"Is James a good shot?"

"I shan't tell you. I hate to say anyting in his praise he's always so dreadfully successful. Gabrielle, promise, for my sake, to refuse him, if he should give you a chance.'

"You had better make that request to Miss Featherstone," replied Gabrielle. But her heart sickened as she spoke.

Miss Featherstone herself, lovely as ever, was standing with Marian on the steps, when, an hour later, Cissy and Gabrielle came within sight of the hall door. The gentlemen were just returned; and James, looking peculiarly handsome in his shooting-coat and knickerbockers, a bag of grouse slung across his shoulders, and a gun in his hand, stood at the foot of the steps, answering questions, and flirting-or appearances deceived -with The.

"Oh, Mr. Gordon! do keep your gun still! I'm sure it will go off and shoot me.'

"And I am sure that-even were it, which

it isn't, loaded-my gun would never do so!"

"Oh, of course.

Your gun is perfect, be

others what they may!

Here comes Cissy;

and who is with her? Miss Wynn?" "Yes; Gabrielle. I thought she was at Lorton," said Marian gently.

James, who had been standing with his back to the park, looked round. A change passed over his face: a momentary quiver. He saw her slowly approaching, by Cissy's side, and felt that everything he most valued in existence-save his ambition-was centred in that girlish form.

"If she were my wife," he said in his heart, "I should make her my all in all. How could I help it? No woman must ever be that.'

"How do you do, Gabrielle ?" He took her hand, and, with one cool clasp, relinquished it. "When did you return ?"

Gabrielle answered shortly; and passed on. Her sensitive ear had at once discerned the indifference of his tone and manner. Leav ing Cissy to tease him and provoke The, she went into the house.

He turned again to Miss Featherstone; but, somehow, he could not resume his former lightness. One or two vain attempts he made; then gave it up: and departed with his gun.

The influx of visitors had wrought a marvellous change in Farnley. Voices and footsteps resounded through the silent corridors; strange servants were encountered on the stairs; strange faces in the hall. It was seldom that Gabrielle devoted an unnecessary minute to her glass; but, on this evening, she did linger some time after her toilette was completed, looking wistfully at herself, and thinking of Miss Featherstone:

how very beautiful Miss Featherstone was, how natural it seemed that she should captivate James, that he should love her as only beautiful women-so, just then, Gabrielle's morbid imagination whispered-could expect to be loved. If only she were beautiful -or even pretty! For Gabrielle's estimate of her own looks was humble in the extreme. And yet an impartial observer would have said that she had little need to complain; that, in some eyes, she was even more attractive, if less striking, than the Bijou herself. She wore white tulle tonight-soft and flowing; with a black sash, jet ornaments, and jessamine in her hair. It was a becoming dress; and then her complexion was so fair, her figure was so slight, and-best of all-her face was so true, so pure, so good! Moreover, that indefinable grace of movement and of manner, which many struggle to acquire by art, but which

Gabrielle possessed by nature, was in itself a beauty; and a beauty that could not pall. She did not, however-to murder a quotation-"see hersel' as others saw her." She turned from the mirror, with a sigh.

"After all, how silly and vain I am," she thought, "to care so much about my looks! And of course a plain girl may be as useful as a pretty one. Only

She smothered a second sigh: and ran downstairs. The saloon, a beautiful room, extending half the length of the house, was now, for the first time since her arrival at Farnley, thrown open, and used in the evening. Gabrielle had never before seen any room half so splendid. The ceiling

carved, gilded, and painted; the walls panelled with frescoes from Munich and from Rome; the tables rich in beautiful books and knick-nacks; an imposing row of windows, each divided from its neighbour