"But I must ask. I believe in you, and I won't let you go. Have you ever cared about anybody-man or woman, I don't mind who?" "No; I don't know

"Give me your hand. Now tell me―yes or no."

66

Suppose I won't say anything? Please, Mademoiselle, let go my hand." "That means yes,

"Then I say no."

then."

"That means yes, too. If I can't read myself, I can read you.

You

have your heart in your hand, all but what's in your eyes. What do you do ?"

"I?"

"I want you to teach me. No; I won't give up your hand. What do you do? But then, no doubt he cares for you, too. That's why I want to be like you."

All this was wild and ridiculous enough; but Claudia's heart was a very fairly large one, to match with her ample stature. People in her station were not in the habit of catching hold of the first stranger they find for a confidante of their love-stories. But there was something so utterly unconventional about Zelda, that nothing she ever did or said could appear in itself strange or out of keeping: the whole strangeness lay in her who did or said it; and when that was once got over, all the rest seemed to follow. Claudia, though she was incapable of telling a white lie without betraying herself, would have gone to the rack rather than have owned to her own father the smallest fraction of her heart's history, so she could not be expected to sympathise with one who seemed to be calling out her sorrows from the housetop to all the four winds of heaven. But yet earnestness would have its way; and as the passion, whatever it might be, was so outspoken, it could not be that there was anything to conceal. A very natural curiosity about her eccentric patroness, whose whole nature seemed to be the opposite pole to her own, could not fail to excite a certain amount of interest, if not of sympathy. That a man should refuse to be captivated by Zelda, so long as there were other women in the world, was fully accountable to her woman's eyes; but what sort of moth-queller could he be, who had acted the part of lighted candle to Mdlle. Leczinska ?

A sort of fascination had of late come to pour from Zelda's eyes, whether they were evil or no. The reason is not far to seek, for they were dark and grand; and, when she was in earnest about anything-as she always was about all things-her little, eager figure seemed rather to belong to her eyes, than her eyes to her. Claudia's small belief in herself would have led her to refuse the office of portrait-painter to the prima donna, had she not thought of the old man, to whom she owed not only filial affection, but maternal care. "How," she thought, "shall I ever paint those eyes, if I am to make their owner a commonplace young lady?" She managed to release her hand, and rose to go.

"I can teach you nothing, Mademoiselle. You, who learn from

Nature, can have nothing to learn from me." She felt herself compelled to look away from the eyes, and, as luck would have it, they lighted upon the watch, where it hung from its nail in the wall-the Doctor's gold watch, that she had seen a hundred times. There might be a hundred watches like it; but she was not near-sighted, and the back, which was turned towards her, bore a cypher that belonged only to one. The light was fading, however, and she could not resist approaching to see if her eyes had possibly deceived her, though she trusted them implicitly, and with good cause.

Zelda saw her start, and heard the sudden half-exclamation that escaped from her. She could not help, therefore, noticing what Claudia did and what she looked at while under the momentary impulse of surprise. She had been trained from her babyhood to those habits of observation that pass with the dupes of the fortune-teller, and sometimes with the fortune-teller herself, for the intuition of the clairvoyante; she had twisted half a secret from Claudia, of whose blue eyes, tall figure, and general ladyhood she was already jealous, and her mind was fully directed upon Harold Vaughan.

Claudia turned very pale; Zelda flushed up like a flaming rose.

'I wanted to see the time, Mademoiselle," said Claudia, lying in such a manner, that she could not have made a fuller confession.

is time to go."

66 And to-morrow?"

"You shall hear from me, Mademoiselle."

"It

So," she

"What-you won't come? I can't wait-not a day. thought, "this is why I am despised-oh, if I had but known why!— Stay; will you not have some wine? We must be friends."

"I never take wine," said Claudia, faintly. "I must go now." "Stop-tell me one thing; you know Carol: do you know his friend, Harold Vaughan ?"

"How dare you speak to me of Harold Vaughan?" cried Claudia. She could not even pretend to lie any more: she had fairly broken down under a new blow that she was not proof against in spite of all her selfdiscipline. She only gathered herself together in a manner to which Lady Penrose's scornful use of her skirts had been mere child's play, and, without another word, sailed straight from the room. Zelda stamped upon the floor, as if invoking a demon, and a demon arose. What he is called in the infernal hierarchy I know not: mortals call him by the hideous name of jealousy.

At the same moment, however, another voice spoke through the door from which Claudia had disappeared.

"Are you still engaged, Mademoiselle?" asked Lord Lisburn. "I must see you, if it's only to wish you good-by."

She was thinking too little of him to remember her veil, as she said, though with discouraging impatience, "Yes; I am alone. You may come in, if you like." So he came in.

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

SEPTEMBER, 1873.

Poung Brown.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER VI.

GOOD FOR NOTHING.

W

ILLIAM Brown being deprived of his mate, went about very much like other young fellows in similar circumstances. He took to leaning against posts a good deal, and he who was once the blythest lad in all the country side began to mope and be idle. He could not settle down to anything. He did not know when to go to bed or when to get up. His occupation was gone, and with it all the zest and pleasure of life. A few days ago whatever he might be doing had some reference to her, and was mentally judged by her standard of comparison. If he was about any garden work he would think when he should have finished it that he might look in at Mrs. Jinks's cottage and talk a bit with Sally. If he found a large gooseberry on a tree, or twin flowers on one stalk, or if he dug out a curious stone or an old coin (the inn garden had been a battle field in the Wars

VOL. XXVIII.-No. 165.

18.