Gray. It was one thing to saunter through the back lanes or across the meadows at dusk with Miss Clupp's assistant, and quite another thing openly to acknowledge her as an equal in Mrs. Trevanion's drawing-room. No, no! Miss Butterfield was a little too presuming, and she must be taught her place.

And she was taught it too, for she had scarcely recovered from the shock of Mr. Smith's coolness, when she was abruptly accosted by Lady Charlotte herself. "Butterfield! what are you doing here? Did you not know we were coming into the drawing-room? Go to Mrs. Denson and Pauline; they are in Mrs. Martha's room, of course."

And Honoria, looking excessively foolish, could only walk out of the room, wishing she had never come into it-wishing she could execute summary vengeance on her lady, on Grosvenor Smith, and on all who witnessed her discomfiture; wishing, too, that she could sink through the velvet-pile carpet and the flooring into depths unknown. Oh! at that moment how she longed

"Swift to be hurled

Anywhere, anywhere out of the world!"

But finding herself quickly on the other side the door, and then in the lighted hall below, she felt more at ease, and at full liberty to give way to the storm of passion that was clenching her hands, and setting her teeth, and turning her whole face crimson.

"No, indeed! she was not going to Mrs. Martha's roomshe was not going to consort with servants; if she could not have the best society, she would have none!”

There was a recess in the hall, dimly lighted and obscure, and thither she retreated to nurse her wrath, until it was time to go to the station. She was just thinking she would not wait till train-time: she would set out at once, and they should find her on the platform, when some one came rapidly downstairs, and made straight for the recess where Honoria was hoping to escape observation.

"Who are you, girl?" said a sharp, thin voice; and a pair of keen, severe eyes looked at her through a pair of heavy silver-rimmed spectacles.

"I am Miss Butterfield," said Honor, trying to comport herself with dignity, and wondering whether it would not be more politic to conciliate, rather than to defy, this vinegar-faced Abigail, whom she at once divined to be Mrs. Martha Winter, the peculiar friend and ally of the Silverdale housekeeper, to whose good offices she owed her first introduction to Lady Charlotte.

"And pray, Miss Butterfield," replied the dame—for it was Mrs. Martha herself, and no less a person-" pray may I ask what brings you here?"

"I am waiting for the Ladies Leighton, and for the Singlehurst ladies, who are in the drawing-room yonder; we are all going back to Silverdale by the last train.”

"What on earth brought the ladies to town at this hour, and on such a night as this? Why, it's snowing, and blowing, and raining, and sleeting like anything! It's all very well for such as you to be out, but ladies! Well, ladies do take such whims, and play such pranks now-a-days. I'd be ashamed of my sex and my quality if I was a lady, which, thank Heaven, I am not, any more than you, Miss what's-your-name!"

Honoria, who had taken her resolution, meekly replied that it was a bad night, and that it would have been far wiser to stay at home; but Lady Charlotte had promised the lecturer, etc.; and then followed very much the same story as Marcia had already told to George Trevanion, and Mrs. Winter was in possession of the true state of the case, minus the little episode of Honor's ignominious retreat from the drawing-room, where she had so rashly intruded herself.

"Miss Butterfield, are you?" said Mrs. Martha slowly, when the narrative came to an end. "Oh, then you are the young woman who helps Miss Clupp, I suppose? I heard she had an assistant—a brazen-faced hussy, who showed her ankles, and wore a heathenish net thing on her crop

say

of carroty curls, and walked about with would-be gentlemen after dusk. So you be she?"

Honor was so confounded at this unexpected attack, that for once her resources and her volubility failed her. Burning with indignation, and quivering with passion, she vainly essayed to find words wherewith to answer her antagonist, who stood coolly surveying her through her spectacles, as if she were some natural curiosity which excited both the scorn and the surprise of the surveyor.

What Honor would have answered, nobody will ever know, for at that moment a bell, immediately over the heads of the pair, commenced to ring most furiously. Loud and startling was the peal, and on it rang—on, on, till the whole household was roused, and servants ran from all quarters, and the drawing-room doors opened, and guests and family came out aghast to learn the cause of the disturbance.

66

Mercy on us, it's Missis's bell!" gasped Mrs. Martha, tearing upstairs with heavy steps and pallid countenance; "Missis" being Miss Constantine, for the title was never conceded to Ethel by this domestic.

Honor found herself on the first landing again—she never knew how. But no one took any notice of her; all were too scared to think of anything but that loud sounding bell, still ringing madly, as if it would never stop.

It did stop, however, quite suddenly, and half a minute afterwards George, who had been up to the higher storey, ran down again, looking like death, and without pausing, sped on to the hall and to the front door, snatching at a hat as he passed, and crying, “My uncle is in a fit! he is going -Dr. Wreford "—The rest of the sentence was lost in the storm without.

BUT it was not exactly a fit that had terrified poor Aunt Prudence nearly out of her senses. It was, however, a seizure sufficiently alarming, and Dr. Wreford, who arrived almost immediately, having met George at the door of his house, pronounced the attack to be of the most serious nature. It was the very sort of thing he had been dreading for weeks, fearing, and indeed feeling certain, that for his old and revered friend there could be but one issue. He had said to Mrs. Wreford only the evening before, "If those spasms return, and if insensibility succeed, there will be no hope-his hours are numbered."

And Mrs. Wreford had replied, "I thought, my dear, you really gave him up long ago?"

"And so I did; spasms or no spasms, nothing could prolong his life to any extent; the whole physical man has been breaking up for months. Still, under certain circumstances, I think he might have lasted through the winter; but I am afraid of some symptoms I observed to-day. And he is more wandering than ever. Ah! to think what we may all come to, the brightest and the best of us, if we only live long enough!"

Therefore Dr. Wreford was not at all surprised when, alighting from his brougham, he saw under his own lamp the figure of George Trevanion, his hat in his hand, and the snow falling fast on his clustering auburn curls.

The profound insensibility that the doctor had dreaded came on, and the poor old gentleman lay on his bed white and motionless, as if life had already departed. Dr. Wreford gave the necessary orders and called for stimulants, but he shook his head and looked gravely at George, as much as to say it would be all in vain.

Lady Charlotte and her sister, and Marcia and Ermy, had taken their departure, but Mrs. Gray still remained; and, to the inexpressible annoyance of Maude and Ethel, Grosvenor Smith lingered on as if he were one of the family, and had a right to share the anxieties of his friend.

At a quarter past ten Christopher Gray arrived. Business had detained him, and he had just come on to the Bank to make his apologies, and to escort his mother and "the children," as he still called Maude and Ambrose, home. He found only his young brother and sister in the drawingroom: Ethel and her mother were upstairs with the invalid. Maude sprang to meet him: “Oh, Criff, I am so glad you are come! It is so doleful here, and we can do nothing."

"What is the matter? I found the hall-door open, and no servants in attendance; but I saw Grosvenor Smith in the dining-room, drinking Mr. Constantine's best claret,"

"Poor Mr. Constantine! He is dying, Criff."

66 Are you sure of it, Maude?"

"Well, not actually sure, for I have not seen him ; but George, and Ethel, and mamma think he is going, and Dr. Wreford gives no hope."

"Still he may linger on for days or weeks; they often do in these cases."

"From what I heard, I think-indeed, I am nearly sure— that it will not be so now, Shall I tell mamma you are come?"

"Do so, please. Perhaps she will choose to remain with Ethel."

"I dare say she will, for Miss Constantine is in a sad state, and requires almost as much attention as her brother; and I do not think Mrs. Martha will be of much use."

Maude was running out of the room when she almost stumbled over George, who was coming hurriedly into it. He was looking very pale, and was visibly agitated. It seemed a relief to him to see Christopher standing there upon the hearth-rug, for at such seasons as these the gay, light nature of George Trevanion was shaken to its very centre, and he