account of ill health, to quit the large public school in which he then was; and though now quite well again, he had not returned, but was studying with a tutor at home for a year or two before entering the University.

"How do you do?" said Mr. Wentworth, shaking hands with Constance. "I thought I would come in as I was passing, to see how Mrs. Mansfield was to-day."

"She is much the same as usual," said Constance. "I don't think mamma ever will be very strong, Mr. Wentworth; but she isn't ill at all."

"Not in the least," was Mr. Wentworth's reply, and Constance was satisfied.

The gentlemen began to talk together, and Constance withdrew her arm from her father's, and fell behind with Bertram, who remarked, "By-the-bye, Constance, did we see you just now patronizing a ragged woman over the gate ?"

"Without knowing anything about her, of course," remarked Bertram. "I wonder you have the conscience to do it, Constance. A regular vagrant-most likely an impostor."

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Most likely nothing of the sort," said Constance, warmly. "And as to her being a vagrant, I suppose you wouldn't have me give only to respectable people with comfortable homes, would you?"

"I don't like indiscriminate giving," returned Bertram, rather loftily. "I have no doubt that the money you have given to-day will be spent at the gin-shop before many hours are over."

"You have no reason for thinking any such thing, Bertram."

"A great deal of reason," coolly replied Bertram. "Not one in a thousand of such people is really deserving of help. I never help beggars, and I never intend to do so-never," repeated Bertram, with all the decision of at least fifty years' experience. "I know very well that I should only be encouraging idleness, and drunkenness, and vice of all descriptions."

"Take care, Bertram." Constance's cheeks were scarlet. Papa gave me the five shillings

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himself for her."

The gentlemen had both overheard Bertram's last remark, which was delivered with considerable emphasis, and they turned round, Mr. Mansfield remarking,

"Neatly expressed, my boy; but it sounds better in theory than it works in practice. You must remember that by never giving at all, you injure the deserving as much as you punish the undeserving."

“There are not many deserving," muttered Bertram.

"I do not say there are," said Mr. Mansfield gravely. "But surely, Bertram, it is not for us to decide which of our fellow-creatures is worthy of receiving our aid. All we can do when we see another in distress, is to attempt something, however small, to assist and relieve. If we all had according to our deserts, we should have little indeed."

"But a great many pretend to be in distress who are not," persisted Bertram, " and money is only thrown away on them."

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'I grant it; yet surely that is no sufficient reason for refusing in future to help those who are truly in need."

"No, papa," said Bertram rather unwillingly. "Only one never knows that it isn't all an imposition. There is always reason to suspect it."

"Bertram is more cautious than Constance," remarked Mr. Wentworth. "Never mind him, Constance. Generosity and open-handedness are much to be admired; though it is not every one that can afford to give five shillings to whoever asks for it, as I know you like to do."

"I don't give for admiration," bluntly returned Constance. "I only do it because I think it right, and-and because I like it," she added frankly, drawing a smile from her father.

"I am afraid, Constance, that it is quite as much from instinct as from principle,” he said. 'Papa, would you have that different?" asked Constance wistfully.

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I would have the natural instinct subordi. nate to principle, Constance," he replied seriously, almost sadly. "There is more truth, perhaps, in Bertram's words than either you or I are at first inclined to allow. I am sometimes afraid that I may have done almost more harm than good in my lifetime by such indiscriminate alms-giving. Yet it is hard to refuse aid to those who ask and appear to need it. It may be weakness, but I can seldom resolve to do so?

Constance's lips quivered and her eyes flashed, as she looked up in his face, with a mingling of admiration for the true and generous humility which formed so large a

feature in his character, and of anger towards Bertram for having said anything to pain him. "Papa, I only know you have done a great, great deal of good, and I wish every one in the world were like you. I can't bear precise, coldhearted, calculating people; and what is more, I don't believe they are right. I am sure they are not. Every one ought to be ready to give to every one. The Bible says so. You know, papa, the verse, 'Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.' It is all very fine to talk about encouraging vice, as Bertram is so fond of doing, and as most people are who prefer to keep their money to themselves; but I don't see that anything can possibly be plainer than that text. And I am sure there is nothing there about encouraging vice."

"Such injunctions as that you have quoted must be taken rather in the spirit than the letter," remarked Mr. Wentworth.

"So I know every one says," returned Constance; "but I don't understand what they mean, and I don't believe they do themselves. At least it always seems to me that their way of taking it as you say, is just to disobey the command altogether. And I would rather be guilty of going too far, I mean of taking it too literally, than not literally enough. But the stingier people are by nature, the more they preach against helping the poor, because they don't like doing it themselves."

"Gently, Constance; that is uncharitable," said Mr. Mansfield, quietly; and Bertram remarked,

"Constance thinks every one stingy who isn't ready to fling a sovereign to every beggar | he passes."

"No, I don't," began Constance warmly, and then paused and bit her lip to keep in the sharp retort that had almost escaped her. A minute's silence was broken by a question from Mr. Wentworth.

home, but as yet we have hoped in vain. He applied once for leave, and was refused."

"I suppose Constance has quite forgotten him. How many years is it since he went out? It seems a very long time."

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'Just seven years. Constance was only nine years old then, and Leonard was seventeen."

"And a very teasing, troublesome child I expect he found me," said Constance, laughing, "However, he used to pay me back by plaguing me about my dolls. But of course he has grown old and sober now, and I dare say we should get on better together."

“As far as the dolls are concerned, I should say there was no doubt of it," remarked Ber. tram drily, and Constance burst into a merry laugh.

"Poor Leonard! I remember tormenting him terribly when he was deeply engaged over his lesson-books, and I used to interrupt him and make noises to disturb him, just for the pure love of making him angry, though I was generally rather frightened when I had succeeded. I am always very curious to see what he has turned out after all these years."

"A man of sterling character and principle. That may be seen from his letters," said Mr. Mansfield. "There is your mother at the drawing-room window, looking out for us."

They had been pacing slowly round the back of the house, and had now reached the front. Constance saw her mother beckon to her, and ran into the house, followed more quietly by the others. They had hardly arrived at the hall door, when she appeared again, eagerly exclaiming,

"News, papa! The mail has come in." "A letter from Leonard? What does he say ?" hastily inquired Mr. Mansfield.

"He is coming home, papa. I don't know any particulars yet. There are just a few lines to you, which mamma opened, as you were out.

"It is a month since we have heard anything," said Mr. Mansfield. "I was rather hoping to have a letter by to-day's post, as I believe the mail is in."

"A whole month since you last heard! I did not know it was so long as that. And that was a bad account of him too. Jungle fever, was it not, that he had had ?”

"Yes, poor fellow! He has had such repeated attacks of fever, that he must be terribly pulled down. I wish we could have him

to come out and tell you about it. How nice it will be to have him back!"

They were all close to the drawing-room by this time, and in another minute were in possession of details,-at least of such meagre details as Mrs. Mansfield was able to impart. Very little information was to be gained from the hurried feeble scrawl, beyond the fact that Captain Vivian's health had at length completely broken down, and he had been ordered home without delay. This, with the information that his return would be by the overland route, and

his arrival in England he hoped no long time after their receipt of his letter, was nearly all it contained. The conclusion was in these words:

"Has Constance forgotten her old playfellow of seven years ago? I am afraid she will herself be grown out of all knowledge.' Many thanks, my dear father, for your most kind and cordial letter of April 10. It came at a time when it was peculiarly welcome. I have always, indeed, felt that I had a home at the Rookery, but it is pleasant to have assurance made doubly sure by such a letter. Thank dear Mrs. Mansfield too for her kind message." "At last!" said Mr. Mansfield. "I am very glad of it. But I am afraid he has been seriously ill. I hope he has told us all," and he took up the letter again, glancing anxiously over it. "The tone is cheerful, only I do not like that trembling hand."

"England will soon set him up again," said Constance, confidently. "O papa, what will Miss Vivian say ?"

"Why should she say anything?" quietly asked Mrs. Mansfield, who had relapsed into her usual listless manner. "I do not see how his return will affect her."

"Not affect her personally, mamma, perhaps, but it will be like James the Sixth of Scotland coming to England in the lifetime of Queen Elizabeth. Miss Vivian has a perfect horror of heirs in general, and of Leonard in particular." "Miss Vivian is not likely to have anything to do with him," said Mrs. Mansfield again. "She never troubled herself much about him when he was a boy."

with a smile. "We cannot set all the world to rights. You must make allowances for poor Miss Vivian's long lonely life."

"So I do, papa"-only Constance could not help adding, "it is partly her own fault that she is so lonely."

CHAPTER II.

"In her air

There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land." Opposite the Rookery Garden, on the other side of the road, were the extensive grounds of Vivian Mansion, the two gates exactly facing one another. The house stood far back amongst fine tall trees; and traces of former grandeur were still visible in the lofty building; but signs of neglect, if not of poverty, were now only too plainly to be seen in all around. Of flowers there were absolutely none, except here and there a hardy rose bush that had survived untended and uncared for, and reared its straggling head among the weeds, brambles, and bushes, which grew in rich luxuriance alike on beds and grass, and even encroached so far upon the damp, green-looking paths, as to make walking in wet weather a matter of some difficulty.

The exterior of the house was quite in keeping with the forlorn condition of the garden. Several of the upper windows contained broken panes of glass, while the front door, and indeed all the wood-work, was so worn, scratched, and knocked about from years of hard usage, and still more of neglect, that a stranger might

"I do not suppose she is likely now to encourage his intercourse any more than formerly," said Mr. Mansfield. "Poor old lady! age does not soften her dislikes."

"Very unfounded dislikes," said Constance. "And she has no real reason for treating him so. Oh, it is nothing but a regular Elizabethan horror of her rightful successor, papa! Isn't it, Mr. Wentworth ?"

"Very unlikely that he will ever succeed to her property," said Mr. Mansfield, quietly. "Miss Vivian is at perfect liberty to dispose of it as she will, and I do not think her choice is likely to fall upon Leonard."

"It is a great shame, then," said Constance, rather indignantly. "I suppose Captain Gifford will come in for it, just because he has no right." "Patience, Constance," said Mr. Mansfield,

ever been laid upon them. Certainly the appearance of it had long since almost vanished. The house within was dark, forlorn, and gloomy. Many of the rooms were unoccupied, and almost unvisited, being filled with piles of useless lumber, covered profusely with dust and cobwebs. The furniture was all of exceedingly ancient date, massive and ponderous; that of the drawing-room had, once upon a time, been covered with rich crimson damask, but the crimson had faded into a dingy pinkish brown, and the damask was wearing out into large holes. Very few ornaments were in the room, beyond the two or three valuable old pictures that hung upon the walls; and even those were so grim and sombre in character, that they could scarcely be termed ornamental.

The solitary occupant of Vivian Mansion

suited well with the general aspect of things around her. Miss Vivian was evidently far advanced in life; her form was tall but bending, her features thin and sallow, her lips compressed, and there was something painfully hard and chilling in the glance of her hollow dark eyes.

On the day of her introduction to the reader, she was seated in the drawing-room. Her worn, busy, nervous hands were engaged in slowly knitting a thick stocking-for her own wearing. Her dress altogether was plain, and coarse in material.

She had been working thus for a considerable time, when there was a light tap at the door, and she called, "Come in! Is it Bentley ?"

The summons was answered by a young girl, about nineteen years of age, tall and fair, with a broad peaceful brow, large gentle brown eyes, and a calm 'graceful dignity of bearing, rendered still more remarkable by the Quakerlike quietness of her dress. From the straw hat, slightly trimmed with black velvet, down to the brown holland dress, her appearance was one of extreme simplicity, and at the same time of perfect good taste. It was the kind of face and figure to look not only well, but striking, in whatever attire she might choose to present herself.

"Did you want Bentley, Miss Vivian? Shall I call her for you?”

"No, not now," said Miss Vivian, looking up, evidently pleased at the sight of her visitor. "Is Mr. Wentworth coming to see me this morning?"

“I don't know that he intended to do so today, Miss Vivian," the young lady replied, seating herself on a low, faded ottoman of elaborate worsted-work, every stitch of which had been done by the hand in days long gone by. "Are you feeling stronger to-day ?"

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“Very well, thank you. Nothing much is the matter with me," added Miss Vivian, drawing herself up. In fact I am much stronger than last year. If it were not for the weakness in my ancles, I could walk as far as any one."

"Dear Miss Vivian, if a change is necessary for your health, ought you not to think of it?"

"I tell you I can't afford it. You are as bad as your father, Beatrice, to be always harping on that. And if I could, I would not go. What do I want with the seaside? I leave that to girls like you."

A silence followed, broken by Beatrice. "Miss Vivian, I wanted to ask you if you had heard the news?"

"What news?" asked Miss Vivian, rather contemptuously. "Some of the town gossip? I thought you were above that, Beatrice."

"Not gossip, Miss Vivian," returned Beatrice, with gentle patience. "It is only that the Mansfields"

You know I don't care anything at all about the Mansfields, Beatrice," interrupted Miss Vivian, irately.

"Not even to know when they are happy?" asked Beatrice, quietly.

"What does that matter to me? I have nothing to do with the Mansfields. You will be saying next that they have the claim of relationship, as you are so fond of calling it."

"If they have not, some one else has," said Beatrice, raising her eyes, and fixing them on Miss Vivian's face.

"I tell you, Beatrice, that boy has no claim on me at all," returned Miss Vivian, angrily; I have told you so a hundred times already. A claim, indeed!"

"Yes, upon your kindness and affection," said Beatrice, gently. "Both you and Captain Vivian have very few relations in the world, and it seems such a pity that you should know so little of one another."

"What do you know of Captain Vivian, Beatrice ?" demanded Miss Vivian.

Beatrice smiled.

"I knew him very well as a child, Miss Vivian, and if he has turned out all that he then promised, and all that I now hear he is, you have nothing to be ashamed of in the relationship."

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'I never said I was ashamed. I am simply indifferent to him. Besides, you know nothing at all about it, Beatrice," added Miss Vivian, more emphatically. "Nothing whatever! you had a few games of play with him when you were in the nursery, and he was a schoolboy, and what knowledge could that give you of his character? I don't say he is not all you suppose, but you certainly cannot say he is. And whatever he is, it does not concern me in

Beatrice was silent a minute, and then said, "You don't wish to hear my news, Miss Vivian ?"

"Not if it has anything to do with Leonard Vivian."

"Not even if it is that he is coming home ?" "If he is, I have nothing to do with it," resolutely returned Miss Vivian. Captain Vivian is nothing to me."

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"His health has completely broken down," quietly observed Beatrice, as if she had not heard the last remark. "He never was very strong, and he has had attack after attack of fever, until the doctors say he must return to England at once." No answer.

"But, Miss Vivian, if Mr. Mansfield can afford it, why should he not give to those who need help? I don't think there is anything that I admire more than such generosity as his. He can never bear to see any one in want without giving relief in one shape or another."

"Just my idea of Mr. Mansfield,-weak and easily led," said Miss Vivian in a tone of satisfaction.

Beatrice's soft brown eyes, downcast and glistening with feeling, were raised with something very like a flash of indignation.

"Constance is so pleased to hear he is coming back," continued Beatrice. "She was very fond of him, I think, as a child, and he was always just like a brother to her. I wish you knew more of Constance, Miss Vivian."

Dead silence; and Miss Vivian's lips were squeezed together till they looked like a mere thin straight line.

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She is such a sweet bright creature, and always so loving and happy. I don't think I ever saw such full, ready sympathy in any one, except her father; and she is just like him."

“Mr. Mansfield is a spendthrift," said Miss Vivian, shortly.

Beatrice shook her head.

"You would not say that if you really knew him, Miss Vivian."

"I know him well by character; quite as well as you do, He is a regular spendthrift, Beatrice; throws away crowns and sovereigns to whoever takes the trouble to ask for them, and is on the high road to beggary. I have no patience with such weakness."

Beatrice could not suppress a quiet laugh. The idea of beggary seemed so extremely absurd in connexion with the Rookery, and its comforts and elegancies. And weakness! Mr. Mansfield, with his gentlemanly dignity of manner, and his fine noble character and princelike generosity, to be termed weak! She smiled again at the thought.

"You may laugh, Beatrice, but some day you will find my words to be true. However, I have nothing to do with Mr. Mansfield, and his actions are of no consequence to me."

This was the usual refrain, when either the Mansfields or Captain Vivian were under dis

Miss Vivian's brow clouded. Beatrice's remarks sounded rather like a tacit reproach upon herself. She said nothing, but worked resolutely at her stockings. Presently Beatrice spoke again in her usual placid tone,

"So you will not welcome poor Captain Vivian home, Miss Vivian? Not after he has been so ill ?"

"Captain Vivian is nothing to me, and never will be," decisively returned Miss Vivian. "If you cannot talk about anything else but that family to-day, Beatrice, I should much prefer to be alone. The subject does not interest me."

"I am afraid the other subject upon which I wished to speak to you, will not please you much more, Miss Vivian."

"Then you had better keep it to yourself," returned Miss Vivian, who was entirely devoid of the weakness of curiosity; "I have no wish for any more unpleasant discussions."

"But I am going to ask you, notwithstanding," said Beatrice, with gentle persistence. "I want some help for a poor family in Rookdale, in my district. They are in wretched circumstances, and have no friends to help them. I am trying to raise a subscription for them. You will contribute something this once, Miss Vivian, will you not?"

"Not a penny!" was the resolute answer. "You know my opinion on that subject, Beatrice, a great deal too well, to expect me to do anything of the sort."

"But this is not careless giving, without knowing whether it will do good or harm, Miss Vivian. They are as honest and steady as they