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“ Well, Mr. Bulcarlet, and what did you think of the sermon ?" he says, briskly, being rather at n. 1055 for a congenial topic. " Te- dious, oh 2 I saw you talking to Lady Eliza» both after service was over. She is a fine woman, all things considered." “ Trifles light 8.8 air."â€"OTHELLO. When luncheon is over, Sir Penthony Staf- lord retires to write a letter or two, and half an hour afterwards, returning to the drawing- room, finds himself in the presence of Mr. Busonrlet, unsupported. The little lawyer smiles benignly ; Sir I‘en- thony responds, and, throwing himself into a. lounging-chair. makes up his mind to be agreeable. “ Shé is indeEdâ€"remarkably so. a very fine preagch fother time of ‘li'fez” “ Well, there is certainly not much to choose between her and the hills in point of age," allows Sir Penthony, ubsentlyâ€"he is in- wardly wondering where Cecil can have gone toâ€"-“ still, she is a nice old lady." “ Hybrid 1" exclaima Sir Penthony, pur- posely misunderstanding the word. “ Oh, by Jove. I didn‘t think you so severe. You :1- lude, of course, to her ladyship’smother, who, if report speaks truly, was a good cook spoiled by matrimony. Hybrid 1 Give you my word. Busearlet. I didn’t believe you capable o! anything half so clever. I must remem» bet to tell it at dinner to the others. It is just the sort of thing to delight Mr. Am- herst." Now, this old lawyer has a passion for the aristocracy. To be noticed by a lordâ€"to mess her ladyship’u handâ€"to hold sweet con- verse with the smallest scion of a. noble house â€"ii as honey to his lips; therefore to be thought guilty of an impertinence to one of this sacred community, to have uttered a word that, if repeated, would effectually close to him the doors of Lady Elizabeth’s house, fills him with horror. “ I assure you, my dear Lady Staflord,” de- clares Mr. Busoarlet , with tears in his eyea and dew on his brow, " it is all a. horrible, an unaccountable mistakeâ€"4L mere connection of ideas by your husbandâ€"no more,‘no more, I give you my most sacred honor." “ My dear Sir Penthony, pardon me.” he says. hastily, divided between the fear of of- fending ihe baronet and a. desire to set him- self straight in his own eyes, “ you quite mis- take me. Hybrid l-â€"-such a word, such a thought, never occurred to me in connection with Lady Elizabeth Eyre, whom I hold in much reverence. Highly bred I meant. I assure you you altogether misunderstand. I â€"Iâ€"never made a joke in my life.” " Then let me congratulate you on your maiden efiort ; you have every reason to be proud of it," laughs Sir Penthony, who is highly delighted at the success of his own manoeuvre. “ Don‘t be modest. You have made a decided hit; it is as good a. thing as ever I heard. But how about Lady Elizabeth, eh? should she hear it? Really you will have to suppress your wit. or it will lead you into trouble." “Butâ€"butâ€"-if you will only allow me to oxplgipâ€"fl protest IT” “ Quite Isaâ€"quite so; very elégant in man- ner,_an_d 1:1} gppeagagce dgqideQIy Pignâ€"bred.” ” Ah 1 here come Lady Stafford and Miss Msssereene. Positively you must allow me to tell themâ€"â€"” And, refusing to listen to Mr. Buscsrlet’s vehement protestations, he relates to the new-comers his version of the lawyer's harmless remark, accompanying the story with an expressive glanceâ€"that closely resembles a winkâ€"athly Stafford. “ I must go," he says, when he has finished, moving towards the door, “ though I hardly think I did wisely, leaving you alone with so danger- ous a companion." “Oh,st Mr. Buscarletl” cries her lady- ship, lightly, “ cruel Mr. Busosrlet ! Who would have thought it of you? And we all imagined you such an ally of poor dear Lady Elizabeth. To make a joke about her paren- tage. and such a. good one too ! And Sir Penthony found you out? Clever Sir Pen- thony." “ I swear, my dear lady, Iâ€"-â€"” “ Ah. hs ! wait till she hears of it. How she will enjoy it l With all her faults, she is good tempered. It will amuse her. Molly, my dear, is not Mr. Buscarlet terribly severe?" 1‘ Naughty Mr. Buscarlet !" saja Molly, shaking a reproachfnl dainty-white finger at him. And {beligveq you so haljmleasj” " No 1 I am glad to hear it.” “ Why 2" " Because"â€"â€"with an adorable glance and a mint premium of his armâ€"" it proves to me you have never loved before." At this they both laugh so immoderately that presently the lawyer loses all patience. 3nd, inking up his hat, rushes from the room in a greater rage than he could have thought possible. considering that one of his provoca- ‘OI‘I bears a title. They are still laughing when the others en- ter the room and insist on learning the se- cret of their mirth. Tedcastle alone fails to enjoy it. He is distrait and evidently op- pressed with care. Seeing this. Molly takes hem of grace. and, crossing to his side, says. Iweefly: “ Do you see how the day has cleared? That lovely sun is tempting me to go out. Will you also m_e_ for a walk ?”r “ éertainlyâ€"if you want to go.” Very coldly. Her manner is so sweet. and she looks so gay, so fresh, so harmless, that his anger melts as the dew beneath the sun. “ But of course I do; and nobody has asked me to accompany them ; so I am perforce obliged to thrust myself on you. If”-â€"with a bowitching smileâ€"“ you won’t mind the trouble just this once, I will promise not to torment you again." Throw'zh thé gardens, and out into the ahrnbberies beyond, they go in silence. until they reach the open ; then Molly says, laugh- ing: “ You need not have let. him place his arm round yoi," he says, jealously. 7‘ I know you are going to scold me about Mr. Potts. Begin at once, and let us get it over." “: be. I never redember being jealous be- This tender insinuation blots out all re- maining vapors. leaving the atmosphere clear 3nd free of cloud: for the rest of their walk, which lasts till almost evening. Just before they reach the house Luttrell says, with hesi- tation : “If I hadn't I should have slipped ofi the pedestal; and whaf did his arm signify in comparison with that 7 Think of my grand- father’s face; think of mine ; think of all the horrible consequences. I should have been sent home in disgrace, perhapsâ€"who knows ? put in prison, and you might never, never see Iyour d - ling in] m'meL” Shefiugha. . . “ What a jealous fellow you are, Ted I” 9'»m l_: 1‘” Buefull‘y. “_ I d9n_’t thin? I aged “ Then don’t say it,” says Miss Massereene, equahly. ” That is about the most foolish thing one can do. To make a person angry unintentionally is bad enough, but to know you are going to do it. and to say so, has something about it rash, not to say importi- nent. It you are fortunate enough to know the point in the conversation that is sure .to rouse me to wrath, why not carefully skirt round it ‘2” “ Because I lose a. chance if I leave it un- Inid ;_ and you difier so widely from most girls -â€"itizpa_v not provokq you.’f " Now you compel me to it,” says Molly, lsughing. " What 1 do 011 think I could suffer myself to be oonsidere a thing apart? Impos- nible. No one likes to be thought odd or ec- centric except rich old men, and Bohemians, and poets; therefore I insist on following closely in myflisters’ footateps, and warn you I shall be in a furious passion the moment “ I have something to say to you; but I am “raid if I do say it you will be angry." MOLLY BAWN. “ Oh 1 Holly Bawn, why leave me pimng, All lonely waiting here for you."â€"Olol Song BY THE AUTHOR O!‘ " PHYLLIS.” CHAPTER. XX. " Teddy," says Molly, rubbing her cheek in her old caressing fashion against his sleeve, and slipping her fingers into his, “ you may go on. Say anything you likeâ€"call me any name you chooseâ€"and I promise not to be one bit angry. There i” When Luttrell has allowed himself time to let his own strong brown fingers close upon hers, and has solaced himself still further by pressing his lips to them, he takes courage and goes on. with a. slightly accelerated coler. “ Well, you see, Molly, you have made the subject a forbidden one. endâ€"er~it is about our engagement I want to speak. Now, re- member your promise, darling, and don’t be vexed with me if I ask you to shorten it. Many people marry and are quite comfortable on five hundred pounds a year; Why should not we 7 I know a lot of fellows who are do- ing uncommonly well on less." you speak, whether or not I am really an- noyeil: hprqu on if you dare?!" “ There is not the slightest use in your heating about the bush, Teddy," says Miss Massereene, calmly. “ I am going to be angry, so do not waste time in diplomacy.” ” Molly, how provoking you are l” “ No! Am I ? Because I wish to be like other women 5’” " A hopeless Wish, and a very unwise one." ” Hopeless 7 And why, pray ?” With a. little uplifting of the straight brows and a. lit- tle gleam from under the long curled lashes. ‘rBecauseJ' says her lover: with fond con- viction, “ you are so infinitely superior to them, that they would have to be born all over again before you could bring yourself to fall into their ways.” “What! 'every woman in the known world 7" “ Every one of them, I am eternally con- vineed.” 7‘ Poor fellowh!" says Molly, full of sym- pathy. “ So much the worse for you. And be- sides, Teddy. instinct tells me you are much nicer as a lover than you will be as a hus- band. Once you attain to that position, I doubt I shall be able to order you about as I do at present.” “ Try me.” “ Not for awhile. There. don't look so dismal, Ted; are we not perfectly happy as we are ?" “ You may be. perhaps." “ Don‘t say perhaps, you may be certain of it," says she, gayly. “ I haven't a doubt on the subject. Come, do look cheerful again. Men as fair as you should cultivate a. perpet- ual smile." “ i know I am asking you a great deal” â€"â€" rather nervouslyâ€"“ but won’t you think of it, Molly 7" “ I am afraid I won’t, just yet," replies that lady, susvely. “ Be sensibleI Teddy ; remem- ber all we said to John, and think how foolish we should look going back of it all. Why should things not go on safely and secretly, as at present, and let us put marriage out of our heads until something turns up? I am like Mr. Micawber, I have an almost religious belief in the power things have of turning up.” “ I wish I was a nigger," says Luttrell, im- patiently. “You have such an admiration for blackamoora, that then, perhaps, you might learn to care for me a degree more than you do just now. Shadwell is dark enough for you-’1, “ Yes ; isn’t he handsome 7" with much enthusiasm. “I thought last night at dinner, whenâ€"-â€"" "‘ Well, 1001; here," -begine Luttrell, conciliatingrtone. _“ I haven’t,” says Luttrell, with terse melâ€" anchfioly. ” I don’t in the least want to know what you thought last night of Shadwell’s per- sonal appearances." Luttrell interrupts her, angrily. “ And I don't in the least want you to hold my hand a moment longer," replies Miss Mas- sereene, with saucy retaliation, drawing her fingers from his with a sudden movement, and running away from him up the stone steps of the balcony into the house. All through the night, both when waking and in dreams, the remembrance of the slight cast upon her absent mother by Mr. Amherst, and her own silent acceptance of it, have dis- turbed the mind of Marcia. “ A dancer I" the word enrages her. Molly‘s little passionate movement and out- spoken determination to hear no ill spoken of her dead father showed Marcia even more for- cibly her own cowardice and mean policy of action. And be sure she likes Molly none the more in that she was the one to show it. Yet Molly cannot possibly entertain the same af- fection for a mere memory that she feels for the mother on whom she has expended all the really pure and true love of which she is ca- pahle. It is not. therefore, towards her grand- father, whose evil tongue has ever been her own undoing, she cherishes the greatest hit- ternees, but towards herself, together with a. certain acorn that, through moneyed motives, she has tutored herself to sit by and hear the one she loves lightly mentioned. Now, looking back upon it. it appears to her grossest treachery to the mother whose every thought she knows is hers, and who, in her foreign home. lives waiting, hoping, for the word that shall restore her to her arms. A kind of anxiety to communicate with the injured one, and to pour out on paper the love she bears her, but dares not breathe at Herst, fills Marcia. So that when the house is si- lent on this Sunday afternoonâ€"when all the others have wandered into the open airâ€"she makes her way to the library, and, sitting down, commences one of the lengthy, secret, forbidden missives that always find their way to Italy in apite of prying eyes and all the untold evils that so surely wait upon dis- cozery. ' To any one acquainted with Marcia her manner of commencing her latter would be a revelation. To one so cold, so self-contained, the weaker flymptoms of aflection are disal- Lowed ; yet this is how she begins : “ My OWN BELOVEDâ€"As yet I have no good news to send you, and little that I can sayâ€" though even 1181 write to you my heart is full. The old man grows daily more wearisome, more detestable, more inhuman,yet shows no signs of death. He is even, as it seems to me, stronger and more full of life than when last I wrote to you, now three weeks ago. At times I ieel dispirited, almost despairing, and wonder if the day will ever come when we two shall be reunitedâ€"when I shall be able to welcome you to my English home. where, in spite of prejudices, you will be happy, because you will be with me.” Consternution seizes 1161'. Wow wore the footsteps that broke in upon her quietude? Why had she not ntood her ground? With_a Here, unluckily, because of the trembling of her fingers, a. large spot of ink falls heavily frem her pen upon the half-written page be- neath. destroying it. With an exclamation expressive of impa- tience Marcia pushes the sheet to one side and hastily commences again upon another. This time she is more successful, and has reached almost the last word in her final ten- der message, when a footstep approaching disturbs her. Gathering up her papers, she quits the library by its second door, and. gaining her own room, finishes and seals her packet. ‘ ' Not until than does she perceive that the blotted sheet is no longer in her possessionâ€" that by some untoward accident she must;have forgotten it behind her in her flight; VOL XXII. THE B. The evening, being Sunday, proves even duller than usual. Mr. Amherst. with an amount of consideration not to be expected, retires to rest early. The others fall insensi. bly into the silent. dozy state. Mr. Darley gives way to a gentle snore. It is the gentlest thing imaginable, but efl'ectual. Tedcastle starts to his feet and gives the fire a vigorous poke. He also trips very successfully over the footstool that goes far to make poor Dar- ley’s slumbers blest, and brings that gentle- man into a sitting posture. “ This will never do,” Luttrell says, when he has apologized profusely to his awakened friend. “ We are all growing sleepy. Potts, exert your energies and tell us a story." “ YES, do. Plaintagenet." says Lolly Staf- ford, rousing herself resolutely, and shutting up bier fgnrwith {lively gyftp. _ Yet the horror continues until she finds herself again face to face with her grand- father. Heis more than usually gracious~ indeed, almost marked in his attentions to herâ€"and once more Marcia breathes freely. No ; probably the paper was destroyed; even she herself in a fit of abstraction may have torn it up before leaving the library. A“ I will,” says Potts,'obligingly. without a moment’s hesitation. “ Potts is always equal to the occasion,” Sir Penthony remarks, admiringly. “ As a penny showman he would have been invaluable and died worth any money. Such energy, such unflagging zeal is rare. That pretty gun- powder plot he showed his friends the other night would fetch a large audience.” “ Don’t ask me to be the audience a second time,” Lady Stafford says, unkindly. “ To be blown to bits once in 9. lifetime is, I consider. quite sufficient." “ Well. if ever I do a ky-ind action again,” says Mr. Potts â€"-who is brimmll of odd quota- tions, chiefly derived from low comediesâ€"â€" posing after Toolo. “ It is the most mistaken thing in the world to do anything for anyâ€" body. You never know where it will end. I once knew a fellow who saved another fellow from drowning, and banged if the other fellow didn't cling on to him ever after and make him support him for life." “ I’m sure that’s an edifying tale," says Sir Penthouy, with a. deep show of interest. “ Butâ€"stop one moment, Potts. I confess I can’t get any further for a. minute or two. How many fellows were there? There was your fellow, and the other fellow, and the other fellow’s fellow ; was that three fellows or four? I can’t make it out. I apologize all round for my stupidity; but would you say it all over again. Potts, and very slowly this time. please, to see if I can grasp it ?” beating heart she runs downstairs. enters the library once more with cautious steps, only to find it empty. But. search as she may, the missing paper is no} to be fo_und. What if it has fallen into her grandfather’s keeping l A cold horror falls upon her. After all these weary years of hated servitude to be undone! It; is impossible even fickle fortune should play her such a, deadly trick I “ Give yoil my honor, lithofigbt it was a conundrum.” says Hemyparlgy. Plantagenet liughi m5 heartiiy as any one, and evidently thinks it a capital joke. “ You remind me of no one so much as Sothern," goes on Sir Penthony. warming to his theme. “If you went on the stage you would make your fortune. But don’t dream of acting, you know ; go in for being yourself, pure and simpleâ€"~plain, unvsrnished Plan- tagenet Potts â€"snd I venture to say you will take London by storm. The British public would go down before you like corn before the reaper.” “ Potts." interrupts Stafford, mildly but firmly. “ if you are going to tell the story about your mother and the auctioneer. I shall leave the room. It will be the twenty-filth time I have heard it already, and human pa- tience has a limit. One must draw the line somewhere." " What auctioneer ?" demands Potts, indig- nant. “ I am going to tell them about my mother and the auction ; I never said a word about an auctioneer ; there mighn’t have been one, for all I know.” “ Wéll. but your storyâ€"your story, Plan- tageggtj” Lady Stafford c11ies, impatigntly. 7‘ Did you 'ever hear the Vstor-y aboui my mother andâ€"â€"” “ There generally is at an auction," ven- tures Luttrell, mildly. “ Go on, Potts ; I like your stories immensely. they are so full of wit and spirit. I know this one, about your mother’s bonnet, well; it is an old favoriteâ€"- quite an heirloomâ€"the story, I mean, not the bonnet. I remember so distinctly the first time you told it to us at mess; how we did laugh, to be sure I Don’t forget any of the de- tails. The last time but tour you made the bonnet pink, and it must have been so awfully unbecoming to your‘motherl Makeit blue to- night." “ And my mother was always in the habit of wearing a black bonnet." quotes Sir Pen- thony, gravgly. “ I know it by__hea}:t.t’ “ Now do go on, Mr. Potts ; I am dying to hear all about it,“ declaresingllyr. “ Well, when my uncle died." begins Potts. “ all his furniture was sold by auction. And there was a mirror in the drawing~room my mother had always had a. tremendous fancy iot~-â€"” “ ifvfou doryou may as wéll tell it your- self," says Pqttpz mucAhAoflended. “Nev-er mind him. Plantagenet; do go on," exclaims Cecil, impatigntly. _ “ Well. she was in the habit of wearing a black bonnet, as it happens," says Mr. Potts, with suppressed ire; “ but just before the auction she bought a. new one. and it was pink.” - “ Oh, why on earth don’t you my blue 7" expogtulates Luttrell, vyith _a groan. 3 Because it was pink. I shppose I know my gother’s ponngtg bettgg _th_a.n 3:01} ?” 7‘ But my dear fellow, think 6f her com- plexion ! And at first I assure you, you al- wayxg qggd to make it‘blue." » ‘v‘ I differ with you," puts in Sir Penthony, politely. “I always understood it was a sea- greep." “ It was pink," reiterates Plantagenet, firm- ly. “ Well, we had a cook who was very fond of my motherâ€"â€"" " i thought it was a footmgm. And it really was a footman, you know,“ says Luttrell, re- proaghfufly. _ F “ The bfitler, you mean, Luttrell," exclaims Sir Penthony, with exaggerated astonishment at his friend’s want of memory. “ And she, having most unluckin heard my mother say she feared she could not attend the auction, made up her mind to go herself and at all hazards secure the coveted mirror for herâ€"â€"" “ No, she didn‘t,” says Mr. Potts. growing excited too. “ So she started for my uncle’s -â€"-the cook. I meanâ€"and as soon as the mir- ror was put up began bidding away for it like a steam-engine. And presently some one in a pink bonnet began bidding too. and there they were bidding away against each other, the cook not knowing the bonnet, and my mother not being able to see the cook, she was so hemmed in by the crowd, until pres- ently it was knocked down to my mother -â€"who is a sort of person who would rather die than give inâ€"snd would you believe it ?” winds up Mr. Potts, nearly choking with de- light over the misfortunes of his maternal relative, “ she had given exactly five pounds more for that mirror than she need have done I” “ And she didn’t know my mother had on the new sea-green bonnet,” Sir Penthony breaks in! wi§hr growing egcjtement. RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, JULY 31, 1879. “ Not ohe of them,” deélares Cecil, with conviction; “ we should all die of mere inani- tionyereflit x30} rforryou.” " Potts: you aren‘t "half a one. Tell us another. Your splendid resources can’t be yet exhaflstedj” s_ays Philip. “ Yes, do, Potts, and wake me when you come to the point,” seconds Sir Penthony, warmly, sinking into an arm-chair, and grace- {lully disposing an antimmassm‘ over his ead. "A capital idea,” murmurs Luttrell. “ It will give us all a. hint when we are expected to laugh." “ Oh, you can chufi as you like,” exclaims Mr. Potts, much aggrieved; “ but I wonder, if I went to sleep in an arm-chair. which of you would carry on the conversation ?” “ I really think they’re all jea‘mus of me,” goes on Plantagenet, greatly lnrtlfied. “ I con- sider myself by far the moat interehting of them all, and the mostâ€"ervâ€"â€"" “ Then remain a little longer,” he growls, ungracioualy. “ The others have consented to prolong their stay, why Hhuuld not you 1’ Write to yourâ€"to Mr. Massereeue to that ef- fect. I cannot breathe in an umpty house. It is my wish, my desire that you shall stay," he finishes, irritably, this being one of his pain- ful days. So it is settled. She will obey this stabbed veteran’s behest and enjoy a little more of the good the gods have provided for her before re- turniyg to 139p guigt home. 7 7 They all laugh. Sir Penthony and Luttrell with a very suspicious mirth. “ Poor Mrs. Potts,” says Molly. “ 011, she didn’t mind. When she had te- lieved herself by blowing up the cook she laughed more than any of us. But it was a long time before the governor could be brought to see the joke. You know he paid for it," says Plantagenet, naively. “ The reason I so much admire it. I know no one such an adopt in pointing out a moral and adorning a tale as our Plantagenet.” Mr. Potts smiles superior. “ I think the adornment rested with you and Luttrell,” he says, with cutting sarcasm, answering Sir Pcuthony. “ Say it, Potts; don’t be shy," Rays Sir Penthony, raising a corner of the nutinnwas- sar, so as to give his friend the full uncout- agement of one whole eye. “Fascinating, I feel sure, will be the right word in the right plncg here.”fi _ â€" “It would, indeed. I know nobody so really interesting as Plantagenet," says Cecil, warnlly. â€"LADY CLARE.- It is close on October. Already the grass has assumed its sober garb uf bruwn ; a gen- eral earthiness is everywhere. The leaves are fallingâ€"not now in careful couples or one by one but in whole showers~â€"slowly, Horrowi ugly, as though 10th to quit the sighing branches, their last faint rustling making their dnath- song. Molly’s visit has drawn to an end. Hm" joy- ous month is over. To-day a letter from her brother reminding her of her promise to re- turn is within her hand, recalling all the ten. der sweeis of home life, all the calm pleasure she will gain, yet bringingwith it a. little sting, as she remembers all the. gay and laughing hours that she must lose. For indeed her time at Herst has proved a good time. “ I have had a leiter trap. mx brother grandpapa; he tllinks'ft’i‘s‘lima 1 shmfid re: turn," she says, accoating the old mm as he takes his solitary‘walk up and down one of the {headed paghs: ‘ “ D1111? No ifideed. How should I? 1 shall always remember my visit to you as one of the happy events ofrmy life.” “ Now that Mr. Amherst has induced us all to stay, don’t you think he might do some- thing to vary the entertainment 7” says Cecil, in e faintly injured tone. “ Shooting is all very well, of course, for those who like it; and so is tennis; and so are early hours ; but tou- jours perdrix. I confess I hate my bed un- til the small hours are upon me. Now, if he would only give a. ball. for instance I Do you think he would, Marcia, it he was asked ?” “ Ybur ladyship‘s judgment is always sound. I submit to it,” returns Sir Penthony, rising to make her a profound bow. “ Do you: find it so dull here ?" asks he, sharglx,_tu}‘31i1}g f0 geaiher face: 7 “ You‘will not desert us In our increased calamities, Molly. will you 7” asks Cecil, half an hour later, as Molly enters the common boudoir, where Lady Stafford and Marcia sit alone, the men being absent with their guns, and Mrs. Darley consequently in the blues. “ Where have you been ? We quite fancied you had taken a. lesson out of poor dear Maudie’s book and retired to your couch. Do you stay on at Horst ?” She glances up anx- iously from hervpainting as she speaks. “ Or keep 'an afieotionate cook," says Lut- trell. “ Or go to an auction,” says Philip. “ It is a V612 instructin tale ; ii is 3111}. mom}? “ Yes. Grandpapa has asked me to put off my departure for a while. So I shall. I have just written to John to any so, and to ask him if I may accept this second invitation." “ He may. But when ‘I represent to him how terribly his obdumcy will distress you all, should he insist on my return, I feel sure he will releut," retprtg Molly. nouchalantly. " Morali; never“ buy a new Bonnet," says Sir Penthony. “ How can I say ?” “ Would you ask him, dear ?" ” Well, I don’t think I would.” replies Marcia, with a rather forced laugh ; “ for this 188.3013, that it would not be of the slightest use. I might as well ask him for the moon. If there is one thing he distinctly ubhors, it is a hall.” “ But he might go to bed early, if he wished," persists Cecil; “ none of us would interfere or find fault with that arrangement. We would try and spare him, dear old thing. I don’t see why our enjoyment should put him out in the least, if he would only be rea- sonable. I declare I have a great mind to ask him myself.” ’ “ Do' you lhink it likely he will refuse ?” Marcia asks, urgpleusgntlyf, “ Do',“ says Molly, eagerly, who is struck with admiration at the entire idea, having nave} yet bAepn t0}; really Igicg ball. “ I would rather somebody else tried it first," confesses Cecil, with a. frank laugh. “ A hundred times I have made up my mind to ask a. favor of him, but when I found my- self face to face with him, and be fixed me with his eagle eye, I quailed. Molly, you are a. new importation ; try your luck." “ WellI I d011,]: mind if I do,” says Molly, valiantly. “ He can’t say worse than no. And here he is. coming slowly along under the balcony. Shall I seize the present oppor- tunity and storm the citadel out of hand ? I am sure if I wait I shall belike Bob Acres and find my courage oozing out through my fin- gersgi “ Then don’t,” says Cecil. “ If he molests you Vbsfdly‘, I promiseAto jn§erfere." Molly steps on to the balcony, and, looking down awaits the slow and languid approach of her grandfather; Just as he arrives beneath her she bends over until be, attracted by her presence, looks up. - She ia'laughiné down upon him, bent upon conquest, and has a blood-red rose in one hand. She waves it slightly to and fro, as though uncertain, as though dallying about “ ‘Why come you drest like a village maid That are the flower of the earth? ‘If‘ I come dxest like a village maid I am but as my fortunes moi" CHAPTER XXI. “ Wellâ€"becauseâ€"I really don’t believe I know why, except that I chose to be so. But grant me this, my first request. Ah ? do, now, grsgxdpapa. 5‘" “ What is this wonderful thing you would have me do ?” asks he, some of the accumu- lated verjuice of years disappearing from his face ; while Lady Stafford, from behind the curtain, looks on, trembling with fear for the success of her scheme, and Marcia listens and watches with envious rage. “ Well done I" cries, she, with a gay laugh, clapping her hands, feeling half surprised. wholly amused, at his nimbleness. “ Yet stay, grandpeps, do not go so soon. Iâ€"have a favor to ask of you." “ Well 7” “ We have been discussing something de- lightful for the past five minutesâ€"something downright delicious; but we can do nothing without you. Will you help us, grandpasz ? will you ?” She asks all this with the prettiest grace, gazing down undounted into the sour old face raised to hers. “ Why are you spokeswoman ?” he, in a tone that makes the deeply CeciLgvifihiI; groan algud. __ v The; szeet coaxing of the Irish “ Ah ?” pen- etrates even this old witheredheart. “ We want you toâ€"give a. ball,” says Molly, boldly, with a little gasp, keeping her large eyes fixed in eager anxiety upon his face, while her pretty parted lips seem still to en» treat. “ Say yes to me, grandpapa.” “ Crying will come too soon, child. None escape. Keep your eyes dry as long as your heart will let you. No, you shall not fret be- cause of me. You shall have your ball. I promise you. and as soon as ever you please." So saying, and with a quick movement of the hand that declines all thanks, he moves away, leaving Molly to return to the boudoir triumphant, though somewhat struck and sad- dened by his words and manner. How to rehfse so tende; a pléaaing ? How bring the blank that a. No must cause upon her (iante, loyer fape ? " Suppose I say I cannot ?" asks he ; but his tone has altered wonderfully, and there is an expression that is almost amiable upon his face. The utter absence of constraint, of fear, she displays in his presence has charmed him, being so unlike the studied manner of all these with whom he comes in contact. “ Then I shall cry my eyes out,” says Mol- ly, still lightly, though secretly her heart is liqking. “Have a rose, grandpapa ?” says Molly, stooping still further over the iron railings, her voice sweet and fresh as the dead and gone Elsanor’e. As she speaks she; drops the flower, and he, dexterously, by some fortuitous chance, catches it. ' TheEe is a. perceptible pause. Then Mr‘ Amhgrstg says! glowly, regretfully :_ “ Let'me embrace you,” cries Cecil, tragi- cally, flinging herself into her arms. “.Molly, Molly,._ you are a shien 1" The invitations are issued, and unanimous- ly accepted. A ball at Herst is such a novelty that the county to a. man declare their inten- tion of being present at it. It therefore prom- ises to be a great success. W'iiih'out a word or a. look, Marcfa. rises slowly and quits the room. As for the house itself, it is in 9. state of de- licious unrest. There is a good deal of noise. but very little performance, and every one gives voice now and then to the most start- ling opinions. One might, indeed, imagine that all these peopleâ€"who, when in town during the season, yawn systematically through their two or three balls of a night- had never seen one, so eager and anxious are they for the success of this solitary bit of dis- sipation. Lady Staflord is in great form, and be- comes even more debommire and saucy than is her wont. Even Marcia seems to take some interest in it, and. lets a. little vein (f excitement crop up here and therezthrough all the frozen placidity of her manner; while Molly. who has never yet been at a really large affair of the kind, loses her head, and finds herself unable to think or converse on any (#139: qubjgct: . When all the others sit and talk compla- cently of their silks and sstins, floating tulles and laces, she, with a. pang, remembers that all she has to wear is a plain white muslin. It is hard. No doubt she will look prettyâ€"per- haps prettier and fairer than mostâ€"in the despised muslin ; but as surely she will look poorly attired, and the thought is not inspir- 111g. The old man, pausing, looks up at her, and, looking, sighsâ€"perhaps for his dead youthâ€"â€" perhaps because she so much resembles her mother, dinowned and forgotten. Yet in all this beautiful but unhappy world where is the pleasure that contains no sting of pain ? Molly’s is a sharp little sting that prioks’ her constantly and brings an uneasy sigh to her lips. Perhaps in a man's eyes the cause would be considered small, but surely in a woman’s overwhelming. It is a question of dress, and poor Molly’s mind is much exer- cised thereon. giving utterance to some thought that pines for freedom. No one but a Woman Can know what a woman thinks on such a. subject ; and al- though she faces the situation philosophically enough, and by no means despises herself for the pangs of envy she endures when listening to Maud Darley’s account of the triumph in robes to be sent by Worth for the Horst ball, she still shrinks from the cross-examination she will surely have to undergo at the hands of Cecil Stafford as to her costume for the coming event. One day. a fortnight before the ball, Cecil does seize on her, and, carrying her off to her own room and placing her in her favorite chair, says abruptly 2 . “ What about your dress, Molly ‘2” “ I don‘t know that there is anything to say about it,” says Molly, who is in low spir- its. “ The only thing I have is a new white muslin, and that will scarcely astonish the natives." “ Muslin 1 0h, Molly I Not but that it is pretty alwaysâ€"I know nothing more seâ€"but for a ball-dressâ€"rocco. I have set my heart on seeing you resplendent ; and if you are not more gorgeous than Marcia I shall break down. Muslin won’t do at all.” “ But I’m afraid it must." " What a pity it is I am so much shorter than you 1” says Cecil, regretfully. “ Now, if I was taller we might make one of my dresses suit _y;ou.”_ _ “ Yes, it is apity~a dreadful pity,” says Molly, mournfully. “ I should like to be really well dressed. Marcia, I suppose, will be in satin, or something else > equally desir- able.” “ No doubt she will deck herself out in Oriental splendor, if she discovers you can’t,” 3203 Cecil, angrily. There is a. pauseâ€"a decided one. Cecil sits frowning and staring at Molly, who has sunk into an attitude expressive of the deep- est dejection. The little ormulu clock, re- gardless of emotion, ticks on undisturbed un- til three full minutes vanish into the past. Then Cecil, as though suddenly inspired, says: eagerly»: 7‘ Mofiy, {why not ask your grandfather to giveiyou a drags 7’) “Not fqr all the world! Nothing would induce me. IfI was'hever to see a ball I would not ask him for Sixpence. How could you think it _of me, Cecil ?" â€" “ Why didn’t I ihink of it léng ago, you mean f I only wish he was my grandfather, and I would never cease persecuting him, demands attentive Teefy “I do not indeed. Of course, beyond all doubt, he behaved badly ; still I really think," says Cecil, in a highly moralizing tone, “there is nothing on earth so mistaken as pride. I am free from it. I don’t know the meaning of it, and I know I am all the hap- pier in consequence.” ' “ Perhaps I am more angry than proud.” “Molly, she says, presently, with a fine amount of indifferenee in her toneâ€"rather suspicious, to say the least of itâ€"“ I feel sure you are rightâ€"quite right. I like you all the better for â€"your pride, or whatever you may wish to cell it. But what a. pity it is your grandfather would not offer you a dress or a check to buy it 1 I suppose”â€"quietly-“ if he did, you would take it ‘1’” “ What a chance there is of that l” says Molly, still gloomy. “ Yes, if he offered it I do not think I could bring myself to refuse it. I am not adamant. You see”â€"-With a. faint laughâ€"“ my pride would not carry me very far." “Far enough. Let us go down to the others,” says Cecil, rising and yawning slightly. “They will think we are planning high treason if we absent ourselves any longer." “ It would be such a simple way,” says Oe- cil, with a melancholy sighâ€"dear Molly is so obstinate and old-fashioned ; then follows another pause, longer and more decided than the last. Molly, with her back turned to her friend, commences such a dismal tattoo upon the window-pane as would be sufficient to de- press any one without further cause. Her frieqd: is pondering deeply. As tlley reach the centl‘e of it, Ce-cil stops abruptly, and saying carelessly, “ I will be back in one moment,” turns and leaves the room. . Molly, withva. shiver. muses it. tfirows on a fresh log, and amuses herself trying to induce the tardy flames to climb and lick it until Lady Stafiord returns. So busy has she been, it seems to her as though only a. minute has elapsed since her idepartu‘re.” “Nothing; but a great deal what John thinks. It would be casting a slight upon him,'as though he stinted me in clothes or money, and I will not do it.” Together they go down-stairs and into the drawinrgmoomtwhrich they find empty: The apartment is deserted. No sound pene- trates to it. Even the very fire, in a. fit of piqqezihas {lggenqmted mto a d_u11 glow. “ It is 'the same thing: ‘and 1â€"wish you weren’t. Oh, Molly! do ask him. What can it sigyiffiyrwhat J19 thinks 7" “ This does look cosy,” Cecil says, easily sinkmg into a lounging-chair. “ Now, if those tiresome men had not gone shooting we should not be 551316 to caddie into our fire as we are doing at present. After all, it is a posi- tive relief to get them out of the wayâ€"some- times.” ' “ I am, for all that. With a good novel I would now be utterly content for an hour or two. By the bye, I left my book on the library table. If you were good-natured, Molly, I know What you would do.” “ So do I; I would get it for you. Well, taking into consideration all things, your age and growing infirmities among them, I will accept your hint.” And, rising, she goes in search of the missing volume. To the commonest observer it would occur that from the break to the finish of this little sentence is one clumsy invention. “ Yes ‘2” says Molly. “ Have you a dress for this ballâ€"this senseâ€" less rout that is coming off ?” says Mr. Am- herst, Without looking at her. ' “ Yes, grandpapa.” 1n 9. tone 9. degree harder, “ You forget the circumstances of my case.” " You don’t seem very hearty about that sentence." . ~ “ Oh !” cries she, with a surprised start. “ I beg your pardon, grandpa. If”â€"-p&usiug on the thresholdâ€"â€"“ I had known you were here I would not have disturbed you." “ You don’t disturb me,” repliés he, with- out looking up ; and picking up the required book, Molly commences a‘hasjy regreat. Bdt justuas she gains the dBor her grand- father’s voice once more arrests her. “ Wait,” he says. “ I want to ask you a question thatâ€"that has been on my mind for a considerable hme.” “ Well, that greatly depends upon taste," returns Molly, who, though angry. finds a grim amusement in watching the flounderings of this tactless 01d person. “ If we are to be- lieve that beauty unndomed is adorned the most. I may certainly flatter myself I shall be the best dressed woman in the room. But there may be some who- will not call White muslin handsome.” morning, noon, and night. What is the use of a. grandfather if it isn’t to tip one every now and then?” Opening the librarsv door with a little bang and a. good deal of reckless unconsciousness, she finds herself in M1"T rAmherst‘sr pgesence. “ Ydu are my granddaughter. I desire to see you dressed as such. IB”â€"â€"â€"with an effort â€"â€"“ your gown a handsome one ?” “ White muslin up to sixteen is very charming," Mr. Amherst says, in a slow tone of a connoisseur in such matters, “ but not beyond. And you are, I think " “ Nineteen.” “ Quite so. Then in your case I should condemn the muslin. You will permit me to give you a dress, Eleanor, more in accordance with your age andâ€"position." “ Thank you very much, grandpapa," says Molly, with a little ominous gleam in her blue eyes. “ You are too good. I am deeply sensible of all your kindness, but I really cannot see how my position has altered of late. As you have just discovered, I am now nineteen. and for so many years I have managed to look extremely well in white mus- lin.” As she finishes her modest speech she feels she has gone too far. She has been almost impertinent, considering his age and relation- ship to her; nay, more, she has been ungen- 61'0115. Her small taunt has gone home. Mr. Am- herst rises from his chair ; the dull red of old age comes painfully into his withered cheeks as he stands gazing at her, slight, erect, with be: proud little head upheld so haughtily. Far a moment angeigmasters him"; tHen it fades, and something as near remorse as his heart can hold replaces itt Molly, returning his glance with interest, knows he is annoyed. But she does not know that, standing as she now does, with up- lifted chin and gleaming eyes, and just a slight indmwing of the lips, she is the very image of the dead-and-gone Eleanorâ€"that in spite of her Irish father, her Irish name, she is a living, breathing, defiant Amherst._ In silefiée that trciibles her she waits for the next word. It comes slowly, almost en- treatinglyfl “ Moll ',” says her grandfather, in a tone that tremblea ever so littleâ€"it is the first time he has ever called her by her pet name â€"“ Molly, I shall take it as a. great favor if you will accede to my request and accept- this.” As he finishes he holds out touher a check, reggrding he; eaxjnestly the While. The “Molly” has done it. Too generous even to hesitate, she takes the paper, and, go- ing closer to him, lays her hand upon his shoulder. “I have been rude, grandpapuâ€"I beg yout pardonâ€"and I am very much obliged to you forA this mpneyf’ So saying-she bends and presses her soft sweet lips to his cheek. He makes no efiort to return the caress, but long after she leaves WHOLE NO.1,098â€"N0. 8; " Very good,” days Cecil, with a relieved sigh. “ He is not such a bad old thing. when all is told.” “ It is too much," says Molly, aghast, “ I can’t take it indeed. I would have thought twenty poundsa great deal, but a hundred pounds ! I must take it back to him." ‘ “ Are you mad,” exclaims Cecil, “ to insult him? He thinks nothing of a. hundred pounds. And to give back moneyâ€"that scarce commodityâ€"how could you bring your- self to do it ?” In tones of the liveliest re- proach. “ Be reasonable, dear, and let us see how we can spend it fast enough.” Unfolding the paper: they. find the check has been drawn for a. hupdged p_o_unds. Thus adjured, Molly succumbs, and sink- ing into a chair, is'500n deep in the unfath- omable mysteries of silks and satins, tulle and flowers. ' ” Was it too glaring? Well, I will‘do away with it. I was thinking entirely of Letty. I was comparing her skin very favorably with yours. That reminds me I must write home to-day. I hope John won’t be offended with me about this money. Though, after. all. there can’t be much harm in accepting a. present from one’s grandfather.” “ I should think‘not, indeed. «I only wish I had a grandfather ; .and wouldn’t I utllize him ! But I am an unfortunateâ€"alone in the world.” ‘ ’ Even as she speaks, the door in the next drawing-room opens, and through the‘folding- doors, which stand apart, she sees her hus- band enter and make his way to a. davenport. “Perhaps he was, my dearâ€"there is no knowing what any of us may come toâ€"â€" though you must excuse me if I say I rather doubt it. Well, and what did he say ?” “ Very little indeed,- _and that little a- fail- ure. When going about it you might have given him a. few lessons in his role. So bung- ling a. performance as the leading up to it I never witnessed ; and when he wound up by handing me a check ready prepared beside him on the desk I very nearly laughed.” “ Old goose! Never mind; they laugh who win ; I have won.” “So you have.” “ Well, but look, Molly, look. I want to see how far his unwanted gentleness has eer- ried him. I am dying of curiosity. I do hope he has not been shabby.” “ And, Cecil, I should like'to buy Letitia a silk dress like that one of yours.up~sts.irs I ad- mire so much.” “ The navy-blue 7" - ‘ “ No, the olive»green ; it would just suit her. She has a lovely complexion, clear and. tinted like your own.” “ Thank you, dear. It is to be regretted you are of the Weaker sex. So delicately veiled a compliment would not have disgraced a Ches- terfield." “ That destroys your arguinéu ,” says 1101- 1y, with a low laugh. as she runs away to her own room to wrlte her letters. For a few minutes Cecil sits, silently enjoy- ing a distant View of her husband’s back. W“‘ she is far-too much of a coquette to let him long remain in ignorance of her near proxim- ity. Going softly up to him, and leaning light- ly over his shoulder, she says, in a half-whis~ per: “ What are you doing ?" He starts a. little, not having expected to see so fair an apparition, and lays one of his hands over bars as it rests upon his shoulder. “ N0"â€"~1&ughing, and unfolding her palm, where the paper lies crushedâ€"“ but I was very near it. But that his manner was so kind. so marvellously gentle,for him, I should have done so. Cecil, I couldn’t help think- ing that perhaps long ago, before the world hardened him, grandpapa was a nice young " Is it you ?” he says. “ I-did not hear you coming.” “ N5? That was because I was fafthest from your thoughts. You are writing ? To Who'm ?” “ You didn’t refuse it ‘2 Oh, Molly, after 8.11 my trouble? !” 7 “ My tailor, for one. It is a sad but certain fact, that sooner or'later one’s tailor must be paidiY feil.” “ Is your life spoiled ‘2" “ Oh, yes, in many ways." “Poor little soul!” _says he, with a. half laugh, tightening his fingers over hers. “ Is your dressmaker hard-hearted ?" the'room" sits stiring :vagnely beforo'him out of the dreary window on to the still more dreary landscape outside, thinking of vanished days and. haunting actions that will not be laid. but carry with them their sure' and keen revenge, in the knOwledge that‘to the dead no ill can be undone. *' ,_ " - little. it.” “ So must one’s‘ modiste.” With a sigh. ‘f It is that sort of person who spoils one’s “ Don't get me to begin on that subject, or I shall never leave off. The wrongs I have suffered at that woman’s hansls I But then whyAtalk of what cannot be h_elped ‘2” you “I am afraid not." Moving a little way from him. “ And yet, perhaps, if you choose, you might; You are writing ; I wish," throw- ing down her eyes, as though confused (which she isn’t), and assuming her most guileless air, “ you would write something for [Welland Tribune] The many friends of Mr. Hugh J. Mc. Phelan in this county will learn with the most sincere regret of his drowning, which occurred on the 25th of June, in Little Hart River, near Bismarck, Dakoteh Territory, whilst in the self-sacrificing attempt to save the life of a drowning boy. The boy had gone in swimming, got beyond his depth and was drowning, Mr. McPhelan went to the rescue, and, whilst the boy’s life was saved, sad to relate, his rescuer was drowned. The deceased was about nineteen years of age, and a son of Mr. Cornelius McPhelan, of Humberstone township. The young man was possessed of an adventurous and enterprising spirit, and a, short time ago went west to” find a wider field for action. The instance in question is not the first of his having dlstinguished himself for unusual bravery. Some months ago, it will be remembered, he excited the admiration plaudits of the Western press by running a. locomotive through a. gauntlet of fire, ssving an immense amount of property. His rele- tives possess the heartfelt sympathy of the public in their distressing bereavement, only alleviated by the recollection, of which they may well feel proud, that this noble young man lost his life whilst in the performance of the truest act of heroism in the power of hu- manity to accomplish} â€"-Ons of the institutions of London is the oharwoman, or washerwoman. Does a. woman fail as a servant, does the eyesight of a seam- stress give way, is the wife or widow of an artisan laborer overtaken by adversity, she falls into the great army of charwomen. Some are trustworthy and are employed for years in the same family and take care of the house. Their pay is from 50 to 75 cents a day, with food. - Molly, going back to the drawing-room, finds Cecil there, serene as usual. r “ Well, and where is my book ?” asks that innocent. “ I thought you Were never oom- “ Cecil, Why did you tell grandpapa. to offer me a dress ?” demands Molly, abruptly. ' “ My dearest girl ! ” exclaims Cecil, and then has the grace to stop and blush a. â€"Whenever you are tempted to indulge in criticising your minister-a. very bad habit to get into, by the wayâ€"you ought to be careful in your choice of languag . “That is what I call a. finished Herman,” said an adore): to an indifiierent as they wedded their way from church. “Yes” was the reply with eyawn,“but. do you know, I thought it never would bed: “ What a. simple request 1 Of course I will ~anything.” - - “ Really 7 You promise ‘2” [TO BE CONTINUEDJ Perhaps it may. (Jim I a0 nothing for You did. There is no use your denying A FATAL ACT 01" HERIDIBM‘