"You rather dislike him than otherwise now," pursue I, pushing my advantage; "you are always better pleased to see him leave a room than enter it; well, before your wedding tour is over, you will abhor him. It requires an immense stock of love at starting to support the dead sweet monotony of a honeymoon."

She shudders.

"My dear child," I cry, with affectionate emphasis, "think better of it; if you must marry him-poor dear Charlie, I am sorry for him—at least put it off for six months; let us have a little time to breathe. If you will reflect & moment I think you will see, that to be handed on from one man to another within a week is hardly ladylike, hardly modest !"

At the last word the deep red on her cheeks grows yet deeper; but by the hard defiant smile that curves her lips I know that I might as well have spoken to the winter wind that is howling and gnashing its angry teeth outside.

"Jemima," she says calmly, " as I once before observed to you, you will never make your fortune in the pulpit; your sentiments are firstrate, but they make one drowsy. See, I am yawning, myself. As to modest, that is neither here nor there; you dragged in the word by the head and shoulders to prop your argument. As to ladylike, it is a matter of the most perfect indifference to me whether I am or not."

To this I say nothing. I only walk away to the window.

"Do not dissuade me," she cries, falling from defiance to a tone of almost nervous entreaty, as she stands before me, twisting her hands. "Let me marry him in peace. Your little cut-and-dried saws are very neatly cut, very accurately dried, but they do not fit; you mean well, but one knows one's self best."

"Hm !"

"Do you think," she continues, with irritable impatience, "that I can go on now in the old groove-the old groove that I kept so contentedly to before-before the earth opened and swallowed all I had ?"

No answer.

"Can I go on," she pursues, with deepening agitation, "watching you drop the stitches in your knitting listening to Sylvia's weak cackle-hearing those awful children plunging and bellowing about? Do you know, Jemima, for the last few days, every time they have come blundering and shrieking into the room, I have felt inclined to scream out loud? I have not done it, because you would have put me into a madhouse if I had; but all the same, I have felt the inclination." I shake my head despondently.

"If he marries me," she says, her eyes wandering restlessly about, and speaking quickly and excitedly, "he will take me away to beautiful places, away from all the dreadful old things and people. It will be

delightful delightful! I shall begin all over again—my life over again! He will take me where there are no children—no Sylvias— no Jemimas-no self. Yes" (laughing uneasily), "I mean to leave myself behind. I mean to be a new, fresh person-a happy, prosperous person. I wish to be happy-I am determined to be happy. Jemima" (entreatingly) "for God's sake, do not hinder me!"

CHAPTER XVI.

WHAT THE AUTHOR SAYS.

No one can keep their mouth open for ever-not even Jemima Herrick -they must shut them at last. Mostly they shut them very soon. No passion is so shortlived as astonishment. "A nine days' wonder" is a hyperbolical expression. Who ever wondered at the awfullest murder, the most startling esclandre, the most unlooked-for turn of Fortune's quick wheel, during nine whole days? If walking on your head were to come into fashion, within three days it would excite no surprise to see people pounding along the pavement on their hats and bonnets, with their boots in the air. The neighbourhood has been informed of Lenore's transfer from one lover to the other, and its "Ohs" and "Ahs," and head-shakings thereon are over and done with. After all, they have been fewer than have been expected; people had so long made up their minds that Scrope was the right man, that few of them had arrived at the knowledge that he was the wrong one, before they were officially informed that he was the right one again. He has always been seen about with her; he is evidently her fittest mate in youth and comeliness; in this case all the sympathy goes with the successful lover. Does not he ride as straight as a die? Is not he as handsome as paint? Do not we know all his antecedents? Does not his property lie, does not his ugly old red abbey stand, in this our county? Paul, unknown, plain, and saturnine, commands neither good wishes nor regrets. It has been announced that the engagement was dissolved by mutual consent a course always adopted by the friends of the lady when the gentleman cries off. Lenore, however, is no party to this deception. Everybody's presents have been returned to them, and again sent back. On the principle of " To him that hath shall be given," the rich Mrs. Scrope's wedding gifts are threefold greater and more numerous than those of the poor Mrs. Le Mesurier. On hearing of the change in her fortunes-if not for the better, at least for the more consequential-the Websters supplement their portly teapot with a cream-jug and sugar-basin to match. And Lenore, when she sees the teapot come back-the teapot out of which she was to have poured Paul's tea, in the little narrow house they had planned-she laughs violently.

"Do not let them send me any new congratulations-any of them," she says, drily; "tell them the old ones will do; they need only alter the initials, as I am doing with my pocket-handkerchiefs."

Scrope has no father, and Lenore no money, which two facts greatly facilitate the law arrangements. Whether indecently soon or not, the wedding day is drawing on. Lenore has thrown herself into the business of trousseau buying with an ardour more than femininewith the artistic frenzy of a Frenchwoman, of a petite maîtresse enragée.

"Finery always was my snare," she says, laughing. "I loved even my cotton gowns and gingham umbrellas tenderly, but now if being married, entails such a saturnalia of fine clothes, I should like to have a wedding every year."

Lenore is very lively; she runs about the house all day singing; she walks, she rides, she plays billiards; she studies 'Murray' and 'Bradshaw' with avidity, making out routes to the ends of the earth; but she never sits still. Her cheeks are rosy red, and her eyes sparkle and glitter like beautifullest great sapphires.

"You are quite the most eager bride I ever saw," Sylvia says one day, with a doubtful compliment. "Poor Charlie toils after you in vain. I always imagined that impatience was the monopoly of the gentleman; I am sure" (sighing and looking down) "it was so in my case. I thought the days raced by-positively raced; if you remember, Jemima, I said so to you at the time?"

"Did you? I dare say."

"Now Lenore, on the contrary, seems anxious to hurry them. Fancy!" casting up her eyes and hands to heaven.

"I am anxious," says the girl, smiling rather wistfully. "I mean to be so happy-I want to begin. I am sorry it is not en règle; but I cannot help that. How many more days are there? One, two, three, four, five-bah!" (taking up two parcels that lie on the halltable) "a couple more ivory prayer books! Jemima, if there come any more prayer books you must send them back, and say that there is a glut of books of devotion."

The wedding feast is to be gay and large; the house to be crowded and crammed from attic to cellar, chiefly with Scrope's people: mother, unmarried sister, married sister and husband, uncles, unmarried mencousins.

"A perfect horde of barbarians!" says Sylvia, complacently swimming into the drawing-room, on the afternoon of the day on which they are expected, her little figure very upright, head slightly thrown back, and bust protruded, as is her way when the war paint is on. "I have quite a good mind to run away and hide myself in a corner, and leave Tommy, as my deputy, to receive them. Will you, Tommy? How amusing it would be, and how astonished they would look!"

"One could hardly wonder at them," answers Jemima, drily. Jemima's head and bust are much as usual.

As long as I have Charlie beside me I don't mind," continues Mrs. Prodgers, looking at herself over her left shoulder in the glass, in one of Silvy's strained and distorted attitudes; "he is my sheet anchor. Poor dear old Charlie!" (laughing a little) "to think of his going to be one's brother! It is too ridiculous!"

It is the evening before the wedding; the lit rooms are gaily alive with many guests; not only those staying in the house, but also dinner guests. Many more are expected; some of them already uncloaking outside, for Sylvia has decreed a dance.

"We must have a band," she has said, meditatively, when making the arrangements. "There is no use doing a thing unless you do it well. Yes, a band; they can go so nicely in the recess under the stairs."

"It is dreary work pounding over a carpet, to the tune of a piano, supported only by lemonade and negus," Jemima says.

"When people come on a first visit," says Sylvia sapiently, "they always come to criticise. Did you notice how they all looked me over from top to toe, when they came in to-day-pricing me, as it were? Well, I wish to be beyond criticism."

"Don't have a band," cries Lenore, hastily; "if you do, I shall go to bed-that is all. I warn you! Those dreadful fiddles squeaking and shrieking, go right through my head. Have a piano, and I will promise to play for you from now till the Judgment Day."

So a piano it is. The dancing has not yet begun, but we all stand about in an unsettled way, that shows that something is imminent. Detachments of people are being taken to be shown the wedding presents. The hot red roses have to-night left Lenore's cheeks; she is very white-deadly white, one would say; only that it is a dishonour to the warm, milk whiteness of living loveliness, to liken it to the hue that is our foe's ensign. She is pale, but her eyes outblaze the star that quivers and lightens in Mrs. Scrope's grey head.

"I am so glad you are not a Mourning Bride," says Scrope's eldest sister, Mrs. Lascelles, a frisky young matron, pretty as hair like floss silk, Paris clothes falling off her soft fat shoulders, and English jewels, can make her, looking with a sort of inquisitive admiration at the restless pale beauty of her future sister-in-law's face. "Not that I can say anything" (laughing lightly); " I cried for three whole days before my wedding. Mamma said that my eyes looked as if they had been sewn in with red worsted; did not you mamma?"

Mrs. Scrope smiles the placid smile of prosperous stall-fed maturity. "I did more than that," continues the other, still laughing, "I cried for a fortnight afterwards! We went to Brittany” (making a disgusted face), "and Regy was ill all the way from Southampton to

St. Malo. I tried to look as if he did not belong to me. I am sure even the waiters at the hotels were sorry for me-I looked so

dejected!"

At the mention of Brittany Lenore winces, and then begins to talk quickly and laughingly:

"Must one cry? I hope not. but I am afraid I shall not succeed. I never cry."

If it is indispensable I will try;
I am not a good hand at crying.

They are to dance in the hall; the oak floor has been polished and doctored to the last pitch of slipperiness; the stags' head have mistletoe wreaths. Plenty of light, plenty of warmth, plenty of space, plenty of men what more can any rabidest dance-lover desire? To the general surprise, Lenore sits down to the piano; everybody remonstrates.

"Usurping my place," says Jemima, cheerfully, putting her hands on her sister's shoulders. "Off with you."

"On the contrary," returns Lenore, with a perverse smile, "I mean to adorn this stool till two o'clock to-morrow morning. Go away -dance-caper about, if it amuses you; as for me, I hate it. Va t'en!"

"Come on!" cries Scrope, half in and half out of his grey gloves, and looking radiantly happy and handsome. "What do you mean by settling yourself there? Jemima is going to play; she always does; she likes it. Don't you, Jemima ?"

Jemima smiles grimly. All very well to be conscious that your life mission is to pipe for other people to dance, but a little hard to be expected to express enjoyment of the role!"

"I am not going to Come on!" answers Lenore, pettishly. "I mean to stay here. Go away!"

"Go away!" cries the young fellow, leaning his arms on the piano, and looking desperately sentimental; "a very likely story!"

"For Heaven's sake, put your head straight!" she says, crossly. "When you cock it on one side like that, you look like a bullfinch about to pipe. I hate dancing!-there!"

"Since when ?" he asks incredulously.

"Not long ago you told

me that you loved it better than anything else in life."

"Not so very long ago, when I was cutting my teeth, I loved sucking an indiarubber ring better than anything else in life. Do you insist on my sucking it still ?" she says drily, turning over a heap of music. "Don't be a nuisance. Go away!"

He goes.

In five minutes, all, not incapacitated by age and fat, and some even that lie under these disabilities, are scampering round. As there are plenty of men, several of the chaperones condescend to tread a measure. Lenore plays on dreamily; it is an air that the band played at Dinan one night last summer; as the brisk, gay