turn
back and ask the price of this wonderful neck-
lace ; but he checked himself in time, and in-
deed waxed wrathful at his own folly. A year's
income of his fortune could not pay for the
bauble. Had he lost his senses that he even
contemplated this act of madness ? Alas ! it
was not all madness — there is a fond, passion-
ate instinct, which is a very part of love — the
wish to fling all that there is most costly, most
precious, and most rare, at the feet of the loved
object. For many days Mr. Tcniplemorc had
struggled against his love for Dora, ami spite his
doubts and his misgivings, that love now came
back to him powerful, mighty, and triumphant.
It came back to him not as it had left him, cou-

254

DORA.

quered and sorrow-stricken, but like the spirit
in Scripture, who, after wandering midst bar-
ren places, returns with sevenfold power.

Mr. Templemore had not walked far, still
thinking of his wife and the diamond necklace,
when the long-threatening storm broke forth.
Drops of rain, large as crown-pieces, dotted the
white pavement of the Place Vendume, which
he was crossing. Then a lightning-flash pierced
the sky, and lit the dark column cast in can-
non won from many a battle-field, and whence
the first Napoleon looks down over his capital,
still seeming to triumph alike over foe and
subject. A deep-echoing thunder-peal fol-
lowed, then came a very deluge of rain, and long
before he reached his hotel, Rue de Rivoli, Mr.
Templemore was wet through. The rain was
summer rain, mild and soft, and he cared not
for it. He packed his trunk hastily, secured
a carriage, and drove off to the station, whilst
the storm was at its highest. It was a gale,
too, as well as a storm ; a furious tempest, which
might leave its traces on many a bleak coast,
as well as in crowded cities. Mr. Templemore
had seen a shipwreck once, and who that has
beheld the ominous sight can ever forget it ?
He remembered it now ; the noble vessel strug-
gling gallantly against the waves that dYove
her on, the long line of shore and cliff vanish-
ing in spray and in the darkness of the tem-
pest ; the pale moon looking down from a cloudy
sky, the silent crowd, and the fearful roar, as
waves and ship all came tumbling together on
the beach, whilst through all the din was to be
heard the faint, shrill cry of a woman. They
found heron the sands the next morning, a pale
corpse, with wet hair. Mr. Templemore won-
dered why that scene came back to him now,
as if he had beheld it but yesterday ?

" How do I know," he thought, " that this
summer storm will be so fatal as that never-to-
be-forgotten equinoctial gale on the shores of
the Atlantic ? Its roaring wind may indeed
uproot the mighty forest-tree, or its lightning

kill helpless flocks on distant moors ; but truly
I hope and trust that no drowning wretch will
call on Heaven this night in his agony ? "

Mr. Templemore reached the station as the
express train was going to start. Within five
minutes he sat alone in a railway-carriage, and
was going at full speed through the drenched
landscape. And now he had time to think
over a subject of some importance.

How would his wife receive him ? He re-
turned to her as he had left her— at his
pleasure. He could give no motive for the
one act, save that he did not choose to stay
with her, and for the other that he could do
without her no longer. "Would Dora, a proud
woman, accept either explanation ? Had he
not, then, best be silent, and take upon him-
self that law of bon plaisir which every now
and then comes up in the heart even of the
best of men ? For, after all, Mr. Templemore
could not ask his wife to forgive him. If his
passion for her, supported by necessity, was
so strong that he could not resist it, and must
needs go back to her, innocent or guilty, yet,
spite all the diamonds he had wished to give
her, he was not a convinced and converted
man. He would have given anything to be-
lieve in her innocence, and doubt still forbade
belief — even though his whole heart yearned
toward the one and revolted against the other.
With a sort of despair he went over the whole
sad story again, and wearied, but still per-
plexed, he came back to the old thought:
" She is my wife ; I cannot help that no more
than I can help loving her — I must keep to
that, and let the rest be."

But can love endure when its foundation of
reverence is wanting ? And if the fever which
was still so strong upon him ceased, would
not the final wakening be horrible ? Alas !
he thought of that too ; but that time, which
it was so gloomy to foresee, had not come yet,
and as he reached Rouen, and, leaving the
train, entered a carriage which was to convey

NEWS OF DEATH IN THE FAMILY.

255

him to Les Roches, he wilfully shut his eyes
to all the bitterness that had preceded his de-
parture, and only remembered that he was
going to the home where his young wife lay
sleeping, unconscious of his return.

The porter at the lodge had to be wakened
to let in his master, and Jacques to leave his
attic in order to admit him within. The clang
of the great bell, the grinding wheels of the
carriage on the gravel, made a loud noise in
the stillness of the gray morning ; but Mr.
Templemore looked in vain for signs of light
behind the window curtains of his wife's room.
Jacques, who let him in, seemed stupid with
sleep. His master did not question him ; he
took the light from the man's hand, merely
saying:

" You may go. I want nothing."
Jacques was a plethoric young man. He
liked his sleep above all things. He now
thought himself ill-used by his master's return
at such an hour, and he went back to his
room grumbling all the way. He had scarcely
reached the upper floor, however, when a
furious ringing summoned him below. He
found Mr. Templemore on the landing at the
door of his wife's room, pale as death, and
with the light still in his hand.

" Where is your mistress ? " he asked.
" Where is my wife ? "

His looks, his tones so confounded Jacques,
that he could scarcely reply. At length he
said,

" Madame is gone."

" Gone ! " He was going to ask " With
whom ? " but he checked himself. " Tell
Madame Gourtenay I wish to speak to her,"
he said.

Jacques looked very odd.
" Madame Courlenay is dead, sir."
"Dead?"

" Yes, sir. Mademoiselle Fanny brought
the news when she came back for Madame's
things. Madame Courtenay died on the way."

"And Madame Luan and her son," ex-
claimed Mr. Templemore — " where are they ? "

Jacques looked very odd again.

" Monsieur Luan is gone, sir, we do not
know where, and Madame Luan is dead too.
She died in a madhouse the very morning
Madame Templemore went away. She had
attempted to kill madame one evening."

Mr. Templemore felt as if he were going
through a dreadful nightmare. Death, mad-
ness, danger had visited his deserted home
during his absence : and now where was
Dora ? Where was the wife whom he had
left to trials so fearful, and who had passed
through them alone ?

" Where is she now ? " he asked, much
agitated. " Where did she go to ? "

"Monsieur Luan took her to an asylum,
and she died there."

" I mean your mistress. Where is your
mistress ? "

But Jacques knew nothing. Madame had
not said anything. She had left no letter?
No — nothing that could give a clew. Ma-
demoiselle Fanny, when she came back for
madame's things had said they were going to
England, and the servants had supposed it
was to join monsieur. The servants had all
noticed that madame looked very miserable.
Perhaps she felt nervous, and afraid to remain
alone after having run the risk of being mur-
dered. "

So said Jacques, in a heavy, stupid, monoto-
nous voice. Mr. Templemore shuddered with
horror as he heard him talk thus stolidly of
his wife's peril. Yet he could not help ask-
ing to know the particulars of this domestic
drama. Jacques, nothing loath, and indeed
quite lively, went through the scene for his
master's benefit. " Madame was so by the
toilet, when she heard the door open and saw
Madame Luan enter. At once, and with great
presence of mind, madame put out the light
and stepped out on the balcony. And so,"

256

DORA.

continued Jacques, assuming the part of Mrs.
Luan and groping with outstretched arms, as
if in the darkness toward the window, " so I
try to get at her and kill her. Though I can-
not see, I know where she is, and she is as
mute as a mouse — but I know where she is —
now I am at the window r , and the moon is
shining — now I have her ! "

But as Jacques, outstripping truth in the
fervor of his acting, was stretching his arm
toward an imaginary Dora, a hand of iron
seized his own throat and held him fast.

" How dare you ? How dare you ? " asked
Mr. Templemore, shaking with anger ; then
recovering his composure, he said, not without
some shame at his own violence, " You may
leave me now, Jacques."

"And I can tell you I left him pretty
quickly," was Jacques's comment as he re-
lated this incident to the porter the next morn-
ing. " For if ever man looked like a tiger, it
was our master as he held me then."

Mr. Templemore remained alone in his wife's
room, and locked himself up with this new
trouble.

He sat down and looked around him. Was
this indeed the return to which he had looked
forward ? This cold, vacant chamber bore no
likeness to that which his fancy had conjured
up a few hours before in the theatre. Dust
had gathered on the mirror" of the toilet-table,
. and thus told him how long it had ceased to
reflect Dora's image. No token of her pres-
ence lingered about. It was as if Mr. Temple-
more had never seen her there, sleeping or
waking. The very air of the unused apart-
ment had grown chill. Ah ! this was not
the meeting he had imagined as he came up
the staircase with a beating heart. Where
were the tears and reproaches he was to si-
lence with caresses ? His wife was gone, and,
insupportable thought ! she was gone with just
anger and bitterness in her heart against him.
Was she innocent or guilty ? He did not

think of that now. He only thought that he
had forsaken her, and that she had gone alone
through frightful danger and bitter sorrow.
Where was he when the madwoman attempted
her life ? — when her mother's eyes closed in
death ? His eyes grew dim, his lip quivered
at the question. Oh ! fatal error, ever to have
lef ther — fatal, and in one sense irreparable,
she was his wife, the law gave him full power
over her — he could pursue the fugitive and
compel her return; but could he make her
forget that he had believed a madwoman's
story against her ?

And these were not Mr. Templemore's only
thoughts. If Fanny's assertion were to be be-
lieved, his wife had gone to England after her
mother's death. What for, and to whom?
Surely not to John Luan ! Yet Dora had no
friends in England — at least, she had often
said so. Then what took her there ?

Mr. Templemore could not bear to wrong
her in this matter. And yet the thought that
she had gone to England, that she was near
John Luan, that she had her cousin to comfort
her in her sorrow, and to sympathize with her
in her wrongs, was more than he could endure.
It revived his lurking jealousy, and gave it
both form and substance. This young man
loved Dora ; and it is not pleasant, even to
the least jealous of husbands, to think that
the wife whom he has injured receives con-
solation from a rejected lover. And this had
been going on for days and weeks! The
thought stung him. She was his wife, after
all. What right had she to leave his home
without a word, spoken or written, and go to
a strange city and stay there ? What right
had she to expose their domestic differences
to the world by a flight he could not attempt
to disguise ? Gradually Mr. Templemore for-
got the wrongs he had inflicted, and only
remembered those he had received. He re-
membered them ; and with something like
wrath he resolved to set off for England at

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

257

once, follow his wife, and bring her back with-
out delay. " Whether she likes it or not she
shall return," he thought, ringing the bell
angrily for Jacques, who had just fallen into a
pleasant doze. " She shall return to this
house, which she should never have left."

But of all men Mr. Teruplemorc was the
last who could stifle the voice of conscience.
He had left both his wife and his home. She
had only left the house whence her aunt had
been removed insane, whence he had banished
her mother, where not even his child had been
trusted to her care.

" I have been to blame," thought Mr. Tem-
plemore, with a sharp, remorseful pang; " but
I will make amends — I will make amends."

How many an erring heart has uttered the
words, and, alas ! to how few the power to ful-
fil them has been granted !

CHAPTER XLVHI.

A distant church clock was striking eleven
when Dr. John Luan turned the corner of
Bedford Square. He had scarcely walked a
few steps toward his dwelling when a hand
was laid on his shoulder. He looked round
sharply, and, by the light of a gas-lamp, he
saw Mr. Templemore. They had never met,
yet John Luan knew at once this was Dora's
husband.

" Good-evening," gravely said Mr. Temple-
more. " I believe you know me. Your ser-
vant told me you are going away early to-
morrow morning, so I shall not detain you
long. My errand is quickly told. Mrs. Tem-
plemore forgot to leave her direction when she
went away from Les Eoches. May I trouble
you for it ? "

John Luan had got over the shock of un-
pleasant astonishment he had felt on seeing
Dora's husband, but this abrupt demand star-
tled him anew.
17

" You want Dora's address from me ! " he
said, sharply.

"Wby not? You do not mean to say, I
suppose, that your cousin is here in London
without your knowledge, Mr. Luan ? "

" And do you mean to say that your wife is
here in London without your knowledge, Mr.
Templemore ? "

He spoke with bitter emphasis, but Mr.
Templemore had come resolved not to lose his
temper.

" Am I likely to put such a question with-
out need ? " he said, gravely.

And so she had left him ! His cruelty and
his unkindness had compelled her to leave her
home and her husband. And her wronger
now applied to the man whom he had robbed
of his treasure for information concerning the
spot where it lay concealed ! John Luan's
blood boiled within him — but he was not given
to express anger, and he only said with sulky
bitterness :

" I know nothing about your wife, Mr. Tem-
plemore."

He turned to the house, as if to end the
matter ; but Mr. Templemore quietly stepped
between him and the door.

" I will not be balked thus," he said, dog-
gedly. " I impute no wrong to her or to you,
but you know her address, and I will have
it!"

" You impute no wrong," repeated John
Luan, in great indignation ; " and pray what
wrong could there be ? just tell me that, sir.
And, moreover, what do you mean by coming
to me to ask for your wife ? Ask her mother,
ask Mrs. Courtenay where she is, and do not
trouble me with a matter in which I have no
concern."

"Doctor John Luan," said Mr. Temple-
more, with some disdain, " Mrs. Courtenay is
dead, and I dare say you know it."

" Dead ! " repeated John Luan, with such
genuine amazement that Mr. Templemore's

258

DORA.

heart fell. If the young man did not know
that, he knew nothing. Where, then, was
Dora?

The same question seemed to offer itself to
the mind of Dora's cousin. He turned almost
fiercely on Mr. Templemore.

"Where is she?" he said. " When and
how did my aunt die ? Where is Dora ? "

" I was away at the time," answered Mr.
Templemore, briefly ; " I believe Mrs. Courte-
nay died in England, but I have no cer-
tainty."

"And why were you away?" tauntingly
asked John Luan. " What ! married a fort-
night, and away so long that your mother-in-
law is dead, and your wife is vanished when
you return ? "

" Why I went away your mother might
have told you," bitterly answered Mr. Temple-
more ; "but let that rest. I did not come here
to account to you for matters of which you
are no judge. You say you do not know
where Dora is. Be it so. You can give me
no information, and I have nothing to tell
you."

He left him as he spoke thus; but John
Luan soon overtook him.

" Have you nothing to- tell me ? " he said,
losing all self-control in the bitterness of his
feelings ; " but may be I have something to
say to you. I tell you, sir, that if Dora does
not soon appear, I shall hold you guilty of her
fate, whatever that may be. I tell you there
is a great fear upon me, and that if this double
grief should have proved too much for her, I
shall hold you guilty before God and man ! "

"A fear — what fear?" asked Mr. Temple-
more, who was almost as angry as John Luan
now.

" You know what fear," was the taunting
reply, " for you feel it too. You know what
fear, for it brought you here to question me.
I say it again, if it prove true, I shall hold
you guilty."

He walked away abruptly, and Mr. Temple-
more did not follow him.

" I suppose he has a touch of his mother's
madness," he thought, trying to conquer his
wrath by scorn.

He felt angry, and nothing else. The fear
John Luan had alluded to could take no hold
upon him. That Dora had left him in anger
he knew — that she could have left him in the
despair which leads to the darkest end of a
human life he would not admit for a moment,
and as he, too, walked away in hot indigna-
tion, he wondered that John Luan should
have dared to suggest a close so cruel to
Dora's brief wedded life. But if Mr. Temple-
more rejected with anger and scorn this tor-
turing conjecture, he was full of perplexity
and grief as he walked home to his hotel. He
knew nothing, he had learned nothing, and he
felt powerless. Reason, philosophy, and will
had lost their boasted power over him now.
The wife whom he had so injudiciously left
had fled from him, and he knew not how to
conjure her back, how to charm away the sor-
rows he had caused, how to prevent the trou-
bles, and perhaps the dangers, that might be-
set her path. He knew that if he could find
her she would forgive him — he did not doubt
that one moment ; only where was the fugi-
tive, and how far had she fled? But if Mr.
Templemore felt troubled and perplexed, he
did not feel despondent.

Money is a great magician, and he knew it.
Money will unveil the most close! } - -guarded
secrets, and light up some of society's darkest
and most hidden nooks. It is the Sesame
before which doors fly open, or at whose bid-
ding they close again with inexorable stern-
ness. And money Mr. Templemore had.
With money he could soon be on her track,
and arrest her flight. He was of a sanguine
disposition, and he now felt certain of success.
Perhaps he was rather pleased, after all, not
to have found his wife through the medium of

THE POLICE AGENT.

259

her cousin. Perhaps it was more soothing to
his pride to have to go and seek and pacify her
himself, than to have found her with BCarcely
an effort, but'through that young man's means.
However well he might think of Dora, it was
not to John Luan's care that he would have
consigned her. But the fact that she had not
sought this young man, who, though a lover,
was also her only relative, showed Mr. Temple-
more that his wife was still all his. Her grief
would admit no comforter, and had no need
to be spoken. She could make a dreary com-
panion of it, and take it with her to solitude.
" I shall soon find her," thought Mr. Tem-
plemore, as he paced his room up and down,
for he was too restless for sleep; "she is
either in Paris or in London. In either city
money will command men whose scent, quick-
ened by greed, is keener thau that of blood-
hounds, and who will detect her refuge, how-
ever close it may be. I shall soon find her, in
a week — in ten days, perhaps — in a fortnight,
at the utmost."

He looked out of the window on the gas-lit
streets ; he longed to detect a grayness in the
black sky and be gone ; but time and tide,
which wait for no man, will also hurry their
course for none. All Mr. Templemore's im-
patience only made the night seem more
tedious, and took not one second's weight
from its feverish hours. At length day came,
and with it departure. The train flew through
the country, the steamboat crossed the sea ; a
few hours more, and Mr. Templemore, after
stopping on a needful errand in Rouen, entered
Les Roches. He met Jacques as he was going
up the steps that led to the porch. A look at
the man's face told Mr. Templemore that
Jacques had no news for him. He put no
questions, but said briefly —

" I expect a visitor this evening or to-morrow.
Show him in at once, no matter what the hour
may be."

He entered the house, and said no more ;

but Jacques knew very well what this meant,
and when he went down to the kitchen, he
commented upon his master's domestic mis-
fortunes to the cook and the two housemaids,
whom he found there. " Monsieur had just
come back," he said, "and he had looked at
him, Jacques, so."

And as the gift, or at least the taste for
actiDg was strong upon Jacques, he rolled his
eyes in imitation of his master, and bent them
on the cook in a way that horrified her.

" You are hideous, Monsieur Jacques," she
said — " do not, you are hideous ! "

" I am only showing you how monsieur
looked," composedly replied Jacques ; "upon
which I looked so," he added, putting on,
with considerable success, the stolid, immova-
ble face of a well-bred servant-man.

The cook looked at him with more favor,
and said he was quite " comme il fant " when
he looked " so."

Jacques received the praise with profound
indifference (cook was forty-five), and con-
tinued his imitation of his master's looks, ap-
pearance, and language, ending with the sig-
nificant comment: "And so, as he could not
fiud madame, he has sent the police after her.
The ' agent ' is coming this evening, and I am
to show him in, no matter at what hour of the
night."

This interesting piece of information caused
some excitement in the minds of Jacques' three
listeners. There never yet was a household
without its factions, and Mr. Templemore's
bad bt^en divided ever since his wife's flight
had made his domestic troubles a subject of
discourse amongst his servants. Jacques, the
cook, and one of the housemaids, did not ap-
prove of Dora's elevation ; the younger house-
maid, on he contrary, admired so laudable a
precedent, ami gave it her warmest sanction.
On hearing of the police agent, she set up an
indigbant scream, and exclaimed that it was
" unc horrcur /"

260

DORA.

" Stop, stop, mademoiselle, stop," dubiously
said Jacques, who wished to impress this
young lady with the extent of a husband's
rights — hoping he might have to exercise
them over her some day — to curb her ambi-
tion, which he considered dangerous, and yet,
oh ! difficult task, not to offend her. " Stop,
I beg. If monsieur has, as there is no doubt,
the right to get his wife brought back by
gendarmes, so has he the right to have her
found out by an ' agent.' The only thing is,
are they married ? Eich gentlemen do not
marry governesses every day. There was no
wedding. We saw nothing, and there may
be nothing. Her aunt wanted to kill her, her
cousin has a brain-fever, her mother dies, and
she runs away. I say again, are they mar-
lied '? Who saw it ? — who knows of it ? "

This daring hypothesis silenced them all
for a moment. Jacques resumed composedly :

" My belief is that poor mademoiselle, who
was a good young lady in her way, promised
her poor mother to behave better — and so
she ran away."

The young house-maid, who had recovered
by this, indignantly declared she did not be-
lieve a word Jacques had been sayiug, and
asked, with considerable asperity, what right
monsieur had to send gendarmes and police
agents after madame if she were not his wife ?
This logic being irrefutable, was met by
Jacques with the masculine reply, " that
women, though highly gifted, did not know
how to reason ; " and a quarrel, in which
cook took her share, followed, and led to a
considerable delay in the hour of Mr. Tcmple-
more's dinner.

He little thought, as he was pacing his
study up and down in a fever of expectation
and anxiety, waiting for news with alterna-
tives of hope and fear, that he was acting his
pad part just then to entertain, interest, and
excite his own servants. They are the first
spectators of that drama in which, at some

time or other of existence, we all appear, for
the benefit of our contemporaries. Whether
they stand behind a chair in a black coat, or
move about a villa in white cap and apron,
they have the best places in all that wide
audience which looks on so coolly whilst we
strive and suffer. Oh ! for the privilege of
silence and solitude in these sad hours of
life ; for the right of hiding our agony, as the
wild beast hides its death, in some dark hole
or other ! But from the days of the Roman
emperor downward, life and death are trans-
acted on the system of fame or approbation.
"Farewell, and clap your hands ! " says a dy-
ing Cfesar, when his part is out ; and the very
wretch on the scaffold dies not for himself
alone. He dies for the crowd, for the report-
ers, for the newspapers, for that world which
will coolly read of, or which beholds his last
pangs with a callous and a curious eye. And
he knows it and does his best. The evil is
beyond remedy, and we generally put a good
face upon it. Ignorance, besides, helps us to
endurance. We rarely know the precise
spot or hour when privacy ceases and publici-
ty begins. Human pity allows us a few illu-
sions, and we may hug ourselves on the hid-
ing of a pain which is world-known all the
time. Mr. Templemore knew in a geneial
way that his servants must be very busy with
his concerns just then, but he little knew how
far their comments extended. It surely would
have added a new sting to his lot if he could
have heard the construction Jacques put on
his young wife's flight. And yet some of
these comments showed Jacques to be gifted
with the acuteness of his class. On the after-
noon of the next day a handsome florid man
was shown into Mr. Templemore's study. He
stayed five minutes, no more, yet so potent
was his visit in its effects, that half an hour
after his departure Mr. Templemore was sit-
ting in a railway-carriage, going on to Paris
at express speed. In his right hand he held

SOME INFORMATION OF MRS. TEMPLEM*ORE.

261

a scrap of paper, which he read again and
again. It ran thus :

" On the third of July a lady in deep mourn-
ing, with her veil closely drawn over her face,
entered the Rouen station, and took one first-
class ticket for Paris. The lady who delivers
the tickets could not see her well, but feels
sure that she was young. She also noticed
this strange lady's right hand ; it was un-
gloved, small, and remarkably pretty. She
likewise remembers that the lady wore a
peculiar ring — a small gold serpent, with an
emerald head."

That ring Mr. Templemore remembered
well. True, it might have been lost or stolen,
and its testimony could not be trusted abso-
lutely, but the pretty hand he had so often
admired, and which none could see and forget
again, convinced him that this was Dora.
This much he therefore knew, but he knew
no more. "What had happened during that
week which had elapsed from the day on
which Dora left Les Roches to the third of
July ? Where was Mrs. Courtenay ? Was
she living, or dead, as Fanny had said ?
Where was even Fanny? And what took
Dora to Paris ? These were questions which
the florid gentleman had candidly declared
himself unable to answer. With the clew in
his hands — a frail one — Mr. Templemore was
to find bis wife in the great human ocean
toward which he was speeding.

.CHAPTER XLIX.

The hot sunset was filling the busy streets
of Paris with a fiery glow, which shot up to
their highest balconies, and turned the trees
in the Tuileries into bronze and gold, when
Mr. Templemore entered once more the Hotel
Rue de Rivoli, which he had left three evenings
before. No other occupant had claimed his
rooms, and he returned to them as a matter

of course. He found on the table a torn
newspaper he had left there, and in a drawer
some cigars which he had forgotten. The
arm-chair was as he had placed it, near the
window, and when he sat down in it, his eyes
beheld the same bright scene they had gazed
on an hour before he went out on the Boule-
vards. The children and nursery-maids troop-
ing out of the Imperial Gardens, the tight little
sentinel looking at them as they passed, the
roll of carriages below, the loungers, all
seemed as much the same, as unchanged as
the glittering front of the palace itself, and
the rich masses of trees, with a white statue
gleaming through their sombre depths, or the
glimmer of a fountain shining far away.
Nothing was altered save his own mood. He
had beheld these things with a cold, dreary
gaze, the gaze of a man whom love and life
have wronged, and who cannot forgive his
wrongers. He looked at them now with the
feverish impatience of one who has wrought
his own undoing, who has cast the rare pearl
of happiness away, and who knows not whether
this world's deep and troubled sea will ever
yield it back again.

What if days, weeks, months, nay, years
should pass, and he should not find Dora !
It was possible. Cruel and torturing was
the thought. It seemed to pierce his flesh
like a sharp arrow, and make it quiver with
the pa'in. And he was powerless. He might
employ such agents as he had already used,
but by his own efforts he could not hope to
succeed. Regret and baffled hope were his
companions now, and with their sad society
he must be content. Day after day memory
would haunt him with a fair face, and bright
hair, and the soft look of deep, gray eyes;
and in the meanwhile time would wither, and
death might destroy them — and what could
he do? The thought had something so cruel
and tantalizing in it, that, unable to bear it,
Mr. Templemore took his hat and went out.

262

DORA.

He knew it was too late, that his erraud
was a useless one, yet he entered the gardens,
passed through them, went up the quays, then
crossed one of the bridges, and soon found
himself at the dull building where the Parisian
police sits in state. But as Mr. Templemore
had expected, the high official whom he want-
ed to see was gone, all the offices, indeed, were
closed, and the concierge informed " mon-
sieur that he had best return the next morn-
ing at ten."

Twilight was filling the streets as Mr. Tem-
plemore turned away; a few pale stars shone
in the summer sky, a faint breath of fresh-
ness came on the air; windows which had
been closed during the heat of the day now
opened, and laughing girls and women looked
out. But to Mr. Templemore all was vexa-
tion, all was weariness of spirit. The noble
river flowing through its quays, the distant
towers of Notre Dame rising dark in the hazy
air, the palaces and gardens and lines of trees
fading away in the soft heights behind which
lay Saint-Cloud, the vast, murmuring city be-
low, the calm and silent heavens above, were
nothing to him now. A thought was on him,
consuming as a quenchless thirst. That pas-
sion which had risen so suddenly in his heart,
which he had thrust away from him with cruel
and remorseless power, now came back to
him as the chastisement of his double faith-
lessness. He had loved two women, and he
had been quite true to neither. He had for-
gotten his betrothed in his wife, and he had
visited on his wife the sin of that forgetful-
ness. Yes, he knew it well enough now.
Shame at his own weakness had helped to
make him so prompt to judge and condemn.
He knew it, and what availed the knowl-
edge? — what good came of it through that
dreary evening and long, sleepless night ?

By ten the next morning, Mr. Templemore
had seen the high official whose assistance he
needed, and before noon he had received infor-

mation to the effect that, on the night of the
third of July, a lady, who gave the name of
Templemore, had slept at the Hotel du Pare,
Rue de la Vigue, which she had left the next
morning. It was useless to go and seek her
there, yet Mr. Templemore could not resist the
temptation of trying to find something beyond
this meagre intelligence.

The Rue de la Yigne was a grave, lonely
street, not far from the Havre railway-station.
It had few shops, but many private houses,
some of which were mansions, through whose
open gates you caught glimpses of dull court-
yards or green gardens. The Hotel du Pare
was a sober-looking house. No audacious
dancing pagan nymph adorned its quiet court,
but a modest, decorous muse stood in the cen-
tre of a grass-plot, which, by its green tone,
added to the cool, shady look of the place. A
sedate, steady-looking waiter of fifty stood at
the gate in a contemplative attitude — the house
was evidently both dull and respectable.

" Madame Templemore," said Mr. Temple-
more.

The waiter shook his head. They had no
such lady. But she had lived there ? The
waiter thought not, but was not obstinate, and
referred monsieur to the bureau. "There,"
he said, stifling a yawn, " monsieur would get
every information."

The bureau was a little dark office on the
ground floor, where a decent-looking woman
sat reading a newspaper. On hearing Mr.
Templemore's request, she went to an old ink-
stained desk, opened a dingy manuscript vol-
ume, a Babel of names, and whilst she slowly
searched through its pages, Mr. Templemore
looked over her shoulder. Suddenly a fine,
delicate handwriting, which he knew well,
flashed before his eyes ; there it was, clear and
plain — " Madame Templemore, from Rouen."

"Ah! number twenty-one. The lady is
gone, sir — ^he came on the third, and left the
next mornins."

REMARKABLE DISAPPEARANCE.

263

" And can you give me no clew to her pres-
ent abode, madame ? "

Madame feared not, but obligingly called the
waiter. From him, however, nothing could
be extracted. " Gone, sir," he mildly said ;
" that is all we know."

In vain Mr. Templemore questioned. What
the lady was like, if she had any luggage, how
she left the hotel, at what hour, on foot or in
a carriage, were matters on which the waiter
professed profound ignorance. He fancied,
indeed, that the lady had no luggage, and that
she must have walked out of the hotel after
paying her bill, but he would not pledge him-
self to it. They were full about that time, and
the matter had escaped his memory. The con-
cierge, the chambermaid, when questioned,
were as ignorant. They too remembered a
lady in mourning, with her veil down, but they
remembered no more. Mr. Templemore tor-
mented them all for an hour, and could get
nothing else out of them. At length the waiter
lost patience, and hinted that " monsieur had
better apply to the police," and, sick at heart,
Mr. Templemore turned away from that house
which had sheltered his wife for one night, and
kept no trace of her presence save that written
token. One thing, however, was beyond doubt,
Dora had come to Paris alone. " Her mother
is dead," he thought.

He went back at once to the high official
whom he had seen that morning ; and again,
on sending in his card, he was admitted to the
presence of a gentleman whose cheerful, good-
humored countenance gave not the faintest
index to the nature of his professional duties.
Surely those mild blue eyes might linger lazily
over the daily papers, "Figaro" in especial,
and take in accounts of theatres, dancers' quar-
rels, and the rest ; but they had never gazed
down the depths of social vice and crime. Such
was the impression Mr. Templemore had re-
ceived in the morning, and so strong was it
still, that he reluctantly entered anew on the

prosecution of the matter that had brought
him.

" I acted on the information you kindly sent
me," he said, sitting down with a wearied sigh ;
" it certainly was my wife who slept on the
third of July at the Hotel du Pare ; but she
spent only one night there, and lean ascertain
no more."

" Well, we know no more," said the high
official, smiling; "we told you so."

" Yes ; but surely you will be able to learn
more than this ? " urged Mr. Templemore.

" Oh ! of course — with time."

The qualification was thrown in carelessly,
as it were ; but it made Mr. Templemore bend
his keenest look on the man before him.

" I have great confidence in the Parisian
police," he said, watching the high official,
who leaned back in his arm-chair, and nodded
every now and then a sort of assent to Mr.
Templemore's words. "Their subtlety is un-
rivalled — nothing can equal their keenness
when on the scent, save their dogged perti-
nacity in pursuit."

"Very handsome and complimentary," said
the high official, smiling again, " and yet very
true. Our men are first-rate, and not all
French," he added. " We are cosmopolitan,
sir."

"And I feel no doubt of success in the
present case," continued Mr. Templemore.

" Nor do I ; but I anticipate delay. I sus-
pect we shall be stopped by the carriage as
usual."

" By the carriage ! "

" Yes, in all cases of mysterious disappear-
ance, there is invariably a carriage. You see,
since fiacres got their liberty, we have lost our
right hand, I may say. To be sure, they are,
or ought to be, numbered ; but the night
vehicles often evade the law. How did we
know that the lady went straight from the
Havre station to the Hotel du Pare ? By the
cabman ! But, unluckily, no cabman can be

264

DORA.

found to say that he took her away on the
next morning. Yet it is very certain that she
only spent one night there."

" Perhaps she took a porter," suggested Mr.
Templemore, "and went on foot?"

" No porter in the neighborhood knows any-
thing about her," replied the high official, who
seemed perfectly conversant with every par-
ticular of the case. "We shall have hard
work, sir — hard work. It is not easy to find
people who are either unwilling or unable to
help us."

" Unable ! " said Mr. Templemore ; " in what
sense, may I ask ? "

" We have now several cases of mysterious
disappearance on hand," evasively replied the
high official, " and they are all utterly inex-
plicable. Take this, for instance, which I
shall call number one. A foreign nobleman
of high rank, free from debt or embarrassment
of. any kind, so far as our knowledge extends,
leaves his hotel one fine summer morning, and
returns no more. He goes out on foot, but is
seen driving in a common fiacre an hour later.
This, and no more, is all the knowledge we
have of his movements. His servants can give
no clew, his relatives know nothing ; and yester-
day his landlord sold his carriages, his horses,
and his furniture, to cover the rent, which
happens to be high. Where is that young
man ? Is he hiding, and if so, for what rea-
son? Is he dead, and how came he by his
death? These, sir, are matters on which the
keenest search has given us no sort of infor-
mation."

Mr. Templemore looked impatient.

" A young man's freak," he said.

" Very likely; but number two has another
complexion. An Indian merchant sends his
wife, bis sister, and his two children to Paris.
The wife is young — not beautiful — pious and
charitable — a fond wife and a fonder mother.
Her life is spent in the greatest retirement.
She seldom goes out alone. Well, sir, on an

unlucky day, when the sister-in-law is out, the
young wife goes out too — on business, she
tells her maid — and she never comes back.
Weeks and months are devoted to the closest
search, and we cannot find one trace of her —
not one. Did she go out on some charitable
errand, and fall into some dreadful trap, or
was she a false wife? Heaven knows, sir ; we
do not — but I forgot to tell you that she sent
for a carriage — a common fiacre — and that we
can find no trace of the same."

Drops of perspiration were standing on Mr.
Templemore's forehead.

" You spoke of a trap, sir — allow me to sug-
gest that you thus pay a poor compliment to
the Parisian police. Surely all evil-doers are
under its special control and notice."

The high official smiled.

" I doubt, sir, if you imagine how far that
notice and control extend. What will you
think, sir, when I tell you that we have not
merely the most accurate description of our
black sheep over all France, but that, thanks
to Caselli's telegraphic apparatus, their por-
traits and their autographs, sir,. can be sent in
a few moments to no matter what remote or
obscure station."

" Then what trap can be feared ? " impa-
tiently asked Mr. Templemore.

" We find some cases inexplicable on any
other hypothesis. Take number three, the
last case with which I shall trouble you. A
gentleman of middle age, of retired habits and
literary tastes, holding a responsible though
not lucrative position, suddenly declares that
he must take a short journey on some private
business. He takes little or no luggage with
him ; he is known to have but a small sum of
money in his possession ; he even leaves or
forgets a hundred francs on the table in his
room, and still, declaring that he shall not be
more than twenty-four hours away, he enters
a cab, which he had himself secured on his
way home from his office to his private resi-

LEGEND "NUMBER FOUR."

265

dence. The cabman no doubt knew whither
to drive, for though the concierge stood at the
door to listen, the man received no direction
within her hearing. From that day to this we
have not been able to get the least knowledge
of number three. And do you know who
number three was, sir ? " asked the high
official, rising, and laying his hand on Mr.
Templemore's arm ; " he was one of the chief
men in our telegraphic office — the very man,
sir, at whose suggestion the Caselli apparatus
was first adapted to the detection of criminals."

If the high official had told Mr. Templemore
all this to damp Mr. Templemore's ardor, and
prepare him for ultimate defeat, he succeeded.
Mr. Templemore looked turned to stone, and
unable to speak. A trap ! — for to that fearful
suggestion his mind reverted — a trap in which
his young wife might have fallen ! — a trap so
deep down in the dark nether world of crime,
that, living or dead, it would never restore her
to light ! Was anything so sickening, so
frightful, possible ? He could not believe it,
and with a strong effort he shook off the
loathsome thought, and said, firmly :

'• Excuse me, sir, if I tell you that in this
great — this civilized city, perfect concealment
of crime is next to impossible."

" Forever, very true ; but for a time justice
can be baffled. In the three cases I have
mentioned we have found no corpses. The
Morgue has told us nothing, the river has
yielded back no victim, the lime-kilns and
stone-quarries, which abound round Paris, as
you may know, have been searched in vain,
the vast sewers in this city have not screened
the dead — in short, we are compelled to con-
clude that these missing persons have fled,
and are hiding willingly, or that they have
been foully dealt with, and buried in some
hidden spot. That they may have been con-
veyed away forcibly is just possible, but
wholly improbable."

"May I ask which you consider the more

likely hypothesis of the two ? " inquired Mr.
Templemore, as calmly as he could.

" I consider the chances equal. Crime is
but too frequent, as we all know ; and we all
know, too, that seemingly unruffled lives often
hide something which may make flight need-
ful. The motive is not always apparent, but
it exists, for all that. However, in this case
we will for the present take a third hypothesis
— that of ill-luck. A letter may have been
written which you did not receive ; some de-
signing or foolish person may have broken
the chain of evidence, and wantonly given us
all this work, but it does not follow that we
may not find the missing link again. We may
find it to-day, or, maybe, in three weeks. Our
agents are keen, cool, and steady, and we
spend five millions a year."

He ceased, and Mr. Templemore, after a
brief pause, which showed him that he had no
more to learn, rose slowly and took his leave.
But unreality was around him, and walked in
his steps. The streets, the houses in them,
the men and women whom he met, were all
shadowy and dim. He had but one thought,
and that was torture ; but little by little the
morbid and unnatural fear vanished. No, Dora
had neither been kidnapped nor ensnared. '
She had fled from him in resentment, and it
might be hard to find her again ; but find her
he must. He was sure of it — even as sure as
that he could charm away her wrath.

By the time Mr. Templemore reached his
hotel, he was as sanguine and as hopeful as
ever. The event seemed to justify his antici-
pations. That very evening he received news
from the police which made him flu-h up with
joy. He seized his hat, went down-stairs, and
left the hotel without saying a word to any
one.

And now the high official had an excellent
opportunity, if he chose to avail himself of it,
to add number four to the list of his mys-
terious disappearances. Mr. Templemore

266

DORA.

did not return that night, nor the next morn-
ing, nor for days that lengthened into weeks.
He had left his trunk, his carpet-bag, his
books, and even some money behind him, so
great had been his haste, and still he neither
returned, nor wrote, nor gave any clew to his
Avhereabouts.

The master of the hotel was at first satisfied
with scoring down the absent lodger's rooms
to his account ; but when a whole fortnight
had passed by he cleared the apartments of
Mr. Templemore's property, let them to other
guests, and went and laid the whole matter
before the police.

The police knew he was not in Paris, but
they knew no more ; the story spread and
created a sensation, then it became a legend
of the hotel, and still Mr. Ternplernore did not
return.

CHAPTER L.

As there can be nothing in this world which
does not belong to some one, so the legend of
Mr. Templemore's disappearance was early
appropriated and pertinaciously retained by
the concierge in his late hotel. Ee had but
one way of delivering it, but that was effec-
tive. Whenever a new-comer entered his
comfortable room, and made inquiries concern-
ing apartments to be had, the concierge would
ejaculate thoughtfully : " Why, yes, there is
number seven, the apartment of the poor
gentleman who vanished so mysteriously ; but
did you say one room, sir ? Then number
seven will not do ; better have number
fifteen."

Paris was very busy just then with mysteri-
ous disappearances. Number three had been
found drowned in England, but how he had
come by that fatal end no one could say. It
might be a suicide — it might be worse. A
mystery it was, and would probably remain till
,thc great Judgment-Pay — the revealer of all

secrets. Now, the owner of Mr. Templemore's
legend cherished the secret hope that it would
have some such tragic ending. Thus — part
the first ; a mystery. Part the second : clear-
ing of the mystery by a second mystery, never
to be cleared on any account.

But it was not to be. A traveller came one
afternoon, a skeptical traveller, a Thomas of
Didymus, who sharply interrupted the legend,
and denied it peremptorily, and asked " what
ridiculous story this was ? "

" Monsieur ! " indignantly exclaimed the
concierge; but he said no more. He stared
with open mouth and eyes at the stranger, in
whom he recognized Mr. Templemore himself.
He was much worn, and looked haggard, but
his identity could not be disputed, and thus
ended number four and the legend.

Trouble and Mr. Templemore had been
closely acquainted since we saw him last.
Acting on information from the police, which
convinced him that he had at length found his
wife, Mr. Templemore had gone to a boarding-
house in Passy, and asked to see Mrs. Poster,
exactly a quarter of an hour after that lady
had gone to England. He followed her at once,
but reached the station ten minutes after the
departure of the train. He took an express
train, but the same ill-luck pursued him. There
was an accident, the train was delayed two
hours ; and when Mr. Templemore reached
Boulogne, he could see from the pier the smoke
of a steamer fading away on the horizon. Mrs.
Poster, he learned without a doubt, was on
board.

This was but the first step in a keen pursuit,
which ended in blank disappointment. For
several weeks Mr. Templemore was on the un-
known Mrs. Poster's track ; then she suddenly
vanished, and was found no more. Was she
really Dora ? He did not even know that ; he
knew nothing, he could learn nothing. If the
grave had received his wife, she could scarcely
have vanished more completely than this from

MONSIEUR DURAND.

2G7

all knowledge of the living. No one had seen,
no one seemed ever to have known her. It
was as if the being who was so dear to him
had lived for himself alone, for Mr. Temple-
more could find no token of ber vacant place.
To have vanished was for Dora to have been
forgotten.

Wearied and disheartened, Mr. Templemore
returned to Paris, and, even before going to his
hotel,, called again upon the high official ; but
that gentleman was out of town, and in his
stead Mr. Templemore found a nervous little
man, who knew nothing, who would say noth-
ing, and who was evidently most anxious to get
rid of his visitor.

He "would place the matter in the hands of
Durand ; Durand was sure to know every-
thing about it ; Burand would call upon Mr.
Templemore, and save him the trouble of
coming again. Tes, Durand would be sure
to call and tell him, even if there was nothing
to tell. It was useless to insist, and though
burning with secret indignation and impa-
tience, Mr. Templemore had to submit and take
his leave.

For two days he waited. But no monsieur
Durand appeared. No letter, no message
even, came to set at rest the fever in which he
lived. On the evening of the second day, Mr.
Templemore, who had not left his room, went
out, but he could not stay away more than
a few minutes. He turned back as eager as
if he had been away on a long journey, and
expected news on his return. He entered the
lodge of the concierge, and looking at him
searchingly, he said —

"No letter?"

" None for monsieur."

" And no message ? "

" None of any kind ; monsieur," added the
concierge, looking injured, " has been gone
three minutes."

" I did not ask you how long I had been
gone," replied Mr. Templemore, with a sort of

fierceness — so the concierge called it — in hi,-;
looks, which greatly affronted that dignitary.
Unconscious, perhaps, of the asperity of his
reply, Mr. Templemore went back to his
apartment.

"I must renew the search on my own ac-
count," he thought, as he paced his room up
and down, " even though I fail again, and
allow myself to be led away by a mere ignis
faluus ; the search itself will relieve me, and
this waiting, this suspense, is maddening."

He had scarcely come to this conclusion
when he heard a low tap at his door.

" Come in," he said, with a sudden beating
of the heart, that came from neither hope nor
fear, but partook of both.

The door opened, and a low, thin man, with
a bundle under his arm, entered the room.

"Are you Monsieur Durand ? "

" I am, sir."

" Have you found her ? "

" I have not exactly found the lady, sir, but
I bring some information about the lady."

Mr. Templemore's face fell. He wanted
Dora. If they had her not, he cared little
about their information.

Monsieur Durand resumed, composedly :
• " Something was astray, too, and so I could
not come at once."

" What have you got there ? What do you
come to tell me ? "

Mr. Templemore spoke hastily. This Mon-
sieur Durand was hateful to him. He was a
pale, thin man, with restless eyes, and as Mr.
Templemore met their look, he could not help
thinking that if, instead of seeking out the
fugitive to bring her back to the fondness of
a repentant husband, their task had been to
hunt her down to shame or death, they would
have done it without shrinking and remorse.

Whether Monsieur Durand guessed or not
the feeling with which he was regarded by
Mr. Templemore, he preserved his composure,
and replied very calmly :

268

DORA.

" An English lady in mourning, young and
pretty, lived in a furnished room, let by the
owner of a brie-d-brac shop, Rue de la Serpe.
She was Madame Smith. 1 '

He looked at Mr. Templemore.

"Well," he said, impatiently, "Madame
Smith has left the place, I suppose ?"

" Oh ! yes, she has left it. And after she
left, a young Englishman came and inquired
after her — a good deal ; I suppose it was not

monsieur

9 »

The blood rushed up into Mr. Templemore's
face.

" A gentleman ! what gentleman ? " he
asked sharply, for he thought of John Luan.

But Monsieur Durand's knowledge did not
extend thus far. He shook his head — he
could not tell.

" Well, and what about Madame Smith ? "
asked Mr. Templemore, after a brief pause,
" for I suppose you have something to tell
me."

"I have, sir," and Monsieur Durand began
untying the bundle. He drew forth a woman's
dress, black, but dreadfully rumpled, and he
inquired " if monsieur knew that ? "

" It is impossible for me to know it," replied
Mr. Templemore; "that mourning — if it be-
longs to my wife — was purchased whilst I was
away."

" And linen — would monsieur know linen ? "

Mr. Templemore saw Monsieur Durand's
hands fumble at something white.

"The mark will tell us," he said, eagerly ap-
proaching.

" Ah ! there is none, unluckily," remarked
Monsieur Durand ; " look ! " and he showed
him that the mark had been cut out.

" Then how can I tell '? " impatiently asked
Mr. Templemore. " What are these things? —
how did you get them ? "

" I will tell monsieur directly how they came
into the hands of the police; but I may re-
mark, first, that the linen is fine, and that the

dress, though spoiled, is almost new, and was
expensive. And now I will tell monsieur all
about them. That Madame Smith to whom
they belonged took the room in the Rue de la
Serpe several weeks ago. She was in mourn-
ing ; she spoke little and cried often. A week
after taking her room she left it one evening,
and never came back. Her trunk was empty,
but her rent had been paid in advance, so her
landlady had nothing to say. On that same
evening, however — that is to say, the fifteenth
of July, when there was a great storm — a
woman in mourning climbed up on the ledge
of the Pont de la Concorde, and leaped into
the Seine. Three days later her body was
found and taken to the Morgue, where it was
identified by her landlady ; and these," calmly
continued Monsieur Durand, " are the clothes
she wore."

On the evening of the fifteenth of July ! —
that is to say on the evening when he was at
the play, when he paid for the diamond cross,
when he travelled home through the storm to
seek her ! — on that evening this woman, wno
was supposed to be his wife, had committed
suicide !

" It is impossible ! " at length exclaimed
Mr. Templemore. "I will believe anything
else — that never ! Take those things away,"
he added angrily, looking at the clothes, which
had kept such strong traces of their three days'
sojourn in the water; "and let me never hear
of that Madame Smith again ! "

"Then monsieur would rather not see the
photograph ! " said Monsieur Durand, leisurely
tying up the bundle.

"What photograph?" sharply asked Mr.
Templemore.

" Oh ! it was taken after death, you know."

A cold fear crept to Mr. Templemore's very
heart, but he would not yield to it.

"Show it to me," he said briefly.

Monsieur Durand fumbled in his pocket,
and drew forth a photograph ten inches square.

THE SUICIDE.

2G9

As he first unwrapped and then handed it to
Mr. Templemore, he said:

" It had gone astray ; and, to say the truth,
that is why monsieur hud to wait two days."

Mr. Templemore did not heed or even hear
him. He stared breathless at that image of
the dead — so cold, so calm, and so awfully
like her, and the very beatings of his heart
seemed to grow still. Yes, thus he had seen
her sleeping, with closed eyes and half-parted
lips ; but in another slumber than this. How
heavy seemed this sleep ! The voice of love
would never bid those pale lids unveil the
bright eyes he remembered so well — never
more would those lips smile half fondly, half
shyly as he spoke. The head which a stran-
ger's hand had placed on the pillow had sunk
upon it in such weariness of all earthly things,
that it could never be raised again. Life held
nothing — no love, no voice, no aspect which
could waken this slumberer from her charmed
sleep. She was locked in it forever and for-
ever.

Was it thus? he thought. Perhaps not,
but it was thus he felt in the first bitter agony
of that moment. " my God ! can it be she ? "
he exclaimed, with parched lips — " can it be
she?"

The doubt following an awful certainty was a
sort of exquisite relief. For thi3 dead woman
might not be Dora after all. A dreadful past,
a bitter story, might have led her to a despair-
ing death, and she might not be his wife.
Perhaps even she was not so very much like
her. Surely there had been nothing — nothing
which could drive Dora to despair like this ?
He looked again, but he was not calm enough
to see well ; there was a mist in his eyes, his
hand shook, he dreaded that fatal resem-
blance ; but his will, which was a strong one,
prevailed and conquered that weakness. Once
more he saw that image, and oh ! how he
blessed Heaven from the fulness of his heart —
it already seemed less like !

" This lady was older than my wife," said
Mr. Templemore ; " older and thinner."

" Photographs make people look old," re-
marked Monsieur Durand.

"She was older than my wife," persisted Mr.
Templemore, almost angrily ; " besides, I can-
not trust a photograph — every oue knows that
light, that position, that the slightest accident
can produce a complete change in a face, dead
or living."

He looked defiantly at Monsieur Durand,
who did not answer one word. He had not
come to argue Or to convince. All this was
nothing to him. Opposition could have made
Mr. Templemore vow that this dead woman had
never been his wife ; but this cold silence threw
him back on dreadful uncertainty.

"Is that all?" he asked feverishly; "is
there no more? — do you know no more ? "

"Xo more," laconically echoed Monsieur
Durand ; " I went to the Piue de la Serpe to
learn something before I came to monsieur, but
there was nothing."

"What color was her hair of?" suddenly
asked Mr. Templemore.

Monsieur Durand looked annoyed. " Brown,
I believe ; but they were very negligent, I am
sorry to say — they took none."

Monsieur Durand said this in a tone which
implied plainly that if the case had been in his
hands, so important a link in the chain of evi-
dence would never have been broken.

There was a brief pause, then Mr. Temple-
more said, " Take me to that Rue de la Serpe."

Monsieur Durand bowed, and said not a
word. He was one of the modern slaves of the
lamp, and to obey the master of the lamp —
namely, the owner and dispenser of a certain
amount of Xapoleons — was his duty.

It is easy to deny ; but, alas ! denial is not
always unbelief.

Mr. Templemore followed his conductor, and
felt in a sort of stupor. Could his keen and
anxious search for a loved and living wife, end

270

DORA.

thus in the great gap and dark pit of Death ?
Could the tender frame which had been so dear
to him have drifted helplessly down the dark
river, with the chill waters flowing over that
loved face, and loosening the long bright hair
his hand had caressed so fondly ?

There is an unreality in the death of what we
love, which strong minds feel as well as the
weak. Death was familiar to Mr. Templemore's
mind, but not the death of a passionately loved
woman. It was not a certainty yet, and he
could not and would not believe it ; but be-
yond that revolt and denial loomed a possibil-
ity which invested the present and every sur-
rounding object with the vagueness of a dream.
The living streets through which he passed had
something abstract about them — they were
and they were not. The roll of the carriages,
the sounds of life, came from afar, and their
din and tumult were softened by that distance
which one thought placed between him and
all surrounding things. He did not believe it,
and yet he shuddered as he saw the swollen
Seine flowing on to the sea, and bearing away
with it to that great bourne, many an unknown
human burden. If it were true!

They passed by the Morgue. He saw Mon-
sieur Durand glance toward it. He looked at
it too — with what secret horror ! If it were
true ! If she had really rested there on one
of those cold stone slabs which he remembered
so well ! Heaven, was that the bed he
had made for her ! He revolted against the
foul thought — he bade it defiance. In the
name of the love which, though but for a few
. had bound them so fondly, he bade it
ne. It was not possible that she had thus
• 1. -paired of love and life — that she whom he
had known so joyous, with a brave, warm heart
and a living faith, had thus violently and sin-
fully denied both.

It was not possible ; but he breathed more
freely when they left the river behind them.
They entered a narrow stone world, dark and

stifling, and yet seemed to come no nearer to
the goal of their journey. At length Monsieur
Durand stood still, and when Mr. Templemore
came up to him, he said :

" This is the Rue de la Serpe, and yonder,
where you see the bric-d-brac shop, is the house.
Shall I go with monsieur, or does he wish to
go alone ? "

" I shall go alone. You need not wait for
me, thank you."

Monsieur Durand bowed, turned the corner
of a street, and vanished. Perhaps he did not
go very far, after all, but Mr. Templemore
neither knew nor cared. The setting sun filled
the street with its level rays, and half blinded
him as he walked up to the bric-d-brac shop.
Oh ! that the street had had no ending — that
this goal had never been reached, if it was to
lead to cruel knowledge !

The house was mean and narrow. Above
the door dangled a yellow bill with " Furnished
Room to Let." The shop was one of the poor-
est of its kind. Here were no rare relics of the
past, each telling the story of a king's reign.
Xo tapestry, no Sevres, no Boucher and Wat-
teau shepherdesses, no traces even of Revolu-
tion and Empire, or tokens of the East, in blue
vases and gilt dragons, were there. Mr. Tem-
plemore saw nothing but the dingy, common-
place and dilapidated ruins of the present gen-
eration. Shattered mahogany chests of draw-
ers, ruined card-tables, with the green baize
half torn off, faded artificial flowers in com-
mon china vases under dusty glass shades, and
showy little gilt clocks, abounded. But com-
monplace though all these objects were, they
were also very dreary. They told of ruined
and broken homes, and told it without the
softening grace of the past.

Mr. Templemore entered the shop. A stout,
middle-aged woman came forward, and asked
his pleasure.

" You have a furnished room to let," he re-
plied — " let me see it."

THE LOCK OF HAIR.

271

"This way, sir;" and leaving the shop in
the care of a child, she showed him up a dark,
steep staircase, into a small, gloomy bedroom,
which, spite the heat of the day, felt strangely
chill. Why are these places alike all the world
over ? Why do they all bear the same cold,
homeless look, which, with every difference
of climate and manners, we recognize at once ?
Mr. Templemore looked about him, but the
plain bed of walnut-tree wood, the chest of
drawers and toilet-table, told him no story.
Everything was tolerably clean and dreadfully
comfortless. He went to the window and
opened it. Below him lay a small yard. The
greenish hue of the stones with which it was
pived told of habitual damp. A tall, miser-
able-looking pump stood in one corner. A
few flowers in pots, withering for want of sun
and pure air, had been placed near it, Heaven
knows for what purpose. High walls dotted
with windows enclosed this court, and made a
well of it. Mr. Templemore shut the window
with a slight shiver. Was it possible that her
eyes had gazed on that dreary prospect ? Had
she lain and brooded over her wrongs in that
wretched bed, until she rose on her last morn-
ing, resolved to end all that night ? Oh, in-
sufferable thought !

" It is a pleasant room, sir," said the mar-
cliande cheerfully — " nice and airy."

" Yet some people might object to it," re-
plied Mr. Templemore.

" Why should they, sir ? " was the prompt
reply.

" You know my meaning," he said.

"Ah! about the poor lady. Why sir, she
did not do it here. She was not even brought
home here."

She spoke of it in a commonplace, matter-
of-fact tone that sickened him. He could bear
this no longer. He opened his pocket-book,
and took out a paper, which contained a lock
of Dora's hair.

Brief though Mr. Templemore's wooing had

been, he aud Dora had, nevertheless, read to-
gether a few opening chapters of the long, fair
book of love. One day, when he pressed her
to importunity to accept a gift from him, anil
she refused, with the proud, sad question,
" What can I give you in return, Mr. Temple-
more ? " he had lifted up one of the locks of
hair she wore tied with a blue ribbon at the
back of her head in a nymph-like fashion,
which he had praised once, and he had said,
with a smile, " You could give me this." " Hair
is too dear," mischievously answered Dora. Mr.
Templemore, who knew that a lady's locks are
not always her own, blushed. Dora laughed,
and Mrs. Courtenay, untying the blue ribbon,
let her daughter's long rich curls flow loosely,
and at once cut off one, which she trium-
phantly placed in Mr. Templemore's hand. It
was Dora's turn to look rueful, and his to
smile. He had reached the age, indeed, when
even an enamoured man does not think it a
priceless boon to have a lock of a beloved
woman's hair; besides, that bright head was
almost his, and such instalments lose in value
when possession is near and sure ; but there is
a pleasure in receiving the keys of a con-,
quered citadel, even though its capitulation be
imminent; and so, as he held this token of
her subjection, Mr. Templemore looked at his
future wife with gentle and not unkind triumph,
and the lock thus won he kept very carefully
— it was useless, but it was dear. Now, how-
ever, its use had come. That lock of hair
might save him from long misery.

"Was her hair like this?" he asked, in a
broken voice, and with a face so pale that the
woman drew back startled. "Speak! Oh1
for God's sake, speak ! " he urged. " Tel! me
the truth, whatever that may be."

" I know nothing, sir," replied I
chande ; " I never saw the poor lady. It was
my cousin who kept the shop then."

" Your cousin, where is she ? She must
tell me — she shall ! "

272

DOHA.

His looks and his tones had passed from
grief to menace. But there is one with whom
we must reckon in every human emergency, a
grim keeper of secrets, whom no threats can
terrify, whom no promises can bribe, and that
one now chose to step in between Mr. Tem-
plemore and the knowledge he wanted.

" My cousin is dead, sir," said the mar-
chande.

Dead ! That woman whom he had delayed
to'question till the last moment, so much did
he dread her reply, was now forever beyond
his reach. He was baffled again; another
dead woman stood between him and the truth ;
yet it was a terrible sort of relief to feel that
he could not get at the fatal certainty ; to
doubt meant to Mope.

" And so that was her hair," said the woman,
looking curiously at the lock of hair which his
passive hand still beld ; " very beautiful hair
— I remember my poor cousin said so."

She looked both inquisitive and interested.
He saw that the knowledge he so dreaded
would be welcome to that woman. She wanted
the mystery of that drama to be solved, and
there would be a grim satisfaction to her in
the knell of all his hopes. He hurriedly hid
the hair from her sight. He would not trust
her. In her wish to find a meaning to the sad
story of the unknown dead, she might deceive
herself and help to deceive him.

" I think it was chiefly by her hair my
cousin identified the poor lady," continued the
marchande ; " I know it was beautiful hair."

Mr. Templemore heard her and was mute ;
the conviction and the hope with which he had
entered this place were leaving him inch by
inch. He did his best to keep them — he
grasped them as a drowning man grasps his
last plank of safety, and they would not abide
with him. They floated farther and farther
away on the dark and dismal sea of doubt. He
did not indeed believe that the suicide and his
wife were one, but then he ivas no longer sure

that they were not. He could not speak, he
could not argue, he could not even hear this
mentioned. He went down-stairs, and slipping
some money in the child's hand, he left the
shop without saying a word. He walked
away, not knowing whither he went, neither
thinking nor remembering aught beyond a
ceaseless question, which ever rang within him
like a knell, "Was it Dora ? "

When thought returned to Mr. Templemore,
he was standing on the quays, with the river,
the bridges, and a distant prospect of church
towers on one hand, and the verdure of trees
on the other. The soft bluish mists of even-
ing w r ere abroad, and rosy clouds, still flushed
with the sunset, floated across the sky. It was
a fair and delicious picture, and yet Mr. Tem-
plemore felt as if it broke his heart. His for-
titude seemed to give way every time he gazed
on those dark green waters, and still he lin-
gered near them. Gradually his steps led him
to that bridge built with the stones of the
Bastile, whence the dead woman was said to
have taken her fatal spring. The palace of the
Corps Legislatif rises at one end of the bridge,
and at the other extends the Place de la Con-
corde, with its eight statues of the cities of
France, its bronzed fountains, and its old
Egyptian obelisk. The night was one of full
moon, and it was both bright and calm. The
reflection of the lights burning on distant
bridges scarcely quivered in the waters of the
quiet river. Mr. Templemore looked at it as
he walked up and down the bridge, striving
against the cruel tempter who ever whispered :
" What if it should be true ? "

It is strange how hateful senseless, inani-
mate objects can become when such a mood
as Mr. Templemore's is upon us. Every time
he came back to the palace of the French
Legislative Assembly, and saw the statues of
Sully, d'Aguesseau, l'Hopital, and Colbert,
who sit so calmly guarding its wide gates-a
sort of wrath at their stillness and unchang-

DR. LUAN REPORTS IIIS COUSIN'S DEATII.

273

ing a'titudc, at that peace of the grave which
had been theirs so long, and now seemed trans-
mitted to their stone effigies, rose within him.
After awhile he felt that he could not bear
this any longer. He left the bridge and struck
into that long avenue of trees which follows
the course of the river. It was a green wilder-
ness in the days when Anne of Austria was
gay and young, and for her sake it is still
called Cours la Reine. lie went again over the
evening's dreary story, and the resemblance
between Dora and the photograph seemed
to fade away as he thought of it. 'Was not
Nanette's enamel like Dora ? Did not the
young actress recall her ? What was there in
that likeness, after all, that he should go
through stteh agony ? Hope grew stronger as
calmness returned to his mind, bringing with
it the greatest sense of relief he had expe-
rienced since his weary search began. It
seemed as if by passing through this terrible
doubt he had gained all that he bad not ac-
tually lost.

At length he turned homeward. He passed
by one of the Cafes Chantants. The little
stage looked bright in the darkness of the sur-
rounding trees. Three girls in scarlet cloaks
were sitting, a fourth in blue stood and sang.
" She is consumptive," thought Mr. Temple-
more, giving her a critical look. "Poor little
thing, how long will she last, with those bare
shoulders and the night air ? " ne had stopped
for a moment ; he now walked on, and as he
thus turned away he saw a pale, stem face be-
hind him — the face of John Luan.

" Pray hear the singer out," said the young
man; "I should be sorry to interfere villi
your pleasure."

He got no answer. There was something
in his aspect which sent a chill to Mr. Temple-
more's heart. It was as if his fate had risen
from the darkness of the night, and now stood
before him. They both remained a few mo-
ments silent, then John Luan spoke again.
IS

" I come to bring you the news you asked
of me two months back. I learned, no matter
how, that you were in Paris, and I followed
you for that."

Still Mr. Templemore did not answer, but
he walked beyond the circle of the crowd, and
John Luan followed him. When they stood
alone near one of the gas-lights of the avenue,
John Luan said :

" I bring you news of your wife, Mr. Tem-
plemore — she is dead ! "

" 'Tis false ! " angrily replied Mr. Temple-
more, speaking for the first time.

" She is dead," doggedly said John Luan.
" You have killed her — remember that. You
took her to your house young, innocent, and
happy, and you disgraced her — I know it all
now — you robbed her of fair name, peace, and
finally of life — remember that, I say ! Your
wife is dead ! "

" How and when did she die ? "

" That you shall never know from me. She
died a cruel, despairing death. That much I
can tell you."

" I defy you to prove it ! " said Mr. Temple-
more, trembling with passion.

"I shall never attempt to do that," replied
John Luan, with a cold, stern smile, " never.
She has been dead two months, and two
months I have known it, and I have not said
a word, I have not made a sign. Did you
think that I would help you, you her mur-
derer, to happiness and liberty ? Did you
think that any assistance of mine would en-
able you to marry Florence Gale ? No — she
is dead, but you shall never be able to prove
it. You shall never recover and enjoy your
liberty. If you really doubt, you shall doubt
on, and be thus chastised. And if you do not
doubt, yet, as you shall never be able to im-
part your certainty to others, so shall you
again be chastised. And thus," added John
Luan, looking him steadily iu the face, " I
Bhall have my revenge."

274

DORA.

" Your revenge, because Dora loved me ! "
replied Mr. Templetnore, with much indigna-
tion. " If I did not think you half mad, Mr.
Luan — for your language is not that of a sane
man — I would tell you that my revenge for
your malice will be to recover my wife and
be happy with her. You say she is dead, and
I tell you she is living ! 1 tell you nothing
shall convince me that she and the unhappy
woman of the Rue de la Serpe were one. You
see I am better informed than you think, and
yet I am not convinced. I have seen the
house, the room, the clothes, the photograph
even of the dead woman, and I tell you, for
your comfort, that she was not your cousin
and my wife."

John Luan looked confounded, but he soon
recovered, and said :

" You were not in Paris, Mr. Templemore,
when she was taken out of the water, not very
for from this spot ; I was. You were away
when she was brought to the Morgue ; I was
here, and I saw her. I saw her lying dead
before me. I have known her from child-
hood, and I tell you I saw her. I stood be-
hind the grating as she lay there cold and in-
animate. I tell you I saw her. I neither
claimed nor identified her — why should I set
you free ? — but I saw her. And now you may
believe me or not — it matters very little. I
am mad — am I ? Good-night, Mr. Temple-
more."

He laughed scornfully, and walked away,
and Mr. Templemore let him go. He felt
stunned. Was it true ? Had John Luan
really seen her ? Had he been mistaken in
her identity — such things have been — or was
it really Dora? Was that photograph, so
strangely like her, the true image of his dead
wife ? And yet what is there in a likeness ?
Was not Nanette's enamel portrait, of a woman
who had been dead two hundred years, like
Dora ?

" But not so like as this," thought Mr. Tem-

plemore, with sudden anguish ; " besides, he
should know her. Only he may be mad, or a
liar ; this may be a plot to deceive me."

Imagination is a tormenting gift. As Mr.
Templemore walked home under the arcades
of the Rue de Rivoli, strange thoughts walked
with him. It was no longer the great ques-
tion, was Dora dead or living — but was Dora
false or true ? " Is this a conspiracy of that
young man against me," thought Mr. Temple-
more, as he went up to his room, "and is
Dora in it? Will they go away together
somewhere, and, deceiving me and the world
with a feigned tale of death, get married, and
be lost forever ? "

For a moment jealousy and wrath over-
powered every other feeling. Rgason was
wrecked, and Mr. Templemore could only
think, with impotent fury, of the hateful
story he had conjured up. Dora, his wife,
forsaking and betraying him thus ! But sud-
denly his wrath fell, and was followed by a
great calmness. How or why he thought of
this he knew not ; but he remembered how,
entering his wife's room one morning at Dee-
nab, he had found her praying. Her kneel-
ing attitude, her bent face and clasped hands,
came back to him, and softened him in a
moment. She, Dora, his young, pious, and
innocent wife, perjuring herself to commit
bigamy with John Luan !

How could he think it, and yet remember
how utterly John Luan had failed, and how
completely he had succeeded with Dora ?
There is a strange sweetness in triumph ; the
wisest and the best are not insensible to it.
Mr. Templemore felt moved and softened as
the thought of the past came back to him.
Yes, he had prevailed, with scarcely an effort,
whilst John Luan, after patient years, had
been balked. He had won the prize for
which another had toiled ; and she had been
his, all his; too much his, for if he had
thought he could lose her, he would nt

MRS. COURTENAY'S DISCONTENT.

275

have left her. She had been so easily won,
that he had felt secure, too secure by far, and
now he paid for his past folly by the torment-
ing doubts of the present.

For, after all, Mr. Templemorc doubted.
He had faith and hope, but no certitude.
Even if his wife were not now sleeping in an
unknown grave, he had her not, he knew
nothing of the road she had taken, of the
spot that held her, and, hard fate, he knew
not how to seek for her. No mariner lost at
sea, with neither chart nor compass, could
be more at a loss than he was.

It was inevitable, perhaps, that something
of resentment should mingle with these
thoughts. For, after all, he did not think
he had deserved to be so deserted, with aban-
donment so complete, and silence so scornful.
Dora might have remembered their dignity,
ere she had thus laid bare to the world the
sad secrets of their married life. And thus
one after the other the angry thoughts came
rising slowly, but surely, like the waves of a
sullenly wrathful sea, drowning in their tide
tenderness, regret, and even the fair image
of hope, till suddenly Mr. Templemore's eyes
fell on the photograph. Monsieur Durand
had taken the other things ; this he had
either forgotten or left designedly. Mr. Tem-
plemore took it in his hand, and looked at it.
How like it seemed, and how the likeness
grew as he looked on !

" If I could believe it," he thought, and his
lips quivered as he said it to his own heart —
" if I could think this image showed her poor
dead face, and that unkindness of mine had
driven her to such a death, life would hence-
forth be a blank page, one on which neither
love, nor hate, nor happiness, nor enjoyment
could ever again be written for me."

Many have said such things in the bitter-
ness of remorse or in the first burst of grief;
#t how many have abided by them ?
" God help me ! " thought Mr. Templemorc

in the agony of his doubt — " God help me !
It is cruelly like her ! " And st^ll he held it
and gazed on, and he could not put the
image by.

CHAPTER LI.

The light of a pale autumn sunbeam fell
exactly on Mrs. Courtenay's face, and it showed
very plainly that Mrs. Courtenay was frown-
ing. A frown was a very unusual thing in-
deed on that lady's smooth forehead, and it
required so ominous a fact as three successive
failures of her favorite patience, to bring any-
thing like it there. But nothing was incred-
ible or impossible after such a calamity ; and
there could be no doubt about it — Mrs. Cour-
tenay was frowning. She threw the cards
down pettishly, and murmured with ill-re-
pressed indignation as she looked around the
room, " It is all Dora's fault."

The room was not a gay one, certainly. It
was dull, meanly furnished, and it looked out
on a bleak, bare field, with a lowering autumn
sky above it. A pretty change, indeed, from
the grave old splendors of Les Roches !

" I do believe the girl must be crazy ! "
thought Mrs. Courtenay — "as crazy as her
poor aunt ! "

Here Dora's voice singing gayly in the next
room added fuel to the fire of Mrs. Courte-
nay's indignation.

"Garry Owen indeed!" she thought; "a
pretty time to sing about Garry or Terry, or
Jerry even ! "

What Jerry had to do with it no one could
have said, not even Mrs. Courtenay ; but the
three names certainly relieved her, for the
frown was gone when Dora entered the room,
in full song, as her mother mentally called it.

Dora had never looked brighter, gayer, or
more cheerful than she looked now. Never
in the hopeful days of her girlhood had she
had a sunnier look than that which she wore

276

DORA.

on this day. But for all hep cheerfulness,
Dora's cheeks were pale and thin, and gayly
though she sang, her eyes were sunk. Per-
haps, too, Mrs. Courteriay might have noticed
or remembered, that, in the old happy days,
Dora's songs had been sad — doleful, her
mother called them — whereas now they were
light and gay, when tbey were not actually
merry. But Mrs. Courtenay was not a very
clear-sighted person, and Dora's gayety now
so far exasperated her, that she sat mute and
sulky, and folded her arms in silent protest.

" What ! can't you get on with the pa-
tience ? " asked Dora in her lightest voice,
and with a little ringing, silvery laugh. " Let
me try."

She sat down and stretched her hand tow-
ard the cards; but Mrs. Courtenay took them
up, made a packet of them, and deliberately
put them underneath the cushion of the chair
on which she was sitting ; after which she
looked rather sternly at her daughter.

Dora laughed again. She laughed very
often now.

" What have I done now ? " she asked, in
her cheerful, good-humored voice ; " come,
tell me my new sin, mamma."

" Dora, I am very angry," solemnly said
Mrs. Courtenay. "Why did you lure me
away from Les Roches to — to this horrible
little hole ? " she added, suddenly raising her
voice into her favorite little scream.

"Dear mamma," replied Dora, looking
amused, "it was agreed we wanted a change —
and you know Les Roches was a dreadful
place, after what happened to poor Aunt
Luan. And this is a lovely spot, and not a
horrible little hole, as you very unkindly call
it."

" Why did we not go to Ireland ? " asked
Mrs. Courtenay. " I have been very happy
with my dear husband, and Paul and you, and
even with poor Mrs. Luan, in Ireland. And it
is quite absurd, Dora, that we should be living

here in this ridiculous little place, instead of
being down at Deenah ! Deenah was my
brother-in-law's, and it is your husband's ;
and it is quite absurd that I should never have
seen it, and more than absurd that we should
be paying rent here, whilst there is a beautiful
house doing nothing and waiting for us."

" Well, mamma, when Mr. Templemore
comes and looks for us, we will go to Deenah."

" But Mr. Templemore is not coming, and
he does not write, and you do not write to
him," said Mrs. Courtenay, rocking herself to
and fro in indignation and wonder. " I never
heard anything like it — never, Dora," she
added, with as much severity (and it was very
little) as she could infuse in the words, " you
have behaved very badly to your husband."

Dora seemed much amused, and shook her
bright head, looking all the time like a merry
girl who has been working some piece of mis-
chief, and who enjoys it ; but there was a
strange, nervous twitching about her lips, even
whilst she laughed.

" Dear mamma," she said gayly, "if he does
not care enough for me to come and seek me,
I cannot help it, can I ? And it is no use
being vexed or angry about it — he did not
marry me for love, you know."

" And how does he know where you are ? "
angrily asked Mrs. Courtenay ; "just tell me
.that?"

" He will find it out when he wants me,"
replied Dora, with a pretty toss of her bright
head.

"Dora," said Mrs. Courtenay, with as much
solemnity (and again we say it was not much)
which she could convey into her look and
maimer, "are you getting frivolous? Why,
you seem to have no conception of a wife's
position and duty ! "

" Dear mamma," gayly said Dora, " I was so
short a time a wife ! And I have always been
HghtJiesrted, you know. Why, Mr. Temple-
more said to me once, it was like sunshine to .

HOPE AND KEALITY.

277

have me is a room, I was so bright a creature.
For, you know, he used to make pretty
speeches to me, even though he was in love
with Mr;. Logan all the time. And I suppose
that sunny girls, if one may call them so, have
no great depth of feeling. Another woman
would fret and cry perhaps because Mr. Tern-
plemore is not coming. Better sing and be
gay, as I am," added Dora, with her brightest
smile.

" I never could understand you, Dora," said
Mrs. Courtenay, looking profoundly puzzled ;
" never. You adored Paul, and when we lost
him — " added Mrs. Courtenay, with a tremor
in her voice.

" I was as gay as ever, after a time," sug-
gested Dora. " Why, yes ; you see, mamma,
you are French, and I am Irish, that is the
difference. We Irish," she added, looking
very saucy, " are more Celtic than you are.
And we are not half civilized yet, as the whole
world can tell you. When we suffer we give
a great cry, a terrible wail, like a keene over
the dead ; then we are gay and lively again,
being, as the whole world also knows, a very
merry people, light-hearted and light-beaded.
It is a dispensation of Providence, I have no
doubt," added Dora, with a touch of irony ;
" but if I have my share of the national gift,
why reproach me with it ? After all, mamma,
I suspect I am a more cheerful companion
than if I had a solemn English grief or a dec-
orous French one. Then you have the com-
fort of knowing that when I leave you, as I
must this afternoon, I am not fretting my
heart out, but just taking life easily and
merrily."

"Yes ; but I wish you would not leave me,"
said Mrs. Courtenay, a little pettishly ; " what
can you want in Rouen to-day '! "

" Must I not see about money — money ? "
gayly asked Dora : " good, kind Mr. Ryan is
not here to help me now — I must do it all my-
self, you know."

Still, Mrs. Courtenay was querulous, and
wondered why Dora must needs go to Rouen ;
but Dora gave her a kiss, told her not to won-
der if she did not come in to tea, and ran up-
stairs to dress.

"But she must come in to tea," thought
Mrs. Courtenay ; " I must tell her so."

But Dora did not give her mother the op-
portunity. She slipped down-stairs unheard,
and bade Mrs. Courtenay adieu by tapping at
the parlor window as she passed it on her
way out. Mrs. Courtenay, indeed, opened the
window, and called her daughter back — in
vain. Dora had already turned the corner of
the house, and did not, or would not, hear the
summons.

" She is getting a very disobedient girl,"
thought Mrs. Courtenay, in some indignation.
" I need not wonder she behaves so badly to
Mr. Templemore when she treats me so."

But Mrs. Courtenay's wrath was never very
long-lived. It gradually calmed down, and
though she thought herself very ill-used, she
took refuge and sought for consolation in a
patience. But the pack of cards which she
had so indignantly put away out of Dora's
reach did not seem to Mrs. Courtenay a suffi-
ciently lucky one.

" I shall do it for a wish," she thought, " and
I shall take a fresh pack. If I succeed at
once, it is a proof that Mr. Templemore will
soon come and fetch us. If I have some
trouble about it, as is likely, why, then we
must wait, I suppose ; and if I fail — " Here
Mrs. Courtenay, who had risen, and was going
up-stairs for the cards, paused, with her hand
on the lock, and stood still in some perplexity.
She was not one of your bold spirits, who will
stake their all on one cast, and trust Fate with
too much, so she looked for a third alterna-
tive, which should neither be success nor
failure, and she found it in the evasive bit of
commonplace, " If I fail, it is sure proof that
Mr. Templemore knows nothing about it."

278

DORA.

But about what Mr. Templemore knew noth-
ing, or how he could possibly be ignorant of
Dora's flight, Mrs. Courtenay forgot to say to
herself, and quite triumphant at the loophole
through which she had escaped destiny, she
went up-stairs to look for her pack of cards.
To her great annoyance, she found none in her
room ; she searched up and down, but no
cards were to be got. Yet Dora had bought
her a pack — it was only yesterday. Where
had she put them ? Mrs. Courtenay entered
her daughter's room, a poor and meanly-fur-
nished one. Mrs. Courtenay's heart swelled.
"Were this low bed, with its shabby chintz
curtains, this painted chest of drawers, that
dilapidated wash-hand stand — were these fit
for the mistress of Les Roches, and the wife
of Richard Templemore ?

" She must be crazy," indignantly thought
Mrs. Courtenay ; " her Aunt Luan was mad " —
they had heard of Mrs. Luan's death — " and
Dora got it from her, and is crazy. But my
mind is quite made up — I shall wait a while
longer, then write to Mr. Templemore, and
ask him what he means by letting his wife
run away from him so. Now the cards must
be in one of these drawers. I wonder in
which ? "

Mrs. Courtenay had a natural hatred of
trouble. She tried to guess which drawer
could possibly hold the cards she was looking
for, but as none bore a label telling lookers-on
its contents, she recklessly pulled one open,
and began her search by a slow, careful sur-
vey.

Dora had taken very few things with her
from Les Roches, a fact which, when she dis-
covered it, greatly exasperated her mother.
Linen, smelling sweetly of violet powder, now
met her view ; she closed the drawer pettishly,
and tried the next. This held collars and
sleeves, and a silk dress carefully folded.
" One," angrily thought Mrs. Courtenay. She
was closing that drawer too, when a little cas-

ket caught her eye. Were the cards in that ?
It had no lock, and Mrs. Courtenay opened it
rather curiously. She saw some papers, and
recognizing Paul's writing, she put them back
with a dim eye and a trembling hand. Her
step-son had been very dear to Mrs. Courte-
nay. Another paper, which she had taken out
at the same time, fell on the floor. She picked
it up. It was an envelope, on which Dora's
hand had written, " The first and the last."

The first and the last ! What could that
mean ? The envelope was not sealed, but it
was worn, as if it had been used often. Mrs.
Courtenay did not ask herself what right she
had to pry into her daughter's secrets, she
took out the two papers which the envelope
held, and she read them both. One was a
note which Mr. Templemore had written to
Dora as Doctor Richard, the other one was
that which intimated her mother's banish-
ment. One was Hope, as she had first come
to a dreaming girl; the other was Reality,
as she had visited a sorrowful woman. And
both, though Mrs. Courtenay knew it not,
had been read daily by Dora since she left
Les Roches. Daily she had gone back with
one to the exquisite visions of the past, and
daily, too, she had been led by the other
down to the unutterable bitterness of the
present.

Mrs. Courtenay remained with the paper m
her hand till she could not see it for tears.
Then, meek and subdued in spirit as in bear-
ing, she put it back, and went down-stairs.
But neither with the old nor with a fresh pack
of cards did Mrs. Courtenay question fate un-
der the guise of a patience. She sat in her
chair, crying silently, and now and then say-
ing, in a low, broken voice, " It was for my
sake, my poor Dora ! It was all for me !"

SAINT OUEN.

279

CHAPTER LII.

Mr. Ryan's advice concerning the shares in
the Redmore Mines had been to sell out whilst
they were at a premium, and Dora had gone to
Paris for that purpose. The money had been
placed in Mrs. Courtcnay's name at a banker's
in Rouen, and her daughter had therefore but
to go and present a check to be paid. The
transaction in itself could not betray her. Not
that she cared for concealment ; she neither
sought nor shunned detection, but let events
take their course recklessly. She saw no one
whom she knew on her way to Rouen, and no
one saw her ; besides, her crape veil was thick,
and protected her from the careless observa-
tion of strangers. But the check which Mrs.
Courtenay had given her failed in some re-
quirement, and the French clerk hesitated, and
would not cash it. Seeing Dora's annoyance,
he referred the matter to the head of the estab-
lishment ; but he was out for an hour — would
Dora call again ? She said she would, and left
the house to wander about the streets of that
city in which she no longer had a home. She
shunned Notre Dame and its vicinity, and went
toward Saint Ouen. She entered the little
garden around the church, and sat there to
rest, and as she sat she thought : " We must
not stay here. Why should we ? He has for-
gotten me. I must abide by my fate, and re-
member that, such as it is, I have chosen it.
We must go back to Ireland and live there.
He has forgotten and put me by ! I shall let
him feel and know that if I gave my love un-
sought, I, too, can conquer, and, if need be,
pluck it out, and yet live on."

She could do it, but it was hard. Besides,
Dora had not expected this. Few women seem
to understand that love, even strong vehement
love, is but one of the many features in a man's
life. And Mr. Templemore had so many things
to think of! He had his child, he had his
poor, his studies, and his articles oPvertu.

Passionately though he had loved Dora, that
passion could never have absorbed him for
more than a time. He had not, indeed, borno
his wife's flight with the scornful indifference
she attributed to him; his search had been
keen, his grief had been great, but perhaps he
had given up the one in despair, and perlmps
there was a weary lull in the other ; for though
she was so near him he had failed to find her.
" He scorns me," thought Dora, with a full
heart. " Well, I do not scorn him, but I, too,
can be proud ! "

But pride is a cold comforter, and Dora felt
it. She felt, too, what we all feel at some hour
of our life, that her sorrow was too much for
her.

" What ails me ? " she thought, with a sort
of despair ; " he has deserted me, allowed me
to go my own way, what ails me, that I cannot
forget him, but must remember and suffer
on?"

What ailed her ? Alas ! this much : that
life was impetuous and exacting, that love
would not be denied, and that both were too
strong for anger or pride. Still she strove
against them. If she were not his wife, if he
had but married Florence, she thought she
would not care. But we cannot lie to our own
hearts. From the depths of her being rose a
reply :

" Do not say so ; you know that it is better
to have been loved a few days, than not to have
been loved at all. You know that it would
have been the bitterness of death to have seen
him married to Mrs. Logan, even as there is
something of the sweetness of Paradise in being
linked to him. You know that if he has
wronged you, his nature is too great and too
generous not to do you justice later — and will
there not be a foretaste of heaven in your for-
giveness and that reunion ? Think of what
his repentance will be, and remember these
days of love which he gave you — few, but per-
fect. Can anything annihilate them? Are

280

DOHA.

they not a portion of your life, the truest and
the best? What though years should pass
thus, in Tain hope and expectation ? A mo-
ment will yet come that shall crown all your
sorrow, and conquer it, a time when you too
can say to grief, " Where is thy victory — where
is thy sting ? "

Her eyes were dim with tears, but they were
tears full of softness. She looked around her.
The perennial charm of Eden seemed thrown
over the dusty garden. The noisy children,
the servant-girls, the gloomy mass of Saint
Ouen, all vanished, and if they were seen it
was with the thought —

" We will come here and study Saint Ouen,
as he once promised me in Deenah that we
should, and every sorrow and every wrong
shall be buried and forgotten — and it will be
Paradise — Paradise ! "

Delicious was the day-dream, but very brief.
Voices talking behind her roused Dora. She
awoke with a sigh, but yet did not feel all
unhappy. The gates of Eden were only just
closed, and its sweetness lingered around her
still.

"Now, where are they?" said a sharp ir-
ritable voice, a woman's in English. " Gussy,
come here directly."

" I never heard anything like it," said an-
other voice, feminine too; "how many weeks
has his wife been dead ? "

" Not merely dead, but drowned. It was
her cousin, that stupid Doctor Luan, who
knew her," says Florence. " Gussy, stay here.
Do you think these Grays handsome? "

" Handsome ! they have not got a nose
among them all. I wish they would not stare
so at Saint Ouen. I do think, like Florence,
that it is an old bore."

" How could she make up her mind to be
a third wife ? "

" Oh ! it was she whom he was to have
married, you know ; only he committed a
mistake, and took his daughter's governess

to church, instead of poor Flo. — I shall box
your ears, Gussy ! "

They now came forward, and stood in front
of Dora : two specimens of the English femi-
nine traveller and sight-seer, carrying a little
stock of scandal with them, as the ancient
journeyer carried his gods wherever he went.

" And is he married yet ? " asked one of
the pair.

The owner of Gussy smiled, and whilst that
smile passed across her face, Dora felt as if
her heart had ceased to beat.

" Not yet," she answered, " he went off
suddenly in his wild way a few days back, and
poor Flo is distracted. Miss Moore took
scarlatina, and the child took it from her.
She thinks he went for the diamonds."

The rest of the party joined them ; they all
moved on. They went talking and laughing
all the way, and leaving a wrecked happiness
behind them !

How often do we feel this in life ! How
often, when a heavy blow comes, do we think,
" Ah ! the rest was nothing ! This was the
crowning catastrophe, the shipwreck, the last
cause beyond which there is no appeal." If
she could but have doubted — but it was not
in her power to do so. His name had not
been mentioned, nor Mrs. Logan's, for Flor-
ence might belong to any one, and yet a
certainty, against which she could not strive,
entered her very soul and tortured it. He
thought her dead, how or why mattered not —
he thought it. There lay the full explana-
tion of his silence. Alas ! she . had never
thought of that. She had imagined that the
voluntary forgetfulness of a bitter resentment
weighed upon her. She had not thought that
the cold oblivion of the grave already lay be-
tween her and her husband. He had for-
given her, she was sure of it now — her ima-
ginary sins were buried in the mercy we ex-
tend to the dead. She was no more his wife,
erring, indeed, but warm and living — she was

THE FALSE EPITAPH.

281

that something impalpable and unseen, against
which \vc can cherish no resentment. That
thin veil, so thin, but so chill, which divides
us even from the most beloved, had spread
between her and him, and so his love had
returned — oh ! what wonder ! — to the fond,
childish Florence, the chosen one of his heart,
and, after a decent time given for mourning,
they would marry and be blest at last.

This fair future she must now break. A
second time she must be the cause of Mr.
Templemore's grief. Perhaps this thought
overpowered her — perhaps the consciousness
that her death had been welcomed as a de-
liverance was too much for her fortitude. She
did not faint, she did not even lose conscious-
ness, but when the sense of reality at last
came back to her, she saw that a silent and
wondering crowd had gathered around her.
She looked vacantly at a woman's face, and
saying, in a cold, monotonous voice, " I was
unwell, but I am well now," she rose and
walked away.

As fast as her limbs could bear her, she
walked through the streets ; with the eager-
ness of a lover going to a trysting-place, she
hurried to meet her bitter woe. If happiness
has its fever, so has sorrow — a cruel fever,
which drives us on and spares not. A pre-
sentiment, strong as a certainty, told Dora
that she would find the confirmation of the
fatal tidings she had heard on her aunt's
grave, and it did not deceive her. Day was
declining as she entered the cemetery. She
passed through the wooden crosses, and stone
and marble slabs, till she reached Mrs. Luan's
last resting-place. Yes, there it was, written
beneath Mrs Luan's name :

|it Ulcmoriant,

DOPvA COURTENAY.

This was her epitaph. No date of birth or
death, for one was shameful ; no record of
marriage, for it had been ill-fated ; nothing

but that name which was hers no longer, and
yet was the ouly one by which John Luan
would remember her. For it was he who had
had that "Dora Courtenay" inscribed — he,
and not Mr. Templemore, who had outlived
her loss, as he had survived that of Florence,
and had gone to get the diamonds for his
third nuptials !

"Surely these graves ought to calm me,"
thought Dora, looking round her ; " surely the
dead, who sleep here so soundly, admonish
me, if I but heard them."

But the dead were silent, or their voices
were very low, for when Dora left them they
had taught her nothing.

Her first words, when she entered the room
where her mother sat, alone and sad, were,
" How cold it is ! "

" How pale and ill you look ! " said Mrs.
Courtenay.

"Yes — it is so cold," replied Dora, shivering.

" Dora ! " exclaimed her mother, rising,
" you must go back to your husband ! "

" Go back to him !" impetuously exclaimed
Dora.

" Yes, you must. I know all. I know
why you left him — I feel sure he is broken-
hearted — "

" Broken-hearted ! " interrupted Dora ; " do
you know that he thinks me dead, that there
is a talk of his marrying Mrs. Logan, and that
I have just read my own name inscribed on
poor Aunt Luan's grave ? Yes, weeds are
beginning to choke the flowers John set there,
I suppose ; but my name is on it, and Mr.
Templemore is a widower, and he is going to
marry Mrs. Logan."

. Mrs. Courtenay stared confounded. Nothing
could exceed her amazement when Dora told
her all she knew, unless it was her indigna-
tion, when her daughter added, recklessly :

" Yes, it is so ; and yet, mamma, I am going
back to day to Les Roches."

" You are going to leave me ! " cried Mrs.

282

DORA.

Courtenay, and, leaning back in her chair, she
gazed with a look full of dismay on her
daughter, who stood before her very pale, but
very calm.

"I cannot help it," replied Dora, with a
quivering lip. " He has forgotten me ; he
thinks me dead ; he is going to marry Mrs.
Logan, they say ; but, for all that, I must go.
I am his wife, and when I married him I un-
dertook to be the mother of his child. If he
were with her, I should write and merely tell
him I am alive, for, you see, I would rather
not read in his face what he must feel on see-
ing me ; but I cannot help myself. Eva is
left to the care of servants, or to that, scarcely
better, of Mrs. Logan. I must be true to the
child, who was always so true to me ! "

" Yes, and Mr. Templemore will come back
and keep you ! " querulously said Mrs. Cour-
tenay.

"He may not come back before Eva is
well," replied Dora ; " and surely," she added,
very sadly, " he has shown no wish to keep
me, mamma."

" But I say that he will keep you," persisted
Mrs. Courtenay, who was now in tears, " and
then what is to become of me ?"

Dora knelt before her mother, and, clasping
Mrs. Courtenay's waist, she looked up fondly
in her face.

"No one shall keep me from you," she
said, with a smile. " If Mr. Templemore locks
the doors I shall get out of the window. And
I will come back — I will come back ! "

Mrs. Courtenay looked down at her wist-
fully, but she still thought : " I know he will
keep Dora."

Her daughter had no such fear. She had
never felt very sure of her husband's affection,
and since the great bitterness which had divided
them, she had felt that his love was gone from
her, never to return. There was pain, there
was humiliation in the thought of now sroin"'
back to his house ; and Dora had said it truly,

she did it for the child. But Mrs. Courtenay
thought, as she saw her depart : " She is still
fond of him."

CHAPTER LIII.

The grayness of twilight was stealing over
the road when Dora reached the gates of Les
Roches. She had alighted and sent away the
carriage that brought her at a little distance
from the house ; but short though that dis-
tance was, Dora felt as if her limbs could
scarcely bear her thus far, and she had to
pause and recover her breath, and compose
herself before she went in. The gates were
open ; the porter was not even in the lodge.
No one was visible, but, looking up, Dora saw
lights in Eva's room, and in Miss Moore's. She
went up the flight of steps and entered the
house without meeting any one ; but as she
reached the door that led to the suite of rooms
she and Eva had occupied before her marriage,
it opened, and one of the maids came out with
a light in her hand. At first the girl only saw
Dora's figure in the gloomy passage.

"Who's that ? " she asked, sharply.

"Without waiting for a reply, she raised her
handle. The light flashed across Dora's pale
face. The girl saw and recognized her ; for a
moment terror held her mute, then, uttering a
faint scream, she dropped the candlestick and
fled down the staircase. Her cry roused
Jacques, who was in the room she had just left.
He came out as Dora, composedly picking up
the candlestick, was going to enter her old
apartment. Jacques' nerves were naturally
strong, and had just then been strengthened
by a cordial of which he and the housemaid
had been partaking before Dora's unexpected
appearance. On seeing his late mistress he
looked bewildered and confused, and uttered a
deep " Oh ! " but when Dora addressed him,
and said calmly, " How is Miss Eva ? " Jacques
was able to reply, though still with a wild stare

MRS. TEMPLEMORE'S RETURN.

283

at this dead woman who had so unexpectedly
come back to life :

" Mademoiselle Eva is very well — very bad,
I mean."

" Is she conscious ? " asked Dora, fearing
lest her sudden appearance should agitate or
over-alarm the child.

Jacques shook hi3 head. It was plain that
there was very Utile consciousness to be ap-
prehended from Mr. Templemore's little daugh-
ter.

" Take that light," said Dora, handing it to
him as she spoke. * Her other hand was ex-
tended toward the lock of Eva's door ; but
Jacques, with a boldness and freedom he had
never shown before, stepped in front of her,
and effectually checked her entrance.

" Mademoiselle must excuse me," he said ;
" but I think mademoiselle had better not go
in now."

The blood rushed up to Dora's face, and
dyed it crimson. It was not possible that her
husband had given orders to deny her to his
child. Her blush and her silence confirmed
Jacques in his suspicion.

" I dare say that mademoiselle can see Made-
moiselle Eva to-morrow," he continued com-
posedly, and laying a slight stress on the word*
that proclaimed Dora unwedded ; " but she had
better not see her now."

" Where is Mr. Templemore ? " asked Dora.
" Monsieur is away, and that is just it. He
left no orders about mademoiselle."

This time Dora understood the insult. She
reddened again with mingled indignation and
shame ; but she scorned to acknowledge the
taunt, and it was composedly that she said :

"The-master of the house has no need to
leave orders about its mistress, Jacques. Let
me pass ! "

There was something in the flash of her
eye, something in the quiet gesture of her
hand, which Jacques, accustomed as he was
to obey and to recognize empire, could not

disregard. Yet he struggled against the very
feeling that made him step aside and give way
to Dora, and with something like remonstra-
tive sullenness in his tone, he said —

" Madame Logan is there."

Dora's heart sickened within her. This
w r as her welcome home. Mr. Templemore's
servants insulted her, and the woman he loved
had forestalled her, and taken her place by
her husband's child. But keen though the
pang was, it was also brief; and her look as
it fell on Jacques said so expressively, " What
about it ? " that the man replied in a tone of
excuse :

" I thought I had better tell madame."

This time he thought it better to drop the
offensive " mademoiselle." Without further
parley, Dora went up to the sick-room. She
opened the door and closed it again so noise-
lessly, that her entrance was not heard by
Mrs. Logan. A look showed Dora that Flor-
ence was not alone. She stood at some little
distance from Eva's white cot, talking to no
less a person than Doctor Petit. The very
man whom Mr. Templemore so much objected
to had been called in to attend on his sick
child ! The light of a night lamp fell full on
Mrs. Logan's pretty face, and showed it to be
full of concern. She raised her little dark
eyebrows, and gathered her rosy lips with an
assumption of grave anxiety which might be
yielded as much to decorum as to real uneasi-
ness. At least, even in that moment Dora
thought so.

" And so you are uneasy, Doctor Petit ! "
she said, with a look between perplexity and
trouble ; " really this is a great responsibility
upon me, and I do wish that poor dear Miss
Moore would recover, or that Mr. Temple-
more would return. Indeed, I wish both."

" My only uneasiness is lest my orders
should not be attended to," scntentiously said
Doctor Petit. " Let my orders be attended
to, and I answer for the result."

284

DORA.

" Yes, but suppose your orders should not
be attended to ! " pettishly retorted Florence ;
" I cannot be everywhere, can I ? — and the re-
sponsibility is all the same. So I do wish, I
do, Mr. Templemore would come back ! "

As she uttered the words, she happened to
turn round slightly. Dora stood before her,
silent and rather pale, but with all the signs
of life about her. Oa seeing her, Josephine
had uttered a cry of terror, and Jacques had
looked bewildered and amazed ; but it was
blank dismay which appeared on Mrs. Logan's
face as her rival thus returned from the grave to
confront her. She stepped back, and clutched
the doctor's arm, and gasped for breath, but
she could not speak. Dora looked at her
with sorrowful severity. She knew what feel-
ing had brought Florence to Eva's sick-bed.
It was not love for the child, it was not kind-
ness or pity — it was the secret hope of win-
ning back a past which her own act had for-
feited — of conquering anew her lost lover, and
perhaps, too, the master of Deenah and Les
Roches.

" I am sorry to startle you, Mrs. Logan,"
she said, with much composure. " I believe
a rumor of my death has been spread, and I
can see that it has reached you. But, as you
may perceive, I am not dead, but living, and
on learning Eva's illness, I came at once. —
May I ask, sir," she said, addressing Doctor
Petit in French, " what you think of the
child's state ? I trust you are not uneasy ? "
Doctor Petit did not answer at once. Mrs.
Logan's agitation had struck him as very
singular ; he looked at her for some clew to
guide him, but she had sunk down on a chair
pale as death, and her emotion was unintel-
ligible to him ; so, looking at Dora, he said,
point-blank :

" May I know whom I have the honor of
addressing ? "

" I am Mr. Templemore's wife, and Eva's
step-mother," simply replied Dora.

Doctor Petit bowed, but looked more sur-
prised than impressed — indeed, if Mrs. Logan's
silence had not confirmed Dora's words, he
would probably have looked incredulous ; but
as no denial came from that quarter, he was
compelled to believe this stranger. As he
had heard, however, that Mrs. Templemore
had left her husband's house very suddenly,
and as he had no sort of conception of the
degree. of authority which Mr. Templemore
would yield to her, were he to come back,
there was just a touch of polite supercilious-
ness in his reply :

" I am uneasy — slightly so, I confess it, but
still I am uneasy. Nevertheless," he added,
turning to Florence, " I do hope, as I was
telling you, madame, that, with care and
attention to my orders, the child will do."

And he drew on his gloves, and looked for
his hat, evidently considering Mrs. Logan as
the person from whom he drew his mandate,
and ignoring Mr. Templemore's wife.

Florence now roused herself from the stupor
into which Dora's appearance had thrown her,
and scarcely knowing, perhaps, what she was
saying, she repeated mechanically her previous
words :

" It is such a responsibility. I do wish, I
do, that Mr. Templemore would come back ! "
Dora looked from one to the other, and
she thought, with much bitterness :

" I have deserved this. On the day when
I left this house I brought all this on myself;
then I must bear it — I must bear it ! " So
her look remained calm, and the tones of her
voice were low and even as she addressed
Doctor Petit, and said, " I am much obliged
to you, sir, for the care you have bestowed
on the child, and I hope you will have the
kindness to continue your attendance."

" I shall call again to-morrow morning,"
said Doctor Petit, rather more graciously —
" indeed, and spite the great distance, I have
called twice daily, as madame knows."

AT EYA'S SICK-BED.

285

" I am much obliged to you," said Dora
again ; " but you -will not take it amiss, I
hope, if I call in one of your brethren, Doctor
Leroux, who usually attends on Eva, to assist
you."

Doctor Petit looked as if he did take this
very much amiss, and he said, rather stiffly,
that he would have no objection to hold a
consultation on Eva's case with Doctor Leroux.
"Though," he added, with marked emphasis,
" I cannot say I think it at all necessary."

" That is not my meaning," resumed Dora ;
" I wish Doctor Leroux to conduct this case
with you. And, indeed, on my way here I
left word for him to call."

Doctor Petit looked astounded.

"Madarae!" he said, with some heat,
" this is inflicting a very unnecessary affront
upon me. You must know that I can con-
sent to nothing of the kind, and your pro-
posal leaves me no alternative but to with-
draw altogether."

" But you must not withdraw ! " cried Flor-
ence, turning crimson, and wholly forgetting
how painful she had found her previous state
of responsibility, " / cannot allow it. I am
answerable to Miss Moore for the child's life."

" And I to her father," interrupted Dora,
with a slight flush on her pale cheek.

" Well, Mrs. Templemore," retorted Flor-
ence, speaking very fast, " you will acknowl-
edge that Eva was not left in your care."

" Was she left in yours, Mrs. Logan ? "

" She was left to the care of Miss Moore,
and all I have done has been done with .Miss
Moore's wish and authority."

She spoke triumphantly, and Dora felt the
force of the argument. Eva had not indeed
been left in her care, and she did not know
but her husband would resent her interference,
even as he might be displeased with her
return. But memory, crossing the bitter
chasm that now divided them, showed her a
face full of concern. To that she trusted.

" I acknowledge Miss Moore's claims," she
said, answering Mrs. Logan, "but Mr. Tem-
plemore's are greater still, and I act in his
name."

Mrs. Logan was going to reply, for having
always plenty to say, and being troubled with
no sense of dignity, she was not one to be
easily silenced ; but Doctor Petit interfered,
and with a quiet wave of his hand, said
loftily :

" I beg, madame, you will have the good-
ness to say no more. It is impossible, after
what has passed, that I should continue to
attend on this unfortunate child; but, in
justice to myself, I must say this : she is
now progressing favorably ; if, therefore, any
casualty should occur, I wish it to be well
understood that the blame cannot rest upon
me."

He moved toward the door, but Florence
attempted to detain him.

" I cannot allow this," she said, " I really
cannot. Miss Moore called you in, she is
Eva's aunt, and she left the child in my care,
and I cannot allow this ! "

She spoke angrily and fast, but Dora said
not a word to detain Doctor Petit, or to alter
his resolve, and if he had the misfortune of
being a very bad doctor, he was neither a
servile nor a mean man.

" It is quite useless, madame," he said, ad-
dressing Florence ; " I am not accustomed to
such treatment, and will not tolerate it. Ma-
dame, being the child's step-mother, no doubt
has the greatest and the strongest right to
dictate on this matter ; only I think I might
have been treated with more courtesy ? "

"I meant and mean no discourtesy," here
remarked Dora, "but knowing what my hus-
I mud's wish would be, I must obey it."

" I wash my hands of the result," said Doc-
tor Petit, with a slight sneer, "and I have the
honor to wish you a good-evening."

Florence saw him to the door, then came

286

DORA.

back, her eyes sparkling with tears of anger
and mortification.

"Well, Dora," she said, "you have again
prevailed against me ; but if this child dies,
Mr. Templemore shall know that you came
back to prevent her from being saved. How
dare you do it ? " she asked impetuously,
" how dare you do it ? "

" And how dare you forget that the child
is mine ? " asked Dora, with a quivering lip.
" On the day he married me he gave her to
me. I asked him for her, and I got her. He
gave himself too on that day, but if he has
withdrawn one gift," she added, in a failing
voice, " as I dare say you know, Florence, he
has not yet taken back the other," she said,
pointing to the little low bed. "Besides, I
have another right. You had, perhaps you
still have, the father's heart; but even you
must confess that I have always had the child's.
And now pray let this cease — let there be
silence and peace about that poor little sick-
bed. Let there be no bitterness between us.
The two men whom I have most loved — my
brother — my husband, have preferred you to
me. Leave me the child, Florence — leave me
the child. But for my aunt and you, I should
be Dora Courtenay still. Remember that, and
grudge me not a position and a name which
have cost me so dear, that when I read today
my own epitaph on poor Aunt Luan's grave, I
wished it were true — I wished I were lying
there with her, away from all the bitterness
which made me leave this house, and which I
find in it on my return. Remember Paul,
Florence — remember him, and let there be
peace between us."

For once Mrs. Logan was affected ; for once
Dora had found the way to her heart. Paul
Courtenay's name brought the tears to her
eyes. She had not loved him very much ; but
such as it was, this love of her youth had been
the only disinterested affection of her life. It
had not stood the test of poverty, but money

had not helped its birth. And Paul Courtenay
had loved very faithfully. No second love had
effaced her image there, and she knew it.

" Poor Paul ! " she said, taking out her
handkerchief — " poor Paul ! I was very sorry
for him, and it made Mr. Logan in such a way
with me. But then you know, Dora, it is me"
— Mrs. Logan did not care much for grammar
— "and not you, whom Mr. Templemore
should have married. You will acknowledge
that, I am sure."

"She never liked him — never," thought
Dora, looking at her in wonder, "or she could
not stand there talking so to me, his wife."

But she did not think it needful to answer
Mrs. Logan's strange remark. She had sat
down by Eva's cot, and she was looking at
the child. Eva's dark eyes glittered with
fever, but she did not recognize her former gov-
erness.

" And how you can take the frightful re-
sponsibility you are now taking with Eva is
\nore than I can imagine," pettishly resumed
Florence ; " besides, you really have behaved
abominably to Doctor Petit. I am quite cer-
tain Mr. Templemore will be so angry," she
added, raising her eyebrows, to give her words
more emphasis.

Still Dora was silent. She was thinking
what a difference Nature had placed between
her and this woman. How one was made to
float down the stream of grief, which nearly
submerged the other. S7ie would never have
let her husband go, if it broke her heart that
he should leave her ; she could never have left
his house, however much his indifference bad
stung her. If her folly led her into trouble,
it would at least have saved her from such
calamity as had fallen to Dora's lot.

" On one thing, however, lam determined,"
resumed Mrs. Logan, getting angry at Dora's
silence, " that Miss Moore shall have the medi-
cal attendant she prefers, and that Mr. Tem-
plemore shall know the truth."

EVA'S RECOVERY DOUBTFUL.

287

"You are very welcome," replied Dora,
with such evident weariness of this conversa-
tion that Mrs. Logan became scarlet, and giving
her an indignant glance, darted out of the
room.

CHAPTER LIV.

The door had scarcely closed on Mrs. Logan,
when Doctor Leroux was announced, and shown
in by Jacques. Dora's face lit on seeing him.
It was a relief to escape from the bitter thoughts
Florence had left after her. She went up to
him and said eagerly :

" Eva is ill again ; but Doctor Petit, who
was attending upon her — "

" Then why did you send for me ? " sharply
interrupted Doctor Leroux.

" Because I know Mr. Templemore has no
faith in him, and every faith in you ; he has
left me affronted, but I cannot help that ; and
where the child's life may be the cost, I can-
not mind courtesy — nor will you, I trust, mind
professional etiquette."

She spoke with some uneasiness, but it was
causeless. Doctor Leroux was a rich man, and
for etiquette of any kind he cared naught. His
wealth placed him above the suspicion of wish-
ing to secure a patient by unworthy means ;
and as he entertained a profound contempt for
Doctor Fetit's skill, and a high respect for his
own, he made no scruple of taking a patient
from him in the hour of peril. So without
further parley he approached Eva's bed, and
looked at the child. Dora \ea.i his face anx-
iously, and its gravity filled her with concern.

" Well ? " she said at length.

" Well, it will be a miracle if we save her,"
replied Doctor Leroux, with some bitterness ;
and internally he added, " Fetit's mark is upon
her."

Fearful, indeed, is this power over life which
the ignorant and unskilful possess, as well as
the learned and the gifted, all the more fearful

that the guilty man is generally unconscious
of his guilt.

Doctor Fetit, whatever may be his name or
his country — whether he command a ship, a
forlorn hope, a company, or rule by a sick-bed,
is our greatest enemy, if we but knew it. Ask
the soldiers whose bones bleach on the battle-
field, the sailors who have gone down with a
despairing cry, the men and women whose
homes are ruined, the mourners whose hearts
are broken by the death of a loved one — ask
them how they have fared through their trust
in him, and be warned. The thief, the mur-
derer, even, are less dangerous than the man
whose claims to knowledge you cannot control,
and whose ignorance you can only learn at
your bitter cost.

At first Dora felt stunned ; but rallying at
length, she said :

" It is impossible ! You cannot mean to say
that the child must die, Doctor Leroux ? "

" Not that she must, but that she may," he
replied, somewhat shortly.

Dora looked at Eva. It was not and it could
not be mother's love she felt for that poor
little sufferer, and therefore hers was not a
mother's bitter agony. But the knowledge
that this little creature, motherless, and for the
time, too, fatherless, was dying, pierced her
heart. She had loved the child, and the child,
too, had loved her. Eva had been a tie be-
tween her and her husband. She had brought
Dora back to his home when nothing else, it
seemed to her, could have done it — and now
that gentle and tender bond must soon be
broken. They would stand apart without that
loving link, and they could not even meet by
Eva's grave.

" He would not believe in my grief," thought
Dora ; " and he shall not see it to doubt it.
When Eva is dead — if she must die, indeed — I
shall leave this house again, and this time all
will be surely over forever ! "

But must the child die ? It seemed so hard.

288

DORA.

Doctor Leroux was gone, and Dora sat by Eva's
cot, holding Eva's little wasted hand in her
own, and she could not believe it. Oh ! if
there were but power in love to keep those
loved beings who go away from us so surely,
whether their leave-taking be swift or slow !
" Stay with me," Dora longed to say — " stay
with me, my darMng ! I never can tell you my
trouble, but still you will comfort it. There is
more consolation in a child's loving kiss than
in all men and women can say to prove that
one ought not to mourn. Oh ! if I could but
keep you ! — if I but could ! " And then to
think that this tender little being must really
die and be put in the cold damp earth, there
to moulder away, with all its beauty prema-
turely destroyed, and the sweet promises of
youth forever unfulfilled ! The thought filled
Dora's heart with pity as well as with sorrow.
Every caress she had received from the child —
every fond, endearing word which had been ex-
changed between them in those hours when
Dora was no longer the governess and Eva the
pupil, came back and inflicted its pang upon
her. " I never could have left this house if
she had been in it ! " she thought — "never ! "
Then came the thought of what it would be
when the child was gone — how empty, how
silent, how cold ! And so vivid were these
images — so painfully real did imagination make
them — that Dora grasped Eva's hand till the
child opened her heavy eyes and looked won-
deringly at her step-mother. She had no
knowledge of death, and no fear of the de-
stroyer. He might come and steal her away,
and she would yield to him with the meek un-
consciousness of her years. She would never
suspect or know that there was a power
stronger by far than that of the kind hand
which now held hers.

" Cousin Dora," she said, with a suddenness
that startled Dora, "when is Dr. Petit coming
back ? "

" What do you want him for, Eva? "

" I don't like Doctor Leroux."

But the words were spoken faintly, and she
fell back into her old languor.

" The very child is against me," thought
Dora. Her heart sickened within her as, re-
membering the strife she had already gone
through, she foresaw another trial, more cruel
still. What if, seeing matters through the
bitterness of his altered feelings, Mr. Temple-
more should lay the death of his child to her
door ? He might not say it, indeed, but she
would read it in his eyes, and would not that
be hard indeed ? " Since Doctor Leroux can-
not promise to save the child," she thought,
" would it not be better for me that I had
never come here, or had left her to the other
man's care? He said he could save her ; and
who knows — oh ! who knows, perhaps he
could ! — perhaps it is true I am killing her ! "

The thought was so exquisitely painful, that
Dora dropped Eva's hand and left the side of
the little cot. She went to the window, leaned
against the glass-pane, and cried as if her
heart would break. Two thoughts were with
her, and either was very hard to bear. One,
that there was little or no hope of saving Eva ;
the other, that, believing her to be dead, Mrs.
Logan and her husband had indulged in hopes,
felt or spoken — it mattered not — which her
return must needs dispel.

" He believes me to be dead, and be will
find me to be living," thought Dora. " He
hopes to marry Florence, and he will learn
that he is still bound to me. I am the bitter-
ness and the clog of his life. The dark cloud,
which ever comes between the sun of happi-
ness and him!" As this secret voice spoke
to her in such bitter language, Dora asked
herself, with something like passion, why she
was tried so cruelly. Why was her life a
double burden — to herself first, then to him ?
And she felt so strong, so free from disease,
so full of vitality ! It seemed to her as if she
could live, forever. " I dare say I shall sur-

A TELEGRAM FOR MR. TEMPLEMORE.

289

vive them both," she thought ; " they will die,
and I shall live on into dreary old age, forgot-
ten by death, as I have been forgotten by
love."

Bitter, indeed, was the thought, and nothing
came to soften its bitterness. Eva was worse
the next morning, and Doctor Petit pronounced
Miss Moore out of danger. His verdict, in-
deed, might have beeu doubtful, but she asked
to see Dora, and her appearance fully con-
firmed her medical attendant's assertion.

" Mrs. Templemore," said Miss Moore, with
some energy, " what do you mean by tam-
pering so with my niece ? — what do you
mean ?"

Dora did not answer at once. She looked
from the sick lady in her bed to Florence, who
had taken out her handkerchief, and was
weeping* behind it, and she tried to say
calmly:

"I did all for the best, Miss Moore — I
followed, as I believed, Mr. Templemore's
wishes."

" But it was to me Mr. Templemore left my
niece," argued Miss Moore ; " and you take ad-
vantage of me and my illness to get hold of
her, Miss Courtenay."

" Mrs. Templemore," corrected Dora.

" Yes, I know you arc his wife," impatiently
retorted Miss Moore; "you need not taunt
me with it."

" I mean no taunt, Miss Moore ; but it is
because I am his wife that I have a right over
his child."

Miss Moore looked helplessly at Mrs. Logan,
who had withdrawn her handkerchief, and
was tapping her foot impatiently. Dora read
that look very easily — it meant, " I have done
my best, you see, but I cannot help myself."
Indeed, Miss Moore's next remark was to that
purpose.

" Well, Mrs. Templemore," she said, " I am

not able to save poor Eva from you and that

Doctor Leroux ; but, remember," she added,
19

weeping, "remember, that if I lose my sis-
ter's child, I shall hold yon guilty."

" I cannot accept that guilt, Miss Moore ;
life and death are not in my power, and I have
still hope that Eva may be saved."

Miss Moore tossed restlessly in her bed ;
Mrs. Logan looked indignant, and, after a
brief pause, Dora withdrew and went back to
Eva. She had left Josephine with the child,
and she found the girl inclined to remain and
be communicative, especially on the subject
of Fanny.

" Madame may believe me," she said, confi-
dently, " but I never believed in that demoi-
selle with her blue eyes. I always told Jacques
she was deceitful ; and when she came back
and said Madame Courtenay was dead, and
took away all madame's letters and things, I
said to Jacques, ' I do not like that ; and I do
not believe madame sent that Mademoiselle
Fanny back.' Jacques will not grant it now,
but I said it ; and I never believed madame
was really dead, for, you see, monsieur never
went into mourning, nor never said a word.
Only Madame Logan's maid said it to Jacques,
who told me ; but no one told monsieur, who
went about looking so grave and so stern ;
but servants must be careful, as madame
knows, and not repeat every word they hear.
And I have always been discreet," continued
Josephine, adding, with an abrupt transition,
" I can make dresses too, and trim caps quite
prettily. Mademoiselle Fanny took many a
hint from me. For being English, you know,
1 not the right. knack which we French
have."

" Josephine wants to be my maid," thought
Dora, with a sigh ; " poor girl, she does not
know my reign is over. I am still queen, of
course, but where is my kingdom ? And who
and what shall I be in this house if poor little
Eva dies ? "

"She is thinking over it," conjectured Jose-
phine, watching Dora's pensive face; "I did

290

DOHA.

well to tell her about trimming caps. Madame
Courtenay always was particular about her
caps."

And Dora, whose thoughts were far away,
saw a sad image of herself going back alone
to the poor house where Mrs. Courtenay was
waiting; whilst Eva slept in her little grave,
and Mr. Templemore brooded over his grief in
Les Roches.

CHAPTEE LV.

The concierge in the Hotel Rue de Rivoli
was leaning back in his chair, and looking pen-
sively at a telegram which lay on the table be-
fore him. It had been lying there seven days,
and had not been claimed as yet by Mr. Tem-
plemore. Was this a second edition of that
gentleman's mysterious disappearance ? The
concierge thought so, and was rounding off a
period, when again Mr. Templemore spoiled
his story by suddenly coming forward. A
clew to the truth which he had not ceased to
seek had taken him suddenly from Les Roches
to a place beyond Paris, but it had proved
vain, and he was coming to the Hotel to spend
the night there on his way home, when the
concierge, recognizing him, rose, and said with
much alacrity :

" We were afraid something had happened
to monsieur. This dispatch has been lying
here for monsieur no less than seven days."

Mr. Templemore's color fled as he heard
him. Who could send a dispatch to this
place, save Miss Moore, and what could she
send it for but to give evil tidings of Eva '?
He tore the paper open with a trembling hand ;
but his heart sickened as he read it. The
telegram was sent by Doctor Petit, and that
g< ntleman informed him that Miss Moore and
her niece were both ill of scarlatina; that he,
Doctor Petit, was attending upon them, and
that though there was danger, he hoped to get
them through.

Mr. Templemore stood with the paper in
his hand, stunned with a grief so unexpected.
That Eva should be ill was ever possible, but
that she should fall into the hands he most
dreaded had always seemed out of the ques-
tion ; and now this dreadful evil had come to
pass, and for seven days bis child had been in
the power of Doctor Petit. All might be well,
or all might be over by this. Mr. Temple-
more asked for a railway guide. The last
train left for Rouen at seven, and it was half-
past six now. There was no time to send a
telegram to Les Roches and receive the an-
swer before the departure of the train. He
must go at once, go with the agony of that
doubt upon him, or Avait till the following
day to save Eva from Doctor Petit's ruthless
hands !

Within ten minutes to seven Mr. Temple-
more was in the waiting-room of the Havre
station, and whilst his eager eyes sought the
hand of the railway clock, and his heart sick-
ened with impatience, very bitter were Mr.
Templemore's thoughts. Yes, all might be
over now. Eva might be dead by this. The
disease which he had dreaded most of all for
her might have robbed him of his last child,
as it had of her two little sisters. The enemy
had come while he was away seeking for one
who had all but replaced his child in his
heart. "If I had been with Eve I should at
least have saved her from Petit," he thought.
" Oh ! Dora ! Dora ! must you cost me so dear
as this ? "

There was a double agony in the feeling.
Then swiftly other thoughts rushed through
his mind. The mother whom he had given to
his little girl had proved faithless. Alas !
they had both been faithless, father and
adopted mother too. Love and wrath had
been fatal alike to Eva, and the innocent
child's life must pay for a passion of which
childhood has no conception.

Only a fnw people were waiting for the ex-

TIIE RAILWAY JOURNEY.

291

press-train, but amongst them was a young
English matron with children, a nursery-maid,
and a whole array of small baskets, and toys,
and worrying parcels. Mr. Templemore walked
to the other end of the waiting-room, in order
not to see this happy group. That woman
had four children, and he, who had but one,
might soon be childless. There would be joy
in her home for many years, while his might
be hushed and silent. He was not envious,
he wished her no evil, but he could not look
on her happiness. The sight was one, how-
ever, which he could not escape. One of the
children, a little girl, ran past him, to jump
into the arms of a gentleman, who kissed her
and joined the group. He was evidently the
father and husband. " Why did I not meet
Dora years ago ? " thought Mr. Templemore,
in the bitterness of his heart. " She would
have been Eva's mother, and all would have
been well. There never could have been uri-
kindness between us with such a tie. And
Dora would never have left her child's home
as she left her husband's — never ! "

These travellers made themselves at home,
English fashion, and spoke loud and freely
together. Tiny — such was the little girl's
name — made daring attempts on one of the
baskets holding biscuits. The nurse scolded,
but Tiny, defiant sinner, only laughed, and
throwing back her golden curls, got up on her
smiling mother's knee and hugged her. The
child was young and fair, wholly unlike the
dark-eyed Eva ; but many a time Mr. Temple-
more had seen his little daughter thus in
Dora's arms, caressing and fond, and now,
looking at this strange mother and child, he
also remembered something that had occurred
during his hurried journey from Deenah to
Les Roches with Dora. Conquered by fatigue,
he had fallen asleep one night in the railway
carriage. When he woke in the gray morn-
ing Dora was sleeping too, and he found that,
unconsciously, he had laid his head upon her

shoulder. Then, as the carriage still moved
on, and he saw the deep purple plains in the
faint light of dawn, the thought came to him
how often his child's innocent head had rested
where his now lay, and how often again, as he
hoped, he should see ber clasped to that kind
heart. It had been one of his troubles to
know that Eva would never love Florence, and
now it was a joy to feel that he could hold
these two, Dora and the child, in one love,
undivided. He gently moved away, and Dora
awakening, asked what was the next station.
He told her, but he did not say how this little
incident seemed to have given his brief mar-
ried life some of the sweetness which only
comes with years ; and how this girl, who had
been his wife but a fortnight, was already to
him as the mother of his child.

Again Mr. Ternplemore felt he could not
look on, and he turned his head away. He
could not help Joving Dora, whatever hap-
pened ; but if Eva died, grief, remorse, and a
child's grave would be between him and Dora,
ay, even though she never left his side again.
Could he forget that if he had not been within
call in the hour of danger, she was the cause ;
could he forget that some strange woman, and
not his wife, was now with his sick and dying
child?

At last the wooden barrier was opened, and
the travellers hastened to the row of carriages
with the loud impatient hissing engine at the
head. Five minutes more and they were in
motion, first panting, then flying through the
country. The suburbs melted away into a
green landscape. The Seine gleamed, then
disappeared, then came again to sight, villages
were seen, then towns, then fields and or-
chards. Then towns once more in the autumn
sunset, and still they went on, and Mr. Tem-
plemore thought they would never reach their
goal. At length the hills which surrounded
Rouen came in view, then the spires of the old
Gothic city rose in the darkness of the night,

292

DORA.

and Mr. Templemore felt he must prepare for
the worst.

There were two ways of reaching Les
Roches. Mr. Templemore chose the shortest.
A carriage took him up a steeper path than
the winding road which led to the chateau,
and being unable to proceed any farther, left
him within fifty yards of the wooden door in
the. boundary wall. Mr. Templemore paid and
dismissed the cabman without a word. The
man looked after him curiously. He saw him
take out a key, and heard him open the door
and enter, locking the door after him.

" They have their troubles too," he thought,
making his horses turn. " They have trees
and gardens, and houses, but they have their
troubles too."

Swiftly, yet with the fear of death at his
heart, Mr. Templemore went on through the
dark paths. At length the house stood before
him. It looked strangely quiet and solemn.
Not a light burned in the windows, not one
human being was visible. He stood for a
moment waiting for some token of life, but
none came from that silent dwelling. Sud-
denly, and as Mr. Templemore was walking
quickly through the flower-garden, Jacques
appeared with a lantern in his hand. In a
moment Mr. Templemore stood by the man.

" Well ! " he said.
• He could utter no more. His lips were
parched and dry, and fever sickened his very
heart.

Jacques was slightly startled at his master's
Unexpected appearance, and there was just a
moment's pause, an eternity of torment and
doubt, ere he answered,

" Mademoiselle Eva is very low."

Mr. Templemore had tried to prepare him-
self for a worse reply than this, but by the
agony it gave him he could test the vanity of
all such preparation.

" Doctor Petit thought she was getting bet-
ter," resumed Jacques, " and he cured Ma-

demoiselle Moore ; but that was in the begin-
ning, and Mademoiselle Eva is not so well
now."

Mr. Templemore was standing perfectly
still, like one incapable of sense or motion ;
but his eyes flashed when he heard Doctor
Petit's fatal name, he started, as if that name
had stung him back from torpor into life.

" My God ! " he cried, "who brought that
man — who brought him ? "

There was something so desperate in his
look and tone, thai Jacques stepped back, and
forgot his partisanship for Doctor Petit, which
he shared with the whole household, in per-
sonal uneasiness. So hastily evading Mr.
Templemore's question, he answered :

"Doctor Petit cured Mademoiselle Moore,
and attended Mademoiselle Eva at first; but
Doctor Leroux has the care of her now."

"When has he been?"

" He left five minutes ago."

Mr. Templemore put no further questions,
but walked on. The fatal thought, " Petit
has murdered her, and Leroux himself cannot
save her — I have come too late!" rang
through him again and again like a knell. He
entered the house, turned into the school-
room, thence into Dora's sitting-room, and
went up the private staircase which led to the
apartment Eva , had once shared with her
governess.

He pushed the door of the child's room
open very softly. He did not wish her to be
startled by his sudden appearance. The night
lamp shed a dull faint light in the sick-room,
a low wood fire smouldered on the hearth, but
Mr. Templemore could see Eva's little white
cot at the other end of the apartment. He
approached it gently. A calm, regular breath-
ing told him the child was sleeping, lie
bent over her very cautiously. Long, keen,
and attentive was the look. Suddenly Eva's
eyes opened. Mr. Templemore remained per-
fectly still. She looked at him with a half

RECONCILIATION.

293

wondering gaze, in which sleep contended ;
then her lids fluttered and fell, her eyes closed,
and she was sleeping soundly. With a re-
lieved sigh Mr. Templemore turned away.
Eva was saved, and he knew it.

" Thank God ! " he said, half aloud— " thank
God ! "

ITe walked towards the fireplace, then stood
still. A flickering ray of the firelight shot up
from the hearth ; and pale, worn, and altered
though she was, he saw and knew her. This
was his wife who stood before him ! For a
moment his heart seemed to cease to beat.
For a moment he stood, pale as death, and as
silent. For a moment she, too, was mute and
still, looking at him as he looked at her. But
she had been expecting him days, and she re-
covered first. She raised a warning hand.

" Do not waken her," she said in the lowest
whisper — but low though it was, her voice
shook ; " she is saved — she will live ! "

Great joys come to us like great sorrows.
Mr. Templemore could neither move nor speak
— he felt stunned. He had got them both
back — the wife and the child, and for a while
he could only look at his lost Dora's face.

" My wife ! — my dear wife ! " he said at
length.

He took her in his arms. The word " wife "
was a sesame. No term of endearment had
ever sounded half so sweet as this, when he
had spoken it, in the past ; and as he uttered
it now her whole heart seemed to go forth to
meet him. When he opened his arms to re-
ceive her, she threw hers around his neck, and
all was forgiven and forgotten forever between
these two.

" Then you are glad I am not. dead," she
said, smiling through her happy tears ; " you
never had that cruel ' Dora Courtenay ' put
on poor aunt's grave? — you never wished to
marry Mrs. Logan? You need not tell me so.
I know it — I know it ! "

Yes, this was truly Dora — Dora jealous and

fond, and Dora joyous and light-hearted.
Dora who had fled from him in hasty resent-
ment, and had come back on the first token ,
of the child's peril. But great joy is incredu-
lous. The cruel fear of Eva's danger was but
a few hours old. It had not taken upon him
the hard grasp of reality. He could bid it
begone like an evil nightmare ; but the doubts,
the fears, the anguish he had gone through
in seeking the woman whose voice he heard,
whose hand he held, all came back to him
now, and seemed to say, " Do not be too sure
— you may be dreaming, and when you waken
she may be gone."

" I cannot believe it ! " he exclaimed vehe-
mently — "I cannot believe I have got you
back ! "

" And yet I am no ghost ! " she answered
joyously.

Ah ! but how pale and worn she looked !
She had been watching many nights, surely ?

" Four," she answered simply. " I did not
dare to leave Eva for fear they should bring
back Doctor Petit."

" You brought Leroux, then ? "

" I did. I had a hard battle, but I won."

" And Petit would have killed her. She is
now your child, indeed ! "

There are some sweet drops in this bitter
cup of life, as the poets call it.

" I am sure of him now," thought Dora —
" sure forever."

Eva moved slightly. At once Dora was by
her side ; but Eva was only dreaming. Dora
raised the curtain and bent over the sleeping
child to make sure of her slumber ; and Mr.
Templemore looked at them both, and never
forgot that picture — the poor little head on
its white pillow, and the faithful, tender face

above it.

CHAPTER LVI.

Mr. Templkmore had serii Dora to her room
v to rest and sleep, and Dora had obeyed him.

294

DORA.

It was sweet to go and rest after fatigue, and
to sleep after watching, and sweeter than all
to know she was doing both in her husband's
house, and under her husband's care.

She looked around her with a delicious
sense of home. How pleasant to sit down in
that large arm-chair, and rest a while, and
think of her husband, surrounded as she was
with tokens of her husband's affection ! How
pleasant, after the vexing storms of the past,
to rejoice in the sweet peace of the present !
The same sense of repose followed her when
she at length laid her head on her pillow, and
composed herself to sleep.

"Adieu to care," she thought. "If our
love has survived such bitter trials, surely we
need not fear for it. We are mortal, and,
therefore, may suffer again, for we cannot
conquer sickness and death ; but for all that,
adieu to care ! Now I can fall asleep and not
dread wakening. And to-morrow I can waken,
and not feel in my heart, ' Another bitter day
lies before me.' I know that Eva will live —
I know that he sits with her thinking of me —
I know that the delightful days are all coming
back like spring after winter."

Yes, she knew it, and when she ceased to
know it — when Thought folded her wings, and
a gentle torpor crept over her — when fatigue
and happiness both wrapped her in a delightful
heaviness, and made her close her eyes — she
felt it still. It was the last consciousness she
carried with her into the world of sleep —
it was the meaning of all her dreams, and her
bright welcome when she woke.

Whilst Dora slept, Mr. Templemore sat up
and watched in Eva's room. He had sat down
in Dora's vacant chair by the fire-place, and
looking at the red embers, he threw off the
weary burden of the past, and indulged in
some bright dreams. But suddenly the image
of Florence, pale and reproachful — Florence,
who had wronged him, but whom he had
abetted too willingly, came back like an up-

braiding. How completely he had given, up
the old love, and how eagerly he had turned
to the new ! Was not this vehement affection
the justification of Mrs. Logan's jealousy ?
"Yes," he thought, with something like
remorse, " she was right enough. I was
always too fond of Dora. I always gave her
too much, and now she has all, and she has
a right to all. The folly of a silly woman and
the guilt of a mad one have made it too late
for repentance or regret. Then why perplex
myself with what might have been, but never
can be ? — why grudge myself the happiness
of what it is, when that ' is ' happens to be a
girl I love, and a young wife like Dora ? "

Thus spoke Reason, and Conscience lent
her a very willing ear, and Remorse retreated
discomfited, and in some disorder. An unex-
pected ally, moreover, came to Reason's aid,
and made her mistress of the field.

Dora had not long been gone, for thought
travels fast, when the door through which she
had left opened gently. Mr. Templemore
looked quickly round. He had searcely time
to recognize Miss Moore's square figure, when
he heard her lock the door, and take out the
key ; then, crossing the room swiftly, she
went to another door and locked that too.
He stared at her in silent amazement, but it
was plain Miss Moore did not see him. She
went to Eva's bed, peeped cautiously at the
child, then walked away on tiptoe, took a
large, old-fashioned arm-chair, shook the cush-
ion upon it, wheeled it to Eva's cot, then
sat down, with a gentle sigh of relief, took off
her curls, fumbled in her pocket, brought out
a white-frilled night-cap and put it on. She
was tying the strings, when, to her mingled
terror and confusion, Mr. Templemore ap-
peared before her. Miss Moore felt petrified,
and so she did not scream ; but when Mr.
Templemore, who did not want to waken the
child, made a sign that she was to rise, Miss
Moore mechanically obeyed, and found strength

MRS. LOGAN'S MARRIAGE.

295

to do so. He took a light, and she followed
him to the neighboring room.

" Miss Moore," he inquired, when they were
out of Eva's hearing, " may I ask the meaning
of this?"

" I — I want to sit up with Eva," stammered
Miss Moore ; " I thought she was alone."

" What made you think so ? — did you see
my wife leave ? "

" Yes — just so. I saw her leave, and I
came to sit up with the child."

" Miss Moore, why did you lock the door ? "

Miss Moore was mute.

" It is not possible," he said, rather bitterly,
" that you meant to lock out my wife*? "

" I — I don't know," was Miss Moore's pite-
ous reply.

It was plain that such had been her inten-
tion ; but Mr. Templemore did not think Miss
Moore capable of originating so rebellious a
scheme, and his eyes flashed with resentment,
as he said :

" Who advised this ? Of course you would
never have done it ? "

Miss Moore turned traitor without remorse.
" It was Mis. Logan," she said.

" Mrs. Logan ! Good Heavens ! what could
be her motive ? What could make her wish
to insult my wife in her own house? And,
Miss Moore, how could you abet her ? "

" I have a right over Eva," jealously replied
Miss Moore ; " she is my sister's child after all,
and I have no faith in* Doctor Leroux; and
Doctor Petit cured me, Mr. Templemore."

Mr. Templemore felt too indignant to argue
that point ; but he said again :

" But Mrs. Logan has no right — how dare
she meddle? — how dare she advise you so,

Miss Moore ? "

" I suppose it vexed her that Mrs. Temple-
more should be alive," composedly said Miss
Moore ; " you see, she thought that you were
a widower, I suppose, when she came to mind
Eva and me."

Mr. Templemore heard her with mingled
anger and shame. Not a shadow of remorse
or regret could remain in his heart after this.
"And I have loved this small, silly, selfish
creature," he thought, in mute indignation;
" this ruthless little thing, who would have
sacrificed my child's life as well as her own
pride to indulge a moment's revenge ! "

He could not speak at once, so bitter were
his feelings ; and that bitterness showed itself
in the first words he uttered :

" Miss Moore, Dora must never know this —
never, mind you. She must never know that
this insult was contemplated."

Miss Moore was quite willing to vow that
she would never tell Mr. Templemore's wife
the little plot that had been concocted against
her. And though she had been faithless to
Mrs. Logan, she was strictly faithful to herself.
Dora never did know it. She never knew
why, when her husband spoke of Florence,
which was but rarely, he spoke of her with
such bitter emphasis and such resentful looks.
She never knew why, when a year after this,
Mr. Templemore heard of Mrs. Logan's mar-
riage with a learned Judge, he uttered so seri-
ous and earnest a " poor fellow ! "

" But you might have been that ' poor fel-
low,' " gayly said Dora.

" Never," he rather sharply answered. " I
have committed some mistakes, but they have
never been fatal ones. Either reason resumed
her sway at the critical moment, or," he added,
smiling, " some good fairy came to the rescue
when all seemed lost. So you see that I never
could have been that 'poor fellow !' "

" I see," thought Dora ; " there is something
I have never known ; but I am not Blue Beard's
wife — I can bear it."

But all this was yet to come. When Dora
entered Eva's room the next morning, so bright
and joyous that Mr. Templemore told her she
looked like the sunbeam whom the alchemist
caught and imprisoned :

296

DOHA.

" Then mind you lock me up, or I shall
escape," replied Dora ; " do not tiust me — do
not trust me."

Alas ! Mrs. Courtenay's worst presentiments
were being fulfilled. Mr. Templemore wanted
to keep her, and Dora wanted to stay. "Yes,"
thought Mrs. Courtenay, as she sat alone and
sad, and looked out at the village street, " I
knew how it would be."

This time Mrs. Courtenay was not frowning.
Dora's mother was weeping, gently, indeed, not
with a bitter or passionate flow, but still with
sorrow and heartache. Dora had been gone,
oh ! so long, and she was not returning. She
wrote frequently, almost daily ; but she did not
come back. Mrs. Courtenay knew how ill
Eva had been, and how well she was getting.
She knew that Mr. Templemore had come
back, and that Dora was, as she said, happier
than ever ; but when Dora would come to her,
or if ever she would come, Mrs. Courtenay did
not know. And thus, though the cards lay
before her, though the favorite patience of his,
majesty Louis XVIII. had come out beautiful-
ly, Mrs. Courtenay was gloomy, and indulged
in some reflections more philosophic than
cheerful. " I have always read in history,"
sadly thought the poor lady, " that when two
contending powers made peace, it was at the
expense of a third, some poor little weak king-
dom or dukedom, or republic, which they
either divided or sacrificed in some dreadful
way or other. And that is how Dora and Mr.
Templemore are now acting. Of course I can-
not be divided, or made three pieces of, like
poor Poland, but theu I can be excluded from
the confederation, as it were, and told to mind
my own business, and let the mighty people
settle their own affairs. Dora is a good daugh-
ter, and she loves me very dearly, but then she
is crazy about her husband, and, of course, he
is desperately fond of her, and they are making
anew honeymoon of it. Ami, of course, too,
I iint-t be sacrificed. I always thought Doctor

Richard looked like a jealous man, and I do
believe he will lock her up rather than let her
be out of his sight. And if he does, how can
she help herself, poor dear ! "

Yet it was a hard case, a very hard case,
but it was of a piece with that carrying off of
the Sabiues which Mr. Templemore had emu-
lated on his wedding-day. "It began then,
and it is ending now," thought the poor lady.
" I have lost my Dora ! "

Mrs. Courtenay was sitting in the parlor,
looking disconsolately at the sunburnt road
through the green screen of vine-leaves which
framed her window, as she came to this lam-
entable conclusion. The cards lay before
her, and a red glow from the west stole in and
filled the plain room with warmth and light.
Mrs. Courtenay was dazzled as well as miser-
able, and leaning back in her chair with a
sigh, she closed her wearied eyes with the
dismal reflection, "Where is the use of look-

in;

9 "

" Mamma ! mamma ! " said a pleasant voice,
which sounded in her car. Mrs. Courtenay
started and looked round. She was alone in
the room. " I am here," said the voice again ;
and this time Mrs. Courtenay, turning in the
direction whence the voice came, saw Dora's
bright face looking at her laughingly through
the vine-leaves. " You have been crying,"
said Dora, putting on a frown. " I see it. I
am very angry ! "

"Don't !" implored* Mrs. Courtenay, depre-
caticgly.

Dora shook her head, then vanished. The
next moment she was in the room, and she
stood before her mother with a grave face
and a threatening forefinger.

" I told you I would come back, but you
did not believe it, and yet lure I am."

"Yes," said Mrs. Courtenay, admiringly;
" and how well and how pretty you look,*Dora !
How did you get away ? " she asked, as Dora
sat down by her, and kissed her heartily.

THE EASTERN SKETCHES.

297

" Did I not tell you I would get out through
the window ? " gayly replied Dora.

" Oh ! but I hope you did not," exclaimed
Mrs. Courtenay in some alarm. " That would
never do, Dora. Mr. Templemore would not
like it."

Dora looked a little defiant.

" Why did he lock the door ? " she asked.

Mrs. Courtenay clasped her hands.

" And did he lock the door ? " she cried.
" Dora, that was disgraceful ; but you should
have procured another key, and not jumped
out of the window ! "

"My dear Mrs. Courtenay, do not believe
her," now said the voice of Mr. •Templemore,
who had been standing behiud her chair all the
time. " The doors of Les Roches were wide
open, but Dora was so unwilling to come that
I had to bring her to you."

" That is pure slander, you know, mamma,"
composedly said Dora, " aud you know better."

Mrs. Courtenay was a little flurried by Mr.
Teinplernore's sudden appearance, but she
promptly recovered, and her first words were
an inquiry after Eva.

" Eva is very well, thank you, but we do
not leave her long alone, and you will not take
it unkindly, my dear madame, if we ask you
to come away with us — almost at once."

He spoke with his old kindness and cour-
tesy. Mrs. Courtenay looked at him and at her
daughter, and her lips parted to say —

" Mr. Templemore you did not want me in
your house, and I will not return to it," but
for Dora's sake she was mute. " They shall
never guess that I know it — " she thought —
" never. I, too, shall have my secret and my
burden, but my dear Dora shall be happy —
quite happy — if I can make her so ! "

" T shall soon be ready," she replied meekly.

" Let me pack up for you," gayly said Dora.

She rose and went up-stairs, and her first
act was to look for, and burn Mr. Temple-
more's letter. As it shrivelled up before her,

she smiled triumphantly. Thus all bitter-
ness, all unkindne-s would perish and pass
away from their two lives She spon came
down again.

" We are ready," she said to her husband.

The carriage which had brought them from
the railway-station was at the door waiting.
Mrs. Courtenay allowed her daughter to put
on her bonnet and shawl without a word.
Still meek and silent she entered the carriage,
and she scarcely opened her lips during the
journey to Les Roches. Dora noticed this,
and she said a little jealously as they went up
the stone steps that led to the house :

" Well, are you not pleased to be home
again ? "

" Yes, my dear, very much pleased," meekly
replied Mrs. Courtenay ; but night had set in,
and it was well that Dora did not see her
mother's face. Mrs. Courtenay said she was
tired, and she went up to her room.

" Mr. Templemore will want Dora all to
himself," she thought, with a swelling heart ;
" I must not be in the way."

The room was a pleasant room, and Mrs.
Courtenay looked around it drearily. She felt
chill, and she had asked for a fire ; but though
the logs burned and crackled cheerfully on
the hearth, Mrs. Courtenay felt miserable.
These two, her daughter and son-in-law, were
happy below without her. Yes, remember-
ing her own early-married days, she could
imagine how it was with them. During the
journey home Mr. Templemore had alluded to
one of his Eastern wanderings, and to some
sketches he had made of the ruined cities
which lie beyond the Jordan and the Sea of
Galilee.

'• Why did you never show them to me ? "
asked Dora quickly

And Mr. Templemore had answered —

" You shall see them this eveni

So it was not difficult for Mrs. Courtenay to
:ie how these two were now engaged.

298

DOHA.

She could hear Mr. Templemore's voice arid
Dora's soft laugh ; and she could see, too,
Dora's wondering bright eyes raised to her
husband's face, and his smile half amused,
half fond, for he was very fond of her indeed,
fonder than ever, it seemed to Mrs. Courtenay,
and of course they did not want, they did not
miss her.

" Poor Mrs. Luan," thought Mrs. Courtenay,
with a sigh, "if I had her still I should not
feel so dull and lonely." A little rap at the
door here roused the solitary lady from her
reflections. " I wish Mr. Templemore's ser-
vants would not come and pester me," crossly
thought Mrs. Courtenay.

The little rap was repeated, the door opened,
and a curly head peeped in, and a childish,
treble voice said, " Please, it's only me. May
I come in, Mrs. Courtenay ? "

" Come in, my dear," said Mrs. Courtenay,
brightening up as she saw Eva. " Well, what
is it ? — what do you want ? " she added, as
the child came forward.

"I came to see you," replied Eva, half
offended at this welcome.

" Thank you, my dear,"' soothingly an-
swered the elder lady ; " I am very much
obliged to you. Sit down."

Eva climbed up on a chair, looked at the
fire, then burst out with the angry ejaculation :

" Papa doesn't mind me a bit since Cousin
Dora came back ! "

" My dear, you must not say Cousin Dora
now — "

" Yes, yes, I know," impatiently interrupted
Eva; "but one can't get used to it all at
once, you know."

She was flushed, and looked anything but
satisfied. " Dear, dear," thought Mrs. Cour-
tenay uneasily, " I hope the child is not going
to be jealous of poor Dora ! "

"Tapa is showing Cousin Dora all his beau-
tiful sketches," continued Eva, warming with
the sense of her wrongs.

" My love, there is no harm in that," said
Mrs. Courtenay, trying to excuse the sinner.

" Oh ! no," replied Eva, " but when Cousin
Dora wanted to take me on her knee papa
would not let her. So I came up to you, Mrs.
Courtenay."

It was plain Eva was offended, not so much
with Dora as with her father ; and it was plain,
too, that, fond as he was of bis little daughter,
Mr. Templemore did not object to being alone
with his young wife. Yes, matters were going
on below pretty much as Mrs. Courtenay had
conjectured. Mr. Templemore and his wife
were sitting side by side in his study, bending
over a large portfolio. Dora looked with won-
der at a graphic sketch of a deserted city. She
saw a street with stone houses, and on a rocky
peak a lonely temple rising against the sky.
It was very impressive, but it was melancholy.
Mr. Templemore told her that a fox scampered
out of the house on the right when he entered
it, and that two jackals had made their lair in
the temple on the left.

" I do not like it," said Dora ; " I cannot
fancy having a fox in this room when we are
dead, or rabbits instead of jackals, which the
climate does not allow, about the place. Do
you, Eva?" But Eva* was gone.

" You would not let me take her on my
knee," remorsefully said Dora, " and Eva is
affronted. I did not even see her go. Mamma
told me so: 'You will want no one when you
are again with Mr. Templemore.' "

Mr. Templemore was vexed. What ailed
his mother-in-law and his child that they would
not let him enjoy his newly-found happiness ?
Still he wanted to know where Eva was, and
Dora suggested that she might be with Mrs.
Courtenay. They both went up-stairs to look.
Eva had forgotten to shut the door of Mrs.
Court enay's room. A broad ray of light shone
out on the landing, and guided too by the sound
of voices, Mr. Templemore and his wife peeped
in unseen.

A HAPPY FAMILY.

299

Mrs. Courtcnay had spread out the cards on
the table, and was giving Eva a lesson in the
favorite patience of his majesty Louis Dix-huit.
Eva, perched on a high chair, looked on in-
tently, puckering her little brown face into an
expression of the utmost gravity. Suddenly
she clapped her hands and uttered a joyous
cry : " You have done it ! "

"I have!" said Mrs. Courtenay, in great
glee — " I have ! "

" Well, dear Dora," said Mr. Templemore,
making her turn away, " you thought we
did not want them — - pray do they want
us?"

" Perhaps they do, and perhaps they do
not," saucily replied Dora ; and to herself she
thought with a bright, happy smile, " I do be-
lieve we are all going to be so happy ! " But
happiness is silent, not spoken ; and not one
word of this did Dora say.

THE END.

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