signs there of recent fires, and the grass is trampled down. So, I suppose, after all, Hilda's Princess of Bohemia was a veritable gipsy; and I really think we need not concern ourselves about the sayings of such a person, even though she were the acknowledged queen of all the Zingaras."

"I do not see what we could do, even though we concerned ourselves to the utmost. Do you, then, imagine the tribe has left the neighbourhood?'

"This immediate neighbourhood, perhaps. But Coley says there are gipsies now in the vicinity of Ash Farm, and the farmer complains that his poultry are nightly paying toll, and his son Ned declares that he hears guns popping in the woods at night."

"I dare say! Gipsies can generally do a little poaching on their own account."

"I had rather they helped themselves to my game than to Farmer Dawson's fat hens and stubble-geese. However, the farmer must deal with them, if he chooses. I, for my part, shall not trouble myself about them, unless they are brought before me in the justice-room."

"But what could induce the woman to chatter folly about Walter and his heirship ? "

"Don't you see? These Zingaras are remarkably quick-witted. In all probability she knew perfectly that Hilda was staying with us en famille, and she immediately rushed to the conclusion that she and the heir of the house were lovers-perhaps betrothed."

"And if they were, what would it be to a roving gipsy queen ? ”

"Only so much that it would present an opportunity for uttering mysterious and significant warnings, and, doubtless, she hoped to elicit something from Hilda which Iwould add to her store of information. An accurate knowledge of family matters is the stock-in-trade of the cunning fortune-tellers, and they manage to make a little truth go a very long way. There, my dear, we will say no more about it; it is scarcely worth our while."

Papa, I was thinking

"Well, my dear, is that an unusual event? I suppose you were thinking of something. Pray what might it be ? "

"I was thinking-don't laugh at me, and don't scold me-suppose Walter and Hilda were to think of each other?"

66

Suppose they were? What then, Puss ?" "Would you not be disappointed ?"

"No! agreeably surprised. I should be most happy to receive Hilda Capel as my daughter. Where should I find a sweeter, fairer, purer-minded girl? Where would Walter find a better wife than she will be when a good man is lucky enough to win her?"

"You would not mind her unhappy father's infamous repute ? "

I would not; I ought not. If there were any sign of a taint in the blood-if there were the smallest indication of inherited vices, or even foibles, I would never have proposed having Hilda Capel here, as my daughters' friend and intimate-to say nothing of my son, from whom I should most jealously keep any fair woman whom I suspected, ever so slightly, of want of moral principle, of a low standard of mind and duty; and remember, Christina, we have our own spectres! There are many who would object to wed the brother of our poor, misguided Paul; who, if they knew all, would deem the name of Braden wretchedly dishonoured-as it is-as it is, Christina!"

"And for the last century and a-half it has been one of the proudest, one of the most unstained, names in all our Borderland. There has been no unworthy Braden since the days of the wicked 'Black Rupert,' as he was called, and he was a younger son."

"Let us be thankful for a hundred and fifty years of unblemished family repute. It really does seem as if, in some strange way, after some occult law of nature, our poor boy had inherited the weaknesses and sins of some of his ancestors. Ah! we cannot do evil to ourselves alone-the sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon children. Thank God, there is forgiveness with Him, and we have only to seek help and strength, and they are And, Chrissie! if Walter were not a Christian young man-if he, too, were weak and self-indulgent, and lacking steadfastness of aim and purity of life, I would

ours.

the

not expose a girl like Hilda to the possibility of being addressed by him. No ancient pedigree, no noble blood, no princely fortune can atone for want of virtue, want of honour, want of manly faith. But, Chrissie, what made you utter that weighty 'suppose'? In matters of this sort, women's eyes are wonderfully keen, I know. Have you any grounds for such a supposition?'

"Not the least, as far as Hilda is concerned. But I do think Walter likes her very much; and he was struck with her from the very first. There is nothing between them now, that is positive."

"So far so well! I like people to walk into love; 'falling in love' sometimes includes a good deal of sorrow and disappointment. My dear, let things absolutely alone; you and I will neither make nor mar in this matter. If he choose Hilda, and if she accept him, I shall be more than satisfied. Walter is twenty-five, and there ought to be a mistress at Arnheim Towers. To quote Tennyson again, like Farmer Allan,

"I would wish to see

My grandchild on my knees before I die.'

But, unlike that choleric gentleman, I would not, for all my estate is worth, say, 'Therefore, look to Hilda!' for of all follies-I was going to say of all vices-matchmaking is the most mischievous and the most unsatisfactory. So let us think no more about it; or, if we must think, let us keep unbroken silence."

"You may be sure I shall be silent, lest I should do harm inadvertently. I think if Hilda once regarded Walter in the light of a possible suitor, she would fly from Bradenshope, and not return again. And there is no one whom I should so much love to have for a sister. I do not think I should have said a word, papa, only before Hilda came mamma was just a little afraid on Walter's account."

"Yes, I know! Mamma and I had it all out at the time. Mamma had a prejudice, certainly; but she did not know Hilda then as she does now. I am pretty sure, Chrissie, there would be no opposition there, so you need not distress yourself, should there be signs of another pair of lovers in the house, by reflecting on your share in

the catastrophe, through bringing Hilda here to be your guest."

"Papa, I believe she ought to be one of ourselves! She just suits us all; I have never had such a companion since I lost dear Mary; and I am not sure that Mary and I were so completely en rapport-on some points, that is-as Hilda Capel and myself are now."

"When we two parted,
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years."

"Over the sea, over the sea,

There is my old friend waiting for me."

MRS. DOROTHY accepted Lady Braden's invitation. She appeared punctually to the moment in the old-fashioned hooded phaeton, drawn by Jupiter and Juno, in their best harness, and driven by the respectable Jacob, in his Sunday clothes.

There was evidently something on the old lady's mind; though displaying all her customary punctilious politeness, she listened with a pre-occupied air to the conversation, even when it was addressed especially to herself. She looked anxious and careworn; she started when spoken to, and was altogether unlike her ordinary self. Hilda began to fear she had displeased her by not returning home at the week's end; Christina and her sisters were afraid that she was come to take her niece away. Certainly, appearances augured ill for the success of their scheme, which was to keep Hilda for at least a fortnight

longer. Mrs. Dorothy looked as little like a person to be propitiated as could be well imagined. To the Arnisons she said not much-indeed, she was singularly taciturn to all, and, generally speaking, she had a good deal to say for herself upon such occasions; she was one who, in a quiet and rather stately fashion, was wont to take her full part in all discussions, and to discharge what she believed to be her social duties towards her host and hostess, and her fellow-guests.

The Bradens were a little surprised, but of course they were far too well-bred to manifest the feeling, in ever so slight a degree; while the Arnisons, who had noticed. their kinswoman's unusual preoccupation and strange reserve on the preceding Sunday, when she had driven home immediately after the morning service, though pressed to remain to luncheon, were more puzzled than before. Something was evidently troubling Mrs. Dorothy, and Mr. and Mrs. Arnison could only wonder that she had chosen to leave the seclusion of the Grey House. Mr. Arnison, who took her in to dinner, endeavoured in vain to converse with her; he tried the weather, the crops, the farm, the Wesleyan tea-meeting, the small gossip of the town, the last criticism on a noted book,--everything that he could think of, as likely or unlikely to interest his silent neighbour; and he was just beginning on a letter which had been received that morning from Alice, settling the day of her home-coming, when Mrs. Dorothy interrupted him. "Nephew Ralph, I have always considered thee a tolerably sensible man,-I might say, for a man, extremely sensible!-and here thou hast been for the last half-hour dinning words into my ears, and worrying me with questions I did not care to answer, when all the time thou must have perceived that I was thinking of something else, and wanting to be undisturbed. Thou hast been as great a nuisance to me as ever Polonius was to Hamlet."

“Indeed, aunt, I am sorry; but you must allow me to remark that people do not generally dine out in order to indulge in meditation."

"I know that. I had a reason for coming here, or I should have kept my grumpiness to myself and to my maids at home. Be quiet, I entreat thee-that is, don't