NOEL D'AUVERGNE. CHAPTER I. MRS. LEYNE AND THOSE WHOM SHE LOVES. "As streams that run o'er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines And that which charm'd all other eyes "So you TOм MOORE. to wear the pearl would advise me to wear ornaments to-night, and not my favourite diamonds: the lovely gems, how they sparkle yonder! Is it so, Mary?" "Oh, no! the diamonds, most certainly." "And those flowers, Mary, was it not kind of O'Malley Oranmore to send them? So thoughtful! B He is always thus-far more than others-ever since the first day we met. The Honourable O'Malley Oranmore! Brother of a lord!Brother of a lord!" She paused, and looked downwards for an instant thoughtfully. She raised her eyes again and heaved a short sigh. Ah, me! a woman dreams sometimes. "Now, Mary, my dearest love, will I do?" she questioned anxiously, and surveyed herself in the long glass from head to satin-booted feet. "Yes," said Mary. "Rogue, you say this just merely to get rid of me. You hate vanity; and, alas! I am vain with a vengeance! I almost hesitate ere I believe the truthful look in those mysterious eyes of yours. How mysterious they always are! Once more, and once for all, will I do? Answer me, Mary!" And Madeleine's brown orbs rested beseechingly upon her gentle sister, who, already dressed, was waiting, quietly standing beside the toilette-table. Mary replied very affectionately and very decidedly, "Yes, you will do! Only you are so pale; but then you seldom blush much-seldom blush as I do," she added, and smiled. "Would that I could steal some of the red roses," she answered, kissing Mary ardently, "which are wont to crimson your fresh face, my dear pet!" Mary silently clasped the shining jewels around Madeleine's neck, and made no reply. Madeleine gave one careful glance in the mirror at her stately figure in the graceful pride of its early womanhood, and, evidently thoroughly gratified with the result of this self-study, descended gaily to the drawing-room to bid her mother farewell, ere she drove off to that evening's ball, accompanied by her sister Mary and her brother Harold. The sweeping folds of Madeleine's costly dress disappeared from the bedchamber before Mary prepared to follow her sister. Mary Leyne waited alone for a moment, her sad mysterious eyes fixed intently upon the carpeted floor; suddenly they flashed vividly as she lifted them, allowing them to travel round the room carefully and thoughtfully; but the light seemed to die out of them, and they assumed a dull, tired expression, as though no object in the room brought rest to her. Then she beheld in the mirror her own most fair, girlish image, from the contemplation of which she withdrew her mystic eyes immediately, and defiantly, and contemptuously, with a peculiar look directed upward-a look which seemed to pierce the ceiling as if in impatient search for the distant sky beyond-and a still more peculiar smile, sweet, and wise, and truly satisfied. Overtaking her elder sister half-way down the staircase, they entered the drawing-room together, arm linked in arm-the fair and the dark girl presenting to each other a striking contrast. lady in subdued-coloured dress was seated there, to whom a young man was relating something which appeared to be of great interest to them both, and his words fell upon the ear in tones pleasant to listen to while he talked rapidly and joyously, like one whose soul is spotless. The calm elderly lady sitting so contentedly there is Mrs. Leyne, and the young man is her only son Harold; the one, the mother of the girls, the other, their beloved brother-indeed, he was very dear to them. Mrs. Leyne was certainly a beautiful woman five and twenty years ago; but she was then no more than eighteen. Times change, and the faces of people with them. Now her mild countenance wears the beauty of wisdom as its chief adornment-and it is not an unmeet one; while around the small lips reigns perpetually a sweetness, meek and fair to the eye in its expression -a sweetness written by sorrow there and by time. His Her husband, who had been a barrister of much repute in Ireland, died some three years previous to the period of the opening of this story. death occurred in an unexpected way. One quiet evening in the young Springtime, he came wearily home, after ill-success in a heavy and momentous law-suit. He dined as usual with his family, and subsequently, retiring to his study, read, and wrote, and toiled in the professional business of his life. When his daughter Mary entered, as she did gene rally every evening, carrying with her his favourite cup of tea, taking it nervously from her hands, he kissed her hurriedly, but fervently and earnestly; and then he suddenly bade her go from the library, that he desired to be alone. Surprised, and fearing something, she knew not what, Mary, after the lapse of some anxious minutes, returned with a second cup of tea; but, alas! he never required another from her ministering hands. She knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, entered the room; and there he lay in his arm-chair, speechless and death-like, with papers, and parchment scrolls, and strongly-bound law-books piled promiscuously around his feet. That night his holy and chivalric spirit fled to the bosom of God. That night the eloquent voice was wondrously mute. That night the logical mind had no more true need for its ready logic here. Seeing him just as his bestbeloved daughter Mary saw him, so white and strangely calm, another girl would immediately have fled, frightened and fainting, from the library. But not so Mary Leyne. She was no punyhearted, clinging woman, who leans not on her secret strength from Heaven. Strong in her beautiful humility, and turning first, as the needle to the pole, eagle-like to Him who was the Food of her daily life, she gently rang the study-bell for assistance, lifted meanwhile, fondly and sorrowfully, the poor, down-bent, helpless head into her tender, tender arms, |