down for a subscription towards the building fund, before I leave this place for London."

"Do you think of going soon?" asked Herbert, coming out of his fit of abstraction.

"Do you still refuse to accompany us?" inquired Mr. Snapson, with undisguised earnestness.

"I must," said the owner of the cottage, gravely shaking his head. "Well, I shall endeavour to see you in the morning," observed Mr. Snapson, as he took leave of him; "meantime, you will be able to investigate the matter further."

"Pray accept my thanks for your kind and liberal offer!" warmly responded Herbert. "If my friend Gordon should succeed in convincing me that we may prudently accept it, I will leave him to settle the business in his own way."

"You cannot do better," returned Mr. Snapson, with a friendly shake of the hand; "he appears quite equal to the undertaking." Rather an amusing interview took place between our hero and his devoted adherent after their visitor's departure.

Gordon first attempted to parry the close questions with which Herbert proceeded to ply him; then he tried evasion; but, finding at length that he was making no progress in satisfying the young man's doubts, he brought forward several papers containing estimates of the probable expenses connected with the erection of the building, and also a list of the various contributions he had already received.

"But this is all so complicated," said Herbert, after puzzling his brain over the figures; "everything seems to be involved in mystery." "Mystery!" echoed Gordon, with a little twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"These blanks, for example, what do they mean?"

"Those blanks," observed Gordon, in a slow, deliberative manner, "are merely left to show-but if you will excuse me for a minute," he added, hastily sweeping the papers into a drawer; "I hear Sir Edward's carriage stopping at the gate, and, as the servant is out, I should like to open the door for him."

46

"One word before you go," exclaimed Herbert, just as he was leaving the room; can you truthfully affirm that all this money has been freely and spontaneously given?"

"Indeed, I can, sir," answered Gordon, with heartfelt sincerity. "Every penny was bestowed most cheerfully."

"And by those who were able to afford it, James? otherwise"Ah, sir, you are beginning to doubt me!" returned Gordon, almost reproachfully.

"Not so, James," said our hero, coming up to him, and laying his hand kindly upon his shoulder. "My only fear was lest your zeal should, in this instance, have outrun your discretion, and your love for me led you to forget what is due to yourself and others."

"I trust I shall never do that," replied Gordon.

And with a smile, full of deep and affectionate meaning, he hastened to admit Sir Edward Stanley.

Herbert's thoughts were fully employed, or he might have felt somewhat surprised at the length of time that elapsed between the

opening of the hall-door and the young baronet's coming into the

room.

However, he made his entrée at last; but during the five minutes that he remained he appeared restless and excited.

This he accounted for by explaining that he was greatly pressed for time, and having delivered a few unimportant messages from his mother, and promised to call again next day, he grasped his friend's hand, and departed, without affording Herbert an opportunity of consulting him on the subject which just then occupied such a prominent place in his mind.

Gordon accompanied Sir Edward to the carriage, and, after waiting to see it roll away, he returned to the house, and taking up his own hat, sallied forth in order to transact business which required his immediate attention.

CHAPTER LX.

VISITORS AT THE PARK.

"The wicked man is a very coward, and is afraid of everything: of God, because He is his enemy; of Satan, because he is his tormentor; of God's creatures, because they, joining with their Maker, fight against Him; of himself, because he bears about him his own accuser and executioner. He may be secure, because he knows not what he hath to fear, or desperate through extremities of fear; but truly courageous he cannot be."

"Tis evening! in yon lordly mansion

They sit alone, that silent pair;
United-yet so strangely severed!
Apart and yet so near!"

HALL.

ANON.

AND now I must invite my readers to return with me to Mertonsville Park, in order that we may ascertain how it has fared with Mrs. Seymour during these long months of separation from her only and ardently loved son.

It is again evening-a fair spring evening; bright, and clear, and reposeful.

As we approach the mansion, we are unconsciously struck with the unbroken stillness that prevails, both within and without; but suddenly a change, almost magical in its effect, is produced by the numerous lights which gleam from the windows, and give to the whole building an air of cheerfulness and comfort.

We enter the now brilliantly illuminated hall, and pass on amidst marble pillars and statuettes, gilded mirrors, and valuable paintings, to one of the lofty sitting-rooms, the door of which stands slightly ajar.

Mr. and Mrs. Seymour are its only occupants. The former is leaning back in a softly cushioned chair, glancing over the columns of an evening paper-the latter occupies a low couch exactly opposite.

In one hand she holds a small ivory screen, for the purpose of protecting her cheek from the fire, while with the other she mechanically plays with her little favourite dog (the same which Charles Hastings had procured for her), whose satin pillow has been on an ottoman close beside her.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes have fled, and still they sit thus, without exchanging a word, or even directing a look one towards the other, the gentleman appearing wholly engrossed in his paper, the lady wrapt in her museful reflections.

Mr. Seymour's face seems to have undergone no perceptible alteration, save, perhaps, that there are firmer lines about his firm mouth, and a harder and sterner light in his eyes; but in that of Mrs. Seymour, the change is more marked. Instead of the gentle softness which was once so strongly impressed upon her countenance, it now wears an habitually troubled, careworn, and mistrustful

expression; and when she speaks, it is generally in a fretful and complaining tone.

An invincible barrier has arisen between herself and her husband; and though he, in his inordinate self-complacency, dreams not of the change, it is sufficiently evident to an intelligent observer, that, though she may, and does, fear him, she has long since ceased to love him.

She yields him every outward semblance of respect, simply because she has been accustomed to do so, though from a very different motive; and her uniform obedience to his wishes springs from the knowledge acquired by painful experience of her own weakness and his strength.

Presently a servant enters the room, and asks whether the dinner shall be served.

"No," says Mr. Seymour, in a quick, decided tone. "Or, stay," he added, a tide of recollection rushing over him; "perhaps you would rather not wait, my dear?" turning inquiringly to the lady.

66

Just as you please," she answered coldly.

"Then we we will have it at once."

The man bowed respectfully, and retired.

Directly the bell rang, Mr. Seymour rose from his chair, and, laying aside the newspaper, advanced with formal politeness to conduct his wife to the dining-room.

When there, he started several topics of conversation, but he received little encouragement to proceed, Mrs. Seymour's responses being short, constrained, and often wide of the mark.

As soon as custom permitted, she left the table, and returned to the drawing-room, where her husband-after a moment's delay, for the purpose of giving an order to one of the servants-followed her.

Nearly half an hour passed, during which Mr. Seymour dozed in his chair, whilst his wife amused herself with the last new novel, when the attention of both was arrested by the unmistakable noise of a carriage stopping at the hall-door.

A white, scared look flitted over Mrs. Seymour's face, and she leaned back on her sofa, with closed eyes and colourless, quivering lips.

Her husband's voice aroused her-cool, pitiless, and determined— albeit perfectly polite :

"Now, my dear, I beg you will exert yourself and receive your guests at least with becoming dignity and composure."

A slight shiver ran through the poor lady's frame. She opened her eyes; flashed one glance of mingled pride and reproach at the calm statue who stood before her; stooped to recover the volume which in her agitation she had dropped on the carpet-and silently waited. In less than a minute the door was opened, and two gentlemen were announced.

They were Reginald Grafton and Mr. Vernon !

"My dear uncle and aunt," exclaimed the former, coming forward with outstretched hands, and speaking in a tone of the utmost respect, "this is indeed a pleasure!"

"You have brought your friend, I see," remarked Mr. Seymour, after cordially welcoming him to Mertonsville.

"Yes; allow me, my dear aunt, to introduce him to your favourable

notice," replied Reginald, with great deference. "Mr. Vernon-my aunt, Mrs. Seymour."

A frigid bow was the lady's only acknowledgment, but not being gifted with peculiarly quick perceptions, it is to be feared that Mr. Vernon omitted to ascribe her coldness to its proper cause.

"You will be glad of some refreshment after your journey," said Mr. Seymour, wishing, by his own civility, to make up for any lack of warmth in his wife's manner; "we did not wait dinner for you, as you forgot to mention the exact time you expected to be here, but the servants have been requested to keep

"Pray do not ring," interposed Reginald, seeing that Mr. Seymour's hand was on the bell; "we have already dined.'

"Are you sure?" questioned his uncle, looking doubtfully. "Yes. We were detained for an hour at W- where we met a friend of Vernon's, who persuaded us to dine with him. If my aunt, turning again to Mrs. Seymour, will give us a cup of tea, it is all we shall require."

"You can have it immediately," returned the lady, trying hard to maintain her composure.

"Oh, we are in no hurry," replied Reginald, bringing a chair close to her sofa, and proceeding, as a preliminary step towards propitiating herself, to make the acquaintance of Lisetta, her little canine favourite.

"What a beautiful creature!" he exclaimed, in accents of admiration. "Is it a King Charles' spaniel?"

"I suppose so, but I have never seen another like it." "Nor I," said Reginald, stooping to caress it.

Suddenly, however, he drew his hand away, with a look of annoyance, as the "beautiful creature," notwithstanding its inherent gentleness of disposition, lifted its head, and made an angry snap at his finger, besides bestowing on him a series of dissatisfied snarls and other equally significant tokens of its desire to be for the future exempted from any similar marks of attention.

"Fie! Lisetta!" said its mistress, bending down so as to conceal the smile which came unbidden to her lips at such a decided proof of the animal's sagacity.

"I should scarcely have expected to find it so testy," said Reginald, forcing a laugh, though he evidently felt vexed.

Mrs. Seymour's answer was not calculated to restore his good humour.

"Oh, Lisetta is a very discriminating dog; she has her antipathies as well as her favourites."

"But why should she conceive an aversion for me?" questioned the young man, in a piqued tone.

"It would be difficult to say," replied Mrs. Seymour, shaking her head; "she has probably discovered that you are no friend to her species."

Reginald loudly repudiated the idea of his having any hostile feeling towards the canine race; but whatever may have been Mrs. Seymour's opinion of his sincerity, she did not consider it necessary either to retract or qualify her remark.

"You gave us to understand that your friend, Mr. Cleveland, would accompany you for a few days," observed Mr. Seymour, who entirely disapproved of the turn the conversation had taken.