the breadth of a street away, she really looked frantic, as if a thunderstorm were hanging right over her poor head.

"Ain't they pretty, miss?" said the child, who, like all juveniles, loved noise," ain't they pretty-the pretty marriage-bells, miss?" "They will never ring for me," she cried, bursting into a shower of tears, and sinking on a chair.

Nerves, ladies-nothing but nerves. Just as we print "no cards" nowadays in our marriage-announcement, she is resolved to be married in quiet, and hates these marriage-bells. And she is right; she shall have the toodling and the cooing and a sequestered spot, and be spared these foolish accessions of nerves.

With the timely burst of tears (of course merely hysterical) she seemed a little relieved, and rising, she went to the window, which was darkened by the half-shutters. She opened them, and looked out for a while. By and by she saw the carriages begin to drive past with their crimp and smiling occupants, and at the sight it seemed as if another stormy wave of nerves or regret or envy-we scarce know whatrushed over her. Again she starts up, waywardly sweeps across the room, to the astonishment of the staring child, and hurries downstairs. Really her mind seems quite helmless to-day, drifting and beating among the breakers.

The card-salver still lay upon the hall-table. She took a handful of them and scattered them out, so as to see the names. The Honourable Mrs. and Misses. How they swept by her at the flower-show, dressed like tiger-lilies! They that used to flatter and caress her, they who took favours from her once. Mrs. and Miss to whom she

wrote a nice little note of inquiry about that invalid brat Tommy. The note was answered indeed, but coldly, in the third person; it was a worse snub than silence. There was the card of a countess, an authoress; and so on. Not one of them will ever leave a card again. The footman's thundering knock will never come to the door, or the simpering gracious dames of fashion sail in to patronise her. But there lay their names before her in glossy array, and she turned them over for a while with curling lip and swelling heart. At length she seemed to sicken at the sight. She caught up her dress, swept them into it, and brought them upstairs to the bright stove, as if to burn them to ashes. The lady was in a pet with the serene world because it veiled its countenance from her; as if a child were to pout and chide the cloud that hides from it the moon. These cards represented to her the scornful ungrateful world, and she opened a bright place in the stove to make a holocaust of them.

"Give 'em to me, miss," said the child, seeing her clutch up a handful to destroy them. The angry lady paused, looked at the soiled little bib that was cradled out to receive the dainty pasteboard, and with a smile she emptied the heap into Susy's lap. It satisfied her writhing pride to think that these compliments, these formal tenders of

acquaintance, these dainty proxies, which convey with them and about them, like perfume, high and aristocratic associations, should be the playthings of dirty children on the filthy floors of St. Giles's. She paid the child and dismissed her.

Miss Masterton then went up to her own room, and washed her face and hands. The paint came freely out and left no stain, all but that "red-paint" from the eyelids; that she could not remove. She smoothed her Medusa-head into shining trim, and put on her neatest morning attire. She put on her bonnet and shawl, and taking up a light carpet-bag she proceeded downstairs in all her haggard loveliness, the beauty of dress redoubling the beauty of person; but somehow the mien of a king's daughter was gone from her step. She seemed drooping and agitated.

Within the studio again, she laid down her bag, and was seized with deep abstraction. She kept standing in the middle of the room musing, as still and as steadfast as if it were her lay-figure in a pose. Then she looked at her watch hastily; in a moment again forgot she had consulted it, and looked again, and abstractedly once again before five minutes had gone by; then there came such a heavy sigh as if body and soul were parting; and going to the window, she sat down, despondingly, with her eyes fixed heavily upon the wall. There are piteous looks on a woman's face which are very painful to see, and remain on the mind of the observer when the occasion which called them up has been forgotten. Again, with a start, she looked at her watch, and hurriedly gazed below on the pavement at the sound of a step going by. She seemed to be waiting for somebody; and we too will wait and watch with her compassionately.

By and by she glanced at her breast, and missing the presence, as it were, of something that ought to be there, she starts up, goes out, and upstairs to her bedroom in great haste, as we have seen an overanxious hostess, who, sitting down to repose under the impression that she has completed every arrangement, suddenly remembers some important omission which may mar the feast.

Again this restless creature returns, and a brooch is now on her breast, which was not there before; a red cornelian heart pierced by a golden arrow is the device. Perhaps it may be a lover's token; and with feminine trust in small significances, she prepares herself thus for her expected visitor.

She put by the glasses and plates, and swept away the cigar-ashes. As she was returning to her seat she had to pass her picture, and she paused and gazed at it with lack-lustre eyes.

Art, nothing like Art, for gentle solace and relief. It is the true antidote to the virus of the passions-the anodyne to all mental inflammation. Let her keep the brush in her hand and her eyes on the dream she has fixed on canvas, and then let its gentle ambition absorb her thoughts. There need be no fitful efforts, between which come the

draughtings of care; no voluntary striving for comfort, sweet and unbidden. The charm shail work upon the rebellious spirit, and the ache be stilled. Alas, she takes her picture roughly up, and turns its face to the wall. Can it be, then, that there are moods and situations in which our panacea Art will not work? She went away to the window, and sat there brooding. A young and proud spirit fed on hope, and looking upon the life before it as some glorious tropic parallel unexplored, rife with adventure and pleasure, may get a fall from which there is no recovery, and find that its future is lost beyond recall. Henceforth it must train itself to think and feel like the old in the present alone; or, indeed, resolve to quit life. Miss Masterton is a young lady upon whom we cannot calculate further. There are ugly symptoms, we must even confess at last, in this restless and feverish melancholy. Has she thrown away her future? Must she think as the unhappy old must think of this hard bleak present alone? Pounds' worth of spoiled paintencrusted brushes lay scattered about the floor; old palettes beyond cleaning and use, painting-rags foul and sticky, were heaped in the corners, and her smudge-pan was upset, the oil soaking through the boards; her lay-figure kneeled in a corner, as if engaged in speechless prayer everlasting; cobwebs festooned the corners of the windowpanes, which the half-shutters had concealed for many months, and large sleeping spiders began to stir. The pictures were all turned to the wall, and showed the blank canvas backs-all save one, a sinisterlooking gentleman with sunken eyes, and a smile which lurked under his thin red moustache.

Dreary is the temple when the oracle is departed. All this dirt and wretchedness never offended her sight, indeed wholly escaped it, whilst she was inspired with the jubilant pride of art. But the god, it seems has left his ruined shrine to-day, and the priestess mopes among the

ashes.

A double-knock came to the door, and startled away her thoughts as a gun-shot disperses a rookery. She noiselessly opened the window and looked out, with her hands upon the sill, but the portico of the hall-door concealed the visitor, and she capriciously drew back to conceal herself, lest her eager figure might be seen. She heard the halldoor open, she heard a man's voice, and she listened to it like a startled deer: then the hall-door closed, and a step ascended the stairs. The lady composed herself to an indifferent attitude, and set her quivering lips to the fixed and sullen line of pride. When the door opened she sat thus, with a storm of reproach perhaps suppressed at her heart, or perhaps only a cold jest ready to fly from her tongue; or will she meet this guest in the strength and power of silence? But if she can do that, she is more than a woman.

The maid-servant it was who stood at the door. She came across to her mistress with a pretty little note-a scented billet, held in her

apron.

"Left by a gentleman, miss."

Miss Masterton took it quickly, and opened it under the servant's eyes. It was blank paper within, and there dropt from it on her lap a lock of her own auburn hair!

CHAPTER XXXIII.

POOR LITTLE MRS. BLENHEIM,

THE deepest schemes, like most conundrums, look silly and obvious enough when seen through at last. How shallow seems the best-laid combination when it lies exposed and defeated! Has it been stamped by success, indeed, we wonder and applaud it for ever. The result is its only measure.

Here was poor Mrs. Blenheim, who led in triumph to her house a wealthy and most gracious bachelor, and placed him at her daughter's feet; who struck the chain from that daughter's hand at one masterly blow, and cleared every obstacle from her path; who, finding that the baronet was a little stupid, and did not readily "take" where she directed him, adapting herself to circumstances, permitted him temporarily to fasten where he pleased, and actually allowed herself, at her age, to be led into a flirtation with a hardened old bachelor rather than let him drift from her house and be elsewhere caught up. Ultimately she had faith that her pretty Milly, constantly dangling before him, must prove irresistible. Alas, she knew not the class to which her "innocent" belonged.

One humiliating day, after a vigorous campaign had lasted some weeks and imaginary advances been made, Mr. Pimpernel wished to see her for a little private conversation. He had a statement to make which had to be wrapt up with great tact, and just half-told-no more. It had to be heralded in with a joke or two, and itself treated with a mere smile; but it came upon Mrs. Blenheim with weight and severity nevertheless. He had to tell her that that absurd little chaffinch Sir Hugh was making her ridiculous, and vaunting at his club his conquest of the charming little widow, the Saint Cecilia. Indeed, that he had the impertinence to go into frequent raptures upon "her foot"!

"Sir Hugh, ma'am, is a petrifaction, a stalactite old bachelor, a plump little Narcissus in love with his own reflection."

"Poor little conceited creature, how absurd!" said Mrs. Blenheim, with an admirable assumption of amused pity, but moved notwithstanding, for she changed colour.

"Now I'm an old bachelor, ma'am, but I belong to another order of celibacy altogether. I've been wax before your sex, ma'am."

"How absurd!" smiled Mrs. Blenheim. "You know he has been here on mere toleration, we found him such a good-natured soul; but I must really pretend to be affronted, and forbid him the house. Milly and I were beginning to feel his visits and his egotism rather a nuisance.

VOL. XV.

HH

But I am quite sorry, really; for he was such an amiable old butterfly, was he not?"

"He's a butterfly, I can assure you, ma'am, grown children run after, and will never catch."

"Well, really, I can only laugh at your bit of gossip. I pardon my little gentleman. You know he is really so shockingly vulgar: it is his way of showing gratitude. But those wretched copies of his-really, Mr. Pimpernel, I begin to feel it wrong encouraging his delusions. Suppose you tell him that I thought his St. Cecilia a vile piece of signpainting, copied by some decorator's apprentice. I leave it all to you,” she said, with a gesture of complete indifference: "tell him something— any thing you please!"

This was all the notice she took of the matter; but she was disappointed, and, further, her taste was hurt: the vulgarity of the situation rather revolted her. She had never looked upon herself in the character of a charming widow; and all her associations with such a part were low. The imputation, innocent though it was, made her a little sick. We do not say but that there may have entered her heart at moments the thought that if Sir Hugh proved utterly obdurate to Milly's charms, rather than let that beautiful place drift into other hands, she might smile upon his suit herself. This I dare only conjecture. It was probably rather an involuntary idea than a scheme. Now, however, the whole fabric of the goodly conspiracy sunk before the lively intelligence that Sir Hugh was captivated neither by Milly nor by herself, but by her foot! She felt naturally disgusted and insulted, and immediately relinquished all pursuit. From henceforth her whole combination began to break up rapidly, like the dissolution of a beautiful iceberg.

The very next day came John Wayre. He slipped up to the drawing-room, telling the little maid to say to Miss Brown that a gentleman wished to see her.

Down came the kindly soul in a flutter. It was many a day since a gentleman had come to see her, and to frighten her out of her ivy-bush; but when she found it was only her friend and favourite John Wayne, she brightened and beamed upon him. She immediately divined that he had come to seek a reconciliation with Milly, and the gentle jesuitry of the old maid awoke at once. She arranged how she would bring them together, and what preparation she would give Milly of his presence in the drawing-room.

"She is very proud, and her pride is the only difficulty; so we must take it by surprise; we must come upon it when it is asleep. Milly is at the drawing-school to-day; but I expect her home every moment. I will meet her in the hall, and tell her to call in the drawing-room on her way up to look at some new music-don't you see?-she is anxiously expecting a new song-"

"And would meet disappointment," smiled Wayre, finishing her