that moment. Her erect figure was full of dignity. Ir snowy bosom rose and fell with passion, making the diamond cross, reposing on its whiteness, sparkle in the mellow light that filled the conservatory. There was a grandeur in the face, though the expression was not a good one. On the contrary, it was vindictive, revengeful, almost viperous. Nevertheless, John Eskell felt his frame thrill at the thought that one day he might call this woman his own.

So imagining, his tones tremulous, as he leaned towards her, he whispered, "Might he ever hope you would regard him as more than friend, dear Mrs. Vincent?"

A strange look stole over the widow's face, it might have been surprise, a vague fear, perhaps, that she had gone too far. Drooping her eyes, she said, in accents of gentle reproof, "This is unkind," Mr. Eskell, "and unlike you to take me at a disadvantage by such a question. You hardly honour me by forcing a reply. You certainly do no honour to yourself in seeking to sell me your services."

The other coloured crimson, for he recognized the justice of the remark. His question did put the matter in the light of barter. Fearing to lose the ground he hoped he had gained, seizing her hand, he ejaculated earnestly, "Forgive me. I will be content to win your gratitude, Mrs. Vincent-trusting the future and my own great love may receive a higher reward. Tell me what you need. Count upon me in everything. I will give you a proof that I will aid you."

"What proof?" she asked.

"The breaking, for your sake, an oath given to another. If Randal Whardale marry Lady Braisemere, no worse humiliation could befall a virtuous woman."

"How do you mean?" she inquired, eagerly.

"That this entanglement is no rustic liaison. He is married-married in secret to Effie Tarrant of Heath Hill Farm !"

"Married!" almost cried the widow. "Is this true?"

"I had the confession from his own lips," was the reply.

Mrs. Vincent bent towards the speaker, then rapidly drew back. The valse music had ceased, and voices were heard approaching the conservatory.

"We must speak more about this at another time," she whispered. "Now we are disturbed, and must go. Mr. Eskell," she added, as leaning on his arm he conducted her from the conservatory, "I will never forget what you have sacrificed for me-never."

As they re-entered the ball-room, a commotion at the farther end attracted their attention, and the crowd giving way, they beheld, attired

in a tasteful and delicate ball-dress of violet silk, and with her rich wealth of golden hair adorned merely by a white camelia, Lady Braisemere advancing up the room, escorted by the Earl of Hantowers, while Randal Whardale, his heavy figure in full evening dress, followed in their wake. "See how they regard her," said the widow, venomously. "Have they never seen a pretty woman before?"

It was not so much Madeline's beauty as her expression which called forth such unmistakable admiration. The sweet smile of the small mouth, the gentle caressing glance of the clear liquid eyes, and the purity of the entire countenance devoid of vanity, or consciousness of her charms, these it was which attracted and won approval from even those ladies who were not of Mrs. Vincent's stamp.

As the Earl and his ward drew near, the widow, forcing her countenance to assume its usual mask of amiability, moved forward and greeted Lady Braisemere with even more empressement than the rest. During the brief space which comprises the first exchange of morning calls, she had contrived to render herself so amiable, that, not quite to the Earl's satisfaction, Madeline had been rather taken with her, and now, quitting the Earl's arm, she willingly accepted a seat on a settee by the side of the widow, who, with a sprightliness and wit of which she was mistress, began describing the guests, and proving herself a very pleasant companion.

John Eskell, standing a little apart, was infinitely amused, and philosophized upon the puzzle "woman.” He smiled to see this one, though he loved her, caressing with glance and word, and silken glove, the innocent object whom, but a moment before, she had declared to hate and expressed a resolve to humiliate and ruin.

As Mrs. Vincent continued her lively description, a gentleman leading his partner to the square dance just being formed coming within range of her vision, caused her to turn a searching scrutiny upon Madeline, whose eyes she perceived were also quietly regarding him.

"That one," said the widow, "whom I find has attracted your attention, is Cyril Bridgenorth, Lord Castleford. Rumour declares him to have been a few years ago the fastest, gayest young man about town." "Indeed," rejoined Madeline, with a sweet but inscrutable smile. rumour always correct? It is co-sister with scandal, who by a touch creates mountains out of molehills."

Mrs. Vincent, watching the calm pure face, was puzzled. "Do you know Lord Castleford ?" she inquired.

"I? I did not even know his name until Mr Whardale told me it this morning. And here comes Mr. Whardale; I remember I am engaged to him for this dance."

She rose as she spoke, and Randal coming up and presenting his arm with a clumsy compliment led her away, not a little vain of the envy he knew he created, and the knowledge that he was down on Madeline's tablets for two more dances out of the five she had given herself to dance. The widow from where she sat watched the quadrille with much interest on perceiving that Lady Braisemere's vis-à-vis was no other than Lord Castleford; surely, if her surmise was correct, here was an opportunity for recognition. But no, not even was the most rapid or furtive glance exchanged, and Mrs. Vincent, recalling the little episode in the road before her villa, was more and more puzzled.

Then her mind reverted to what John Eskell had told her of Randal's marriage, and, anxious to learn more, she looked round for her informant. He was close by, and at a sign was by her side.

"I will dance the next with you, Mr. Eskell," she whispered; "for I must learn more of what you told me respecting Adonis. But do not stay by me now; it may attract attention."

Eskell bowing withdrew, as one or two others of the widow's admirers sauntered up.

It was about an hour later that Mrs. Vincent, ever on the watch, passing the doors of an ante-room, perceived Lady Braisemere seated on a lounge within. She had seen her dancing last with Randal, who probably had gone to bring her an ice.

Madeline's chin was on her hand and she appeared absorbed by thought. Mrs. Vincent paused, doubtful whether to enter. If so, might she not spoil the tête-à-tête the Honourable Randal Whardale possibly had contrived and reckoned upon? On no account would she risk that, and was in the act of stealing away when she saw the curtain dividing the apartment from the ball-room lifted and Lord Castleford entered.

On finding the place occupied, he halted on the threshold, a flush and peculiar expression swept over his features. Then, apparently actuated by a sudden resolve, he moved quickly forward.

At the sound of his steps Madeline raised her head, then rose quickly to her feet, while the colour came and faded on her cheek.

"Lady Braisemere," exclaimed Cyril Bridgenorth, in hurried apology, "I entreat you pardon this intrusion; but I cannot support the suspense from which I have been suffering longer, and an unfortunate difference with the Earl of Hantowers deprives me of an introduction. Am I then deceived by an extraordinary likeness, or have I indeed the pleasure of beholding again one whom I knew as Miss Midhurst ?"

Madeline appeared no less agitated than the speaker, and despite her efforts her tones were tremulous as, extending her hand, she replied,

"Yes, my lord, I am she whom you imagine, and rejoice that you have spoken, for I myself was in doubt as to your identity."

For a space their glances met, then hers fell as he, bending over the white fingers, murmured,

"Lady Braisemere, I count this day as one of the happiest in my life. I feared we had parted never again to meet."

The last words were uttered too low to reach the widow, who, at the moment hearing Randal approaching, moved quickly from the door. No sooner, however, had he entered than she resumed her coign of espionage. Lord Castleford and Madeline were some paces apart, and Randal standing stock still was regarding them.

"Hullo!" rejoined the other, with frank good humour; "My dear Whardale, you arrive most opportunely. I strolled in here to get relief from the whirl of the ball-room, and fear I have intruded upon this lady's privacy. I have offered my apologies, and now pray you to introduce me." "By all means, my dear fellow," and Randal, having presented the ice, went through the ceremony.

Fearful now of detection the widow withdrew, perfectly convinced that her suspicions were correct. Madeline and Cyril Bridgenorth had met before, but desired to conceal their past acquaintance. Here truly was a mystery, and pondering over it Mrs. Vincent remembered the fast life Lord Castleford was said to have led in London.

CHAPTER VII.

RANDAL WHARDALE PREPARES TO ACT.

It was afternoon of the day following the ball. A warm sun shone from a sea of blue, about which floated little fleets of fleecy clouds. The air was still, save for the hum of bees, and the ivy languidly flapped its handsome leaves against the grey ancient walls of Hantowers. On the terrace extending along the front, lounged Randal Whardale in morning toilette. He had risen from his bed a few hours previously in a state of perplexity as to his future proceedings.

During Sir Joseph Kilraven's ball, he had found that his name and Madeline's were already beginning to be coupled together. Bachelor friends had joked and congratulated him upon his good fortune. In fact, his constant attendance upon Lady Braisemere had not been without result, and the belief was abroad that there was "une affaire" between them. A belief the widow, in her own coterie, had taken care to spread,

also to confirm by declaring raively that she thought "every one knew it." Now, meditated Randal Whardale, if this gets to Effie's ears, I shall be in a confounded fix. What will she think, what will she do? A fellow never can reckon upon a woman when she's jealous, or believes that her marriage rights are invaded. I see what it must be--I must carry out Eskell's advice instanter-I ought to have done it already-but-but it's a plaguy nasty thing to do. I wonder how she'll take it? and the speaker's countenance turned actually pale.

Certainly it was a "plaguy nasty thing" to inform a girl who had loved you, who had trusted in your honour, that you had deceived and ruined her. The feelings of compunction which might have visited most men for the girl, were wanting in Randal's nature. His pity was for himself. Essentially a bully, as a natural sequence he was a coward, and his hesitating to perpetrate his villany arose from the dread of consequences to himself.

Suppose, under Effie's loving, confiding, clinging temperament, there chanced to exist a spice of the devil? It was an old but true adage that even a worm would turn. Suppose she defied him to disprove their marriage? Suppose she fled for aid and protection to her father. Randal looked more disturbed yet at that thought. He was painfully conscious that Andrew Tarrant would be a rough customer to deal with.

Still what was he to do? Forego Madeline and part, if not the entire, of the Earl's wealth? On no account. He was not the first who had risked his all upon a single cast of the dice. He must do it and speedily. Still and he repeated it as for comfort-it was a plaguy nasty affair. But after all, might he win Madeline? That was certainly a questionyet one he did not despair of soon answering in the affirmative. Any way one thing was evident. Under the circumstances he must assuredly first be off with the old love before he was on with the new. This had been Eskell's advice only the previous evening.

This worthy friend had also assured him of his firm aid, remarking he would see the probable union should so get bruited abroad, that Lady Braisemere might find herself an engaged woman before she was aware of it. This alone made it imperative that Effie should at once be informed, and he resolved to act that very evening. The Honourable Randal Whardale having come to this determination, began to fear he had too long neglected Lady Braisemere. A negligence which it must be confessed seemed hardly observed by the lady, who, seated on the lawn under a huge chestnut tree, apparently was entirely engrossed by her embroidery, though a close observer would have discovered her needle was often idle,