Carding-mill Valley

Among the ancient British hills, not far from the Welsh Border, lies a lone tract of very romantic, almost mountainous country. Those who have looked down often on continental moraines, where arrowy rivers and rushing torrents sweep past, bringing with them all kinds of débris, will be reminded, in miniature, of scenes near the sources of mighty streams; even though it is only a brook that trickles between dark heaving slopes of heath; or that spreads itself out into shallow pools, blue with forget-me-nots growing among pebbles, and peeping out of the glancing water.

"Be ye going to the Mountains?" is the reply given by some passing shepherd if you ask your way; and, although these ancient heights do not rival Alps or Apennines, the traveller who has seen both and many other grand acclivities does not find fault with the term.

This winding vale is not so far away from the haunts of men as might be supposed when you have followed its intricacies for some distance. Children from old-fashioned houses and cottages in a straggling street, gather the flowers and water-cresses and paddle in the shallow water-course. Sheep are washed in the deep pool under the alders, and the trees of a noble domain, fringe the heights overlooking the entrance to the gorge.

But it is wild enough farther on. There, men have wandered despairingly, in danger of their lives, on snowy nights of gusty winter; warned, only just in time, by the sudden dash of the rivulet over a stony ledge, that they were on the verge of a precipice. Wide, inhospitable moors stretch away, with deep pits underlying their treacherous surface; while rugged cart-tracks and rough steep bridle-roads alone unite the little hamlets and solitary farms. The small town at the entrance of the Carding-Mill Valley is the capital of this secluded, beautiful wilderness.

At the end of its one long street overlooked by the tower of the Church, the houses form an irregular square, one side of which is partially open, excepting where a jutting ledge of rock starts forward as if on purpose to shut out the view. It does not, however, impede the advance of the traveller, for there is a wide path carried round the natural ledge of stone which forms a seat. Here the irrepressible children congregate, and almost equally numerous, and much bolder, large white pigs, sometimes seem holding a conclave. Only a few paces farther on the houses are lost to sight behind this stony promontory; and you are, or seem to be, alone with Nature. "There, yes, there are the Mountains!" you involuntarily exclaim. You cannot call them by any other name! Taking every casual tint of the atmosphere, peaked, crenellated, battlemented, storm-defiant, those rugged, weather-beaten summits command the smiling wooded ridges, pleasant field pathways, and emerald-green water-meadows, which surround the primitive dwellings of the children of the soil.

The last house in what would be called in the West of England "the Church Town," to distinguish it from one or two other clusters of buildings, previously passed, turned its front quite away from the streets and towards the hills, receiving shelter from the jutting promontory which hid the view from other dwellings. On the opposite side of the white winding road a darkly wooded slope terminated at but a short distance, where the stone piers of a lofty entrance gateway marked the commencement of a very shadowy avenue. No building was visible, the mansion being approached by long wooded drives from each end of the village, and lying far back under the hills which gently folded round it.

High above these home-woods and smiling hills rose the peaks and cones of what the country people invariably designated as "The Mountains." Their wild jagged outlines deserved the name, though perhaps they might be more correctly called Moor-land Heights. Still, as the provincial appellation suited them well, we shall often use it. An opening in the lower chain of hills gave the cottage at the end of the street a prospect few English dwellings possess of these storm-rent acclivities. The slanting rays of the sun as it sank behind heavy clouds gave majesty to the view. Darkly grey against the amber sunset frowned the Mountains--purple in the deeper shadows--gold-flecked where salient angles caught the light.

Miss Derinzy's residence, except in situation, differed very little from other houses in the street, many of them being pleasantly set in the midst of gardens, shadowed by trees, thatched, and individualized by various ornamental appendages, in the shape of gables, verandas, and bay or bow windows. Indeed, it was much plainer than some villas or cottages of gentility belonging to the doctor's, the lawyer's, and several other respectable families. The windows were only sheltered and shaded by the deep projection of the thatch. Just now the small diamond-paned casements glittered in the low sunrays. A long row of beehives was ranged against the sunny south fence, and the entrance was straight from the little garden in front through a porch which was thatched, and in shape very much resembled the beehives.

All the rooms which the cottage contained were on one floor. At the back was a large garden filled with multitudes of common flowers, with straight walks passing among them; and, beyond, a well-stocked kitchen-garden, now looking verdant and prolific. Through the middle of the smaller plot of grass in front of the cottage a narrow gravel path led directly to the parlour-window, which also served the purpose of front-door; the entrance at the back being principally used by the tradespeople and numerous recipients of charity. The visitors, few in number, of the quiet Mistress of The Nest found their way unannounced into her presence by walking in at the open window in summer; or, if it were closed, by ringing a little bell which hung close by under the porch upon which it opened.

The glare of the afternoon sunshine lay on the flowers outside, but the room itself was in shadow, and the windows wide open, when a lady, who might have been seen coming down the avenue from The Hall, tapped with her parasol against the glass door, and upon hearing a gentle voice say, "Come in," entered quietly. She was handsomely dressed, and there was an unmistakable air of refinement in her whole appearance; but all traces of beauty had vanished before their time from the pale face of Ursula Derinzy, the present mistress of Hagleth Hall. Once she had been very lovely, but she had faded prematurely.

Even in dress an alteration in style, which was not an improvement, had taken place. The soft blues and greys and lilacs, and even delicate-rose tints, in which she had once delighted were always sufficiently subdued to harmonize with, and might have brightened up and thrown a glow over, the at present wan hue of her complexion. A more decided contrast might have set off those delicate feminine features, and light hair more than tinged with silver; but Ursula preferred neutral tints, shadowy dull greens and brown and slate. Herself a shadow, her limp, trailing, dust-coloured garment, as she glided across the floor, made her seem spectral.

Miss Derinzy was in all respects the opposite to her cousin. Her tall figure was always attired in well-fitting graceful robes, adapted after a fashion of her own to the prevailing custom of the period. Though in reality they were contemporaries, she looked many years younger than her visitor. Her clear dark complexion was still pure as in her youth. Her eyes shone with a grave but tender lustre which could be compared to nothing more aptly than the evening star. Many a well-turned couplet and compliment, long since forgotten, had been offered at the shrine of Stella Derinzy's darkly beaming eyes.

She did not rise from the low beehive chair in which she was seated, but held out both her hands, dropping her needlework in her lap.

"Welcome!" she said warmly. "I did not know you had come back to The Hall. How kind of you to walk here in this great heat, at once to see me!"

Mrs. Derinzy received that frank kindly grasp and greeting as affectionately as her nature and habits permitted. She was one of those unfortunate people who cannot learn, and have not imbibed instinctively, the art of salutation. If she ever kissed anyone--it was not usual for her to go so far even with her most intimate friends--she always turned her head away just at the critical moment, and presented the side of her cheek, or the tip of her shell-shaped ear, instead of the small straight mouth. So, in shaking hands, her slender trembling fingers eluded a straightforward clasp, her little thumbs were always in the way.

However, after their several widely differing fashions, the two ladies shook hands; neither of them seeming to contemplate or desire a warmer embrace, though they were near relatives as well as intimate friends, and had been separated from each other for a considerable period.

"We came home much sooner than was originally intended. As usual, everything here was going wrong," said Mrs. Derinzy, lowering her never loud tones to a confidential whisper. "The girls naturally wished, after our return from the Riviera, to stay a little while in London, see the exhibitions, attend meetings and conversaziones, hear the great preachers, in fact, to enjoy, each in her own way, what are called the pleasures of the season; but Colonel Derinzy would not hear of it, and hurried us off at, literally, a moment's notice. You know, Stella, I never dispute his commands--I only wish others were as obedient! No doubt he had good reason for saying that it was best, on all accounts, to leave Town without a moment's delay."

"Had anything happened here, or did Colonel Derinzy think London unhealthy? I have heard great complaints of the heat there already this season, and of epidemics, measles and scarlatina. I hope the girls have not caught them."

"Oh dear no, I hope not; I trust we brought them away in time to avoid those and much worse risks," said the mother of four handsome, healthy daughters with a sigh. "Oh, Stella, how much you are to be envied! Here you live so contentedly in your sweet little cottage, with your two men and three model maid-servants! No carriage-horses to be always falling ill (that dear little poney is never out of condition)--no boys getting into constant scrapes--no girls developing all kinds of alarming peculiarities and inclinations, in danger of forming most undesirable connections--with literally no one but yourself to think about! No domestic anxieties to worry you perpetually--a handsome income and perfect independence. I always say you are the person I know in the world most to be envied."

"Do you really think so, Ursula?" said Stella, raising her grave, wondering, luminous eyes to her cousin's face. "Well, perhaps you are right. At all events I am, at last, content, after long praying and trying to be so. But such is the perversity of human nature and the contradictoriness of women's hearts that I have often envied you the occupation of the lovely place where I was born; I have wished that the cool waving woods hung still over my own rooftree, or belonged to one dearer than myself who would have shared everything with me--that the fleet steeds my brother and I used to ride still carried us over the hills and through the valley. More than all I have longed for the love of children--his or my own; I should have loved his boys and girls dearly, and could then contentedly have remained to the end of my days, Aunt Stella, watching over them; or I might have married and been as you should be, a proud happy mother, and been blessed with such a crown of joy as your bright loving beautiful daughters and brave sons are for you!"

Mrs. Derinzy laid her tremulous hand on those which Stella had clasped together in her momentary excitement, but the limp fingers fell away again immediately.

"Oh, of course, yes, I know, I remember what you must often feel; but, please do not let us talk about it. The past is gone beyond recall, the present is your own doing, and I am sure you are much too good to envy anyone. Circumstanced as we both are, it is best never to allude to those old times."

"Then do not bring them before me by envying me my poor cottage, my lonely state," said Miss Derinzy, vainly trying to repress her feelings. "I cannot bury my dead out of sight as you do, Ursula; and there are none but yourself to whom I can speak of persons and things that neither time nor absence, not even death, can make me forget."

Mrs. Derinzy gazed helplessly at her friend whilst this strong spasm of emotion lasted. Her hands shook more than ever, and there were fresh lines and nervous twitches round her thin lips; her white face grew yet more deathlike. Feelings seldom stirred swayed her like a leaf. She trembled from head to foot, and there was something sadder than sorrow in the expression of her tearless eyes. Stella did not look at her, but, nevertheless, she was aware that her cousin, as well as herself, had been, and still was, unusually agitated.

"Forget what I have said, Ursula. You are quite right. I am content with my lot now, and thankful for its tranquillity," she said kindly. "Tell me, what new troubles brought you home so suddenly!"

"Indeed, indeed, Stella, I did not mean to grieve you. A mother of many children like me is not always to be envied. Colonel Derinzy, though I am far from wishing to blame my husband, has his peculiarities, and so have all his and my sons and daughters, though they are unlike us both. Thea has a thousand whims and fancies, and wanted me to ask her father to allow her to become a nursing-sister, or assistant pupil, I know not what, in a great London Hospital! The next thing will be that she will take it into her head to be a Lady Doctor. I can't think where they get such ideas--certainly not from me or their father!"

"No; I do not think you ever had any such eccentric inclinations," said her cousin. "It is like a hen bringing up in her coop ducklings or game birds, or a hedge-sparrow with a cuckoo in her little nest. But I do not think Althea will develop into a cuckoo. All her instincts are kindly ones. As yet she is but groping in the dark to find her true vocation."

"Leo has altered the services and changed the hymn-books. He actually has tall candles burning on the altar. I do hope he will discontinue his Ritualistic practices now that we are come back. His father, I am quite sure, will not tolerate them. He was always the most wilful of my children"--pursued his mother in a still more plaintive key. "Ah yes," she added in reply to a few quiet words of explanation. "These innovations are only practised as yet in the little Chapel which you helped him and others to build. I wonder why people cannot be satisfied and worship with us in the old Parish Church. You have quite given up your own place, now, in the Hall pew--" A movement of impatience on Stella's part cut short her murmurs, and she said hurriedly:

"But these were not the troubles which you asked me about, Stella. Have you really not heard or cared about the infringement of our family rights and privileges by the stranger who is making a road at the upper end of the Carding-Mill Valley? Colonel Derinzy considers it an unpardonable liberty, and hurried home the moment he heard of it to put a stop to his proceedings."

"Yes, I know that a gentleman--Mr. Vansittart's tenant at the old burnt Mill--was so sorry to see the horses so greatly distressed by the sharp pitch of the hill that he had gone to great expense in turning and levelling the road. Is there any harm in that? I look on him as a public benefactor!"

"My dear Stella, I wonder that you, a landed-proprietor, should say so!" said her cousin. "What business had this Manchester man--Mr. Johnson or Thompson--I hear he has been in trade and has loads of money--to meddle with your road? Colonel Derinzy was furious about it and says he shall bring an action against the man. It is only by favour that carts pass that way; if the road is bad, let them go round the hill."

"There was always a right of road through the valley," said her cousin thoughtfully. "Tell Colonel Derinzy that I say so, and I knew our hills, and dales too, long before he did. Lawsuits about way-rights are tedious things. Why should we not have a good road instead of a bad one, since you cannot shut out the public?"

"Oh, you do not know what gentlemen think about these matters--you must excuse me. I make a point of never interfering or giving an opinion. No doubt Colonel Derinzy knows best. He is quite sure to be right."

"Let him try then, but not as my representative," said Stella carelessly. "We must all buy our experience, and no doubt Colonel Derinzy is prepared, as the next proprietor of the Hall, to count the cost, and able to pay for it. I doubt whether the law will give judgment in his favour; although in most cases I admit him to be wiser in his generation than myself or our new neighbour, who seems to think more of other people's comfort and convenience than of his own interests."

Mrs. Derinzy sighed. "You are very severe, Stella; less charitable to my husband than to this stranger. Let us say no more about these troublesome matters. Parish business is not at all in my way. The less ladies meddle in it the better. It is quite out of our sphere. Have you been suffering more than usual lately? You are certainly not in your usual good spirits to-day."

"The heat is trying," replied her friend, as Mrs. Derinzy looked at her compassionately. She loved Stella better than anyone outside her own home circle, and the affection was mutual, though their pursuits, habits and characters were far as the poles asunder. "Will you give me your arm as far as the gates of your avenue? I shall go and rest then on my favourite seat looking towards the hills. They always soothe me."

"I wish you would come home with me," said her cousin affectionately. "It is very little further than that uncomfortable stone chair, and the views of the woods and hills much pleasanter. My flowers are lovely; and we have brought down some delightful lawn-seats, and a tent which Leo and Hugo have already set up for their sisters. The young people will be delighted to see you. Stella, do you never mean to enter the old Hall again?"

Miss Derinzy did not take any notice of this question. She was busy assuming her simple out-of-door costume, every article of which hung within her reach. Last of all she took up an alpenstock, marked with records of travel in other hands, but she did not make much use of it at first, accepting the arm of her friend as far as the way led in the same direction--the shadowy approach to the domain of Hagleth.

It seemed strange to see the taller, apparently stronger, still handsome woman leaning on the slender, willowy, feeble Mistress of the Hall; but Stella Derinzy needed support. When she parted from her cousin her pace became slower and she leant more on her staff, often pausing for breath. Years before, in blooming girlhood, she had overtaxed her strength; and now the once fleet limbs had lost much of their power, though medical and surgical skill failed in discovering the cause or remedy.

Stella submitted to her fate, but it cost her a severe struggle to give up active exercise. She could only walk a short distance; riding, in which she formerly delighted, was forbidden; the motion of a carriage fatigued and pained her. Her friends believed, as well as the eminent physicians consulted, that the weight of a great mental sorrow, caused by the loss of an idolized brother, suddenly laid upon her when her bodily health first failed, conduced to make the strain and tension of the nerves almost intolerable; but she had a brave spirit and bore up against it.

It was probably the knowledge that many persons in her native village wanted friendly sympathy which made Stella Derinzy remain near her old home, although she never on any occasion or under any circumstances crossed the threshold of The Hall. Mrs Derinzy was too timid to play the part of Lady Bountiful; her husband considered charity as the root of pauperism and numberless ills; as perhaps, when injudiciously distributed, in some cases, may be true. He never went among the cottagers, nor would he suffer his wife to do so. As children the young girls of the family took exercise in the extensive and beautiful grounds. Their attendants were strictly forbidden to take them into the village for fear of infection; although in justice to him and to Stella, the Lady of the Manor, it must be said that all local affairs were attended to carefully. The dwellings were kept in decent repair, and a sufficient number of tolerably roomy, comfortable tenements were provided and at certain seasons put in order.

Colonel Derinzy was not a cruel, but he was by no means a tender nor a generous steward. He was the manager of Miss Derinzy's large property and her heir-at-law. Her tenantry were not insensible to his good qualities, and yet they heartily disliked the man who had succeeded, prematurely they thought, to the authority of the old-fashioned, kind-hearted Squire.

There were many persons who wondered (as neighbours will always wonder at the actions of those whom they have seen grow up without realizing their individual peculiarities) that Stella Derinzy should remain in the near vicinity of the place where she was born and might have continued to bear rule; but the broken-hearted girl clung even to painful associations. It was better, she said, to mourn among her own people than to hide her deep grief from strangers. A small cottage in the village which suited her taste and particularly belonged to her as part of the portion for younger children, had been, when she was quite young, fitted up according to her fancy. The gardener, housekeeper, and coachman were old servants from The Hall, friends from childhood, and their daughter had been her own maid ever since she was released from her nurse's thrall. With a small but well-ordered and sufficient establishment, and one little maiden from the village school, a promotion earnestly contemplated by the best scholar, Miss Derinzy contented herself; and, as her cousin said, she was free from home troubles.

Most part of her large income was spent in works of charity, in aiding old and young friends, and, in judiciously assisting those who tried to help themselves, but for whom life's changes and chances had proved too heavy. There are bounds even in the most loving and best-balanced spirits wearing mortal shape to Christian charity, and Stella Derinzy's stopped here. She did not love--she tried not to hate--her brother's successor at the old Hall, Arnold Derinzy, the representative of a younger branch, who had married her first cousin. Never did she knowingly and willingly cross his path.

It was easy to avoid him, for the Colonel disliked the village, and all the quiet rural paths, and in fact seldom walked at all. He rode into the neighbouring county-town almost every day, followed by his groom; and performed the usual duties of a country gentleman with exemplary regularity. No particularly arbitrary or cruel judgment as a magistrate had ever been brought home to him. He was not an over-strict game-preserver, but he was regarded as a hard man. No wife, sister, mother, or friend, would have tried to influence him towards deeds of mercy rather than strict justice. There was an iron rigidity about his straightly-cut features and upright figure which told of harshness as well as military discipline; and, through his more gentle wife, experience taught that it was useless to try and reach the gentler side, if it existed, of his nature. Ursula had no influence; and, as she said, made a point of never interfering.

Stella tried not to think about her enemy--the only one she ever even imagined herself to have--as she walked on after parting with his wife, but the tall straight figure haunted her. She thought, too, of the stranger at the Burnt Mill, as people still often called the place where he had unwisely settled. Many kind actions of his had been reported to her, and she had a strong fellow-feeling for the over-driven cattle--the weary beasts of burden--whose toil he had tried to lighten by turning and lowering the road, and placing a drinking-trough and fountain beside it. The man himself derived no benefit from his large outlay, but he was supposed to be rich and to have plenty to spare.

He had sacrificed the prettiest corner of his small recently-acquired picturesque grounds in order to give the new road a better turn and easier incline, and probably imagined other gentlemen in the neighbourhood would be equally accommodating. What a disappointing, souring effect the churlish opposition of the occupants of the Hall would have upon this good-natured individual if the threat of law-proceedings against him were actually to be carried out! It should not be done, at all events, under her name and sanction.

Stella forgot her troubles when the path by a sudden turn brought her out on a lone hillside overlooking the course of the brook. She could see the blue forget-me-nots growing among the pebbles in and beside the shallow stream,--the grey boulders past which it meandered. High dark summits, many-hued, many-shaped, closed in the prospect. Could she but have wandered far enough, the path would lead into the recesses of the hills. She might hear again the music of the waterfall, and gather ferns from its very ledge. But her strength failed, even while she thought of it. "Hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther," had been impressed upon her during many an hour of pain and restlessness.

Opposite to the rocky recess in which she was resting was another stony ledge somewhat similar in character. She sat down thankfully, after lifting up and appropriating a bunch of flowers laid on the granite slab. She guessed that they were intended for herself; very seldom did she fail to find some little token of rural affection as the reward of her pilgrimage.

In olden times, this spot had been named the "Lady's Chair," and the opposite shelf in the rock the "Knight's Table," sole relics of some forgotten legend or superstition. Stella was empress of her people's hearts--the sons and daughters of the soil adored her. These working men and women prayed for her--children worshipped the ground on which she trod, and followed her bidding blindfold. Was it not worth while to have borne pain and conquered reluctance to win such wealth of love? Every day Stella rejoiced more and more that she had resolved to live down her trouble, her sore mortification, among her own people, under the shadow of her own hills. Feeble as she was, there were the skirts and crowns of the mountains, with the brook winding its way down the valley. No other place on earth could have the same hallowed though thrilling associations, or be so dear to her, even though she could no longer urge her light palfrey to carry her more fleetly through the passes of the hills by Hugh's side, or feel the warm clasp of the brotherly hand which had once helped her to reach on foot their boldest and loneliest heights.

Accompanied by his eldest son, a young officer in a cavalry regiment, home now on long leave after several years absence, of whom he was excessively proud; both well mounted, and followed at a considerable distance by a groom, Colonel Derinzy on the following afternoon, contrary to his usual custom, more gaily than was his wont, rode up among the heath-clad hills. Like a war-horse he snuffed the battle from afar, and his arched nostrils expanded. His spirited steed responded to his ardour, and pranced and curveted along the narrow bridle-road; but a master's hand was on the rein, a firm foot rested in the stirrup, and a will of iron soon put a stop to any frolicsome exuberances of temper and spirit. Though the servant had fallen back respectfully out of earshot, very little conversation passed between the two gentlemen.

Colonel Derinzy was by nature silent and reserved, especially so in his own family; his children respected his will, but they never, under any circumstances, placed confidence in either of their parents. Ursula was a mere shadow of her husband, and, if not herself arbitrary, had become so as his reflected image. Of the two, the young people thought more of their father, and would rather have carried any tale of wrong or injury to him, if they dared, than to their feeble-minded mother.

Hugo Derinzy was satisfied with feeling himself, for the first time, on the footing of manhood and treated like a gentleman. There was no fault to be found with the young cavalry officer's management of his horse, and military bearing. Perhaps an uneasy sensation that his own style and manner of riding belonged to a past quarter of the century, made the Colonel shy of offering hints and suggestions to his high-spirited, perfectly self-possessed representative. In the village, where Hugo, though he only returned home the day before, had already visited most of his old friends, for these young people were the exact opposites of their parents and universally popular, the young man was said greatly to resemble Stella Derinzy's ill-fated brother. The old people wished their present favourite a happier lot, but some shook their heads as he rode gaily past their doors with his father. It was a sight to see them together and in amity, but how long would it last?

The quick eye of the young officer travelled over well-known haunts of boyhood and noticed every feature of the secluded landscape, though his lips remained closed. What did it signify to his stern parent whether that steep slope or yonder scarped crag, the withies by the brook and the great golden marsh-mallows, reminded him of some boyish feat or prank? Who could say, even in his present calm mood, how any approach to a light jest or boast might be taken? It were wisest to let the sleeping lion alone.

The way pursued by the father and son, though it lay up the valley, was quite a different one to the footpath Miss Derinzy had taken when she parted with her cousin. Hugo glanced at the stone chair and ledge high above them, and perhaps thought of dear Cousin Stella, whom he had not yet had time to visit, as he wanted a long chat with her after his long absence. The Colonel rode straight on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, with the air of one bent upon a purpose and anxious to attain his end by the shortest and most direct road. He splashed through the brook, which had overflowed the road, treading down the forget-me-nots ruthlessly, whilst his son took pains to avoid injuring them. Hugo knew that his pale cousin liked to look down from her eyry upon the blue flowers which in childhood, boyhood, almost manhood, he had often clambered down the hill and gathered for her, or placed the first blossoms, beside the "Lady's Chair," guiding her there himself with boyish gallantry.

When the road became wider, Colonel Derinzy drew in his rein and rode closer to his son, manifesting an intention of commencing a conversation. Hugo recalled his attention from the pleasantly scented elder hedges and dog-roses, which reminded him again of Stella, from the sheep flying frantically over the hillside at the sound of horses' hoofs, and a hawk hovering over some terrified song-birds, and became gravely attentive immediately. His manner was quite unexceptionable, and for a mile or two the father and son rode on, talking at intervals, more pleasantly than they had ever done before, on topics connected with the career long since closed for one, just opening to the other. The Colonel was gratified by the respect shown to his son by former comrades of his own, from whom he had been long separated, and who, having felt themselves chilled and repelled by his cold taciturn inhospitality, had been glad to transfer their friendship to his son. Hugo spoke with manly independence, but modestly, of the attentions he had received, ending with a cordial expression of gratitude to his father for the exceptional liberality of the pecuniary arrangements made in his favour. This acknowledgment was received graciously. The Colonel fell back into silence, and Hugo felt glad that it was satisfactorily over.

The hill stream flowed on more briskly as they proceeded on their way. Dark soft beds of heath not yet in flower marked the course of the rivulet past and over mossy grey boulders, which lay strewn across the track. It needed care to avoid them, and in hours of darkness the road was full of danger and difficulty, but eminently picturesque. Now, in the early summer, nothing could be more pleasant; but Hugo knew it well in months of wintry gloom and tempest, when the country carts and vehicles found it almost impassable, when the brook swelled to a torrent, and the water-courses flooded the valley, or heavy snow drifts totally impeded the traffic. This was, however the only mode of communication between several outlying farms and hamlets. The Church sheltered by his father's woods had been until quite lately the only place of public worship consecrated for the service of the Church of England, whither the peasantry from many far-off houses resorted when weather and roads permitted. His brother, the painstaking, energetic, zealous young Vicar, and the good Doctor, often found it difficult, well-nigh impossible, to reach the abodes of the sick and dying when their services were most needed.

Suddenly the hills opened, and at the head of the wild glen a waterfall became visible. The little stream brawled and foamed below, after flinging itself in mad haste over a fern-fringed ledge between dark tall boulders. A few acacia and birch trees grew up among the stones above the cataract; and, on the rocks below, their roots, catching at every aperture in the rocky wall, made a sort of rough network.

Tall purple foxgloves and St. John's-wort, with masses of forget-me-nots, bugloss and comfrey, grew round the base of the fall, turning the space below into a kind of wild garden. It seemed to Hugo, who had visited the spot at all seasons, as if loving care had been recently expended upon it. There were plants flowering among the rocks which he did not remember to have noticed or gathered there in earlier days. If his father's stern eyes had not been upon him he would certainly have flung his rein to the groom and dismounted to pluck a nosegay for Stella of the blossoms congregated more lavishly than usual in the wild nook which had once been one of her favourite haunts. Colonel Derinzy, however, at that moment seemed in no mood for loitering or trifling. He urged on his horse, and passed at a quicker pace round the edge of the rocks below the fall, leaving it on the right hand of their track. Sounds had reached him which roused his anger, and he called to his son, who had stopped to look at the cascade, and made a sign to the groom to follow him quickly.

On the other side of the wall of rock, round which the cart-track or bridle-road passed, men were busily at work, who lifted up their heads in some consternation when the future lord of the soil they were upturning came suddenly upon them. A scene of busy industry was revealed. Through the valley wound a white, not wide, road, bordered with granite boulders and masses of thorn and elder, which had evidently been transplanted some time previously with great care and at the proper season, for they were now in bloom. Banks of turf and plots of wild flowers flourished beside the new road, which had already lost all painful symptoms of glaring freshness, and was indented by cart-tracks and horse-hoofs.

The present objects of labour were a drinking-trough for cattle and a rustic porch for wayfarers. The road in this part was completed, though farther on might be heard the pickaxes of labourers engaged in carrying it on, by an easier incline than the old cart-track, through the valley. Cousin Stella's Waterfall, as the children, whom she had taught to find it, called the neighbouring cascade, had not been in any manner interfered with. The seclusion of that garden among the hills was religiously respected, whilst at the same time the convenience and safety of the community had been consulted. The new road wound on its way clear of the brook and the rocks through an opening lower down among the hills, and higher up, passed through the private grounds of Millburn, the place now occupied by a stranger in the county, who bore the name of Forester.

The grey old house above the brawling stream had once been a hive of industry; but, like many a similar edifice, had been partially consumed by fire. Subsequently it had been repaired and fitted up as a shooting-lodge, and ultimately it had passed by a deed of gift from the late Squire into the possession of his old friend and legal adviser, Mr. Vansittart, who had let it to its present master during Colonel Derinzy's absence. Now it was converted into a sort of lodge in the wilderness on the outskirts of civilization; and as its present occupant, judging by his choice of an abode, was probably a lover of seclusion, it must have been an act of self-denial to allow the road to traverse the not over-large domain surrounding the house; but in no other manner could his benevolent purpose have been effected.

The dark walls of the old building were only here and there visible through trees, and a considerable distance still lay between it and the horsemen.

Colonel Derinzy looked round somewhat fiercely to see whether any person in authority was near at hand to whom he might express his objections to the liberties which had, undoubtedly, been taken with his own and his cousin's territorial rights, and from whom he might inquire what further aggressions were contemplated.

At that moment a bell rang out loudly, but not uumelodiously, from the house on the high ground, and the men left off working and began to gather together in groups on each side of the road; putting on their jackets, and assuming attitudes of rest and ease, as they laid aside the implements of labour and settled themselves complacently under the shade of the rocks and thorn trees, or in pleasant sunny spots fanned by summer breezes, as they best liked.

Down the white road came three or four serving-maidens carrying trays on their heads, which they set down near the workmen, who rose up again and doffed their caps to a lady who came slowly in the wake of the pretty, simply-attired girls; who, as soon as each had placed her burden on the grass, turned and flocked round their mistress. A short grace was sung, in which the men joined heartily; then a ringin cheer rent the air, three times repeated; after which the labourers partook heartily of the good-cheer provided for them.

The singularity of the scene had checked even Colonel Derinzy's hostile advances, but by no means had it appeased his wrath. He felt particularly angry at the little notice taken of himself; and still more affronted when, at a sign from their young mistress, one of the girls came shyly towards him and asked if the gentlemen would take some refreshment. Hugo, on the contrary, who had recognised in the young maiden one of Miss Derinzy's trained servants, thanked her; and drank contentedly from one of the classically-shaped goblets of bright red pottery-ware a draught of excellent cider, which the heat made doubly acceptable.

The lady herself did not draw nearer. She stood apart on a little mound under an old thorn-tree, which had not been disturbed. The fresh green leaves and snowy blossoms made a becoming canopy. She was tall and beautifully fair, simply but tastefully dressed in some light summer fabric, which rested on the ground when she stood still, and was gathered up with a quick, not ungraceful, gesture while she walked. Hugo thought he had seldom seen a prettier picture than that formed by the tall stately lady and her bevy of blooming attendants, who were all dressed alike in a sort of livery of white and violet striped print dresses. Her own dress, quite differently made, was of the same colour, unmixed with white. Among the green leaves the girls looked like white and purple violets.

Colonel Derinzy, after a brief halt, rode forward, and Hugo, anxious to gain a nearer view, did the same. Both gentlemen doffed their hats when they came in front of the bunch of violets.

"Can you tell me, Madam, who has authorised these men to cut a road through my cousin Miss Derinzy's land? Shall I find anyone at the house yonder who can answer the question? I am Colonel Derinzy, the present occupant of Hagleth Hall."

The young lady came to the edge of the mound.

"Are you displeased that the poor horses should be eased in the ascent?" she said, with surprise. "Oh, you cannot have seen them toil, as we did, in summer heat and winter snow! You were away. No one said you might object. I am sorry that just at present there is no one at home to receive you. My father is unluckily absent."

She drew back modestly amongst her maidens as she concluded her little speech. The girls closed round her like a flock of bright-hued pigeons, the wind fluttering and rustling their light skirts.

Hugo still sat his horse, bare-headed. His father had put on his hat, and looked bitterly disappointed.

"It is of no use to go on to-day. We must take other measures to check this insolence," he said in a low tone to his son; as, after a slight salutation to the lady, he wheeled his impatient horse round. "These fellows look very much disposed to rudeness," he added, still sotto voce, as several of the men, disturbed in their rustic meal, got up and drew nearer to the girls, as if to protect them, if necessary. "Take notice, Hugo; there are several faces I ought to know, but we have been away so often. You used to be more familiar with the villagers. Tell Kershaw to put down the names of any whom he remembers, any people belonging to the place. This work will soon come to an end, and not one of them shall ever put spade into our land again, with or without my leave, if I can prevent it."

Colonel Derinzy rode away with a frowning brow. The pretty rural picture was quite lost upon him; but the young officer turned back in his saddle more than once to look at it, after raising his hat and bending low as a parting salute to the lady. More than one of the men murmured a word of welcome as he followed his irascible parent. Hugo was a great favourite with all the country people, and there were, as the Colonel suspected, many among them who had known him from childhood.

When he reached the ledge of rock by the waterfall, though his father called him, Hugo came to a halt, and again held his hat in his hand, while the girls, after removing the empty trays, platters, and flagons, sang once more their simple thanksgiving; and, leaving the men at rest from their labour, the little troop wound their way up the valley. There was a very dark cloud in Colonel Derinzy's brow when his son rode quickly after and rejoined him, but Hugo was no longer a boy who would bear scolding. Silent displeasure he could not resent, and, after one or two vain efforts, he did not seek to interrupt his father's moody cogitations. Colonel Derinzy did not speak a single word in returning home, or when he dismounted at his own hall-door, threw the reins of his horse to his servant, and shut himself up alone in his library to write a letter to his lawyer.

In a small very plainly furnished room of the building which still went by the name of the Burnt Mill among the peasantry, a man was sitting writing at a deal table, quite alone. Through the open casement came the sound of Church bells, though it was not the Sabbath or any Saints' festival. Of late there had been a very simple service, which many of the road-makers attended, in a small chapel-of-ease high up the valley which had been built by Colonel Derinzy's second son, aided by Stella and some enthusiastic worshippers. There were no signs of devotion in the attitude of the person busily employed near the window, but every now and then he paused and listened to the bells reverentially. Perhaps the sound brought other chimes to his recollection, for he was a stranger until lately in this part of the country; and, excepting one only daughter, neither kith nor kin acknowledged his existence. There were dark experiences written on his brow; and, in spite of many good deeds done amongst them, it was said, even by those whom he benefited, that he had led a wild life, and was making expiation now for past sins of youth.

This surmise, though it lacked charity and might be utterly untrue, for nothing was known of the antecedents of the occupant of the old Mill and its surrounding premises, was not an unnatural or even an improbable one. Where there is mystery it is often taken for granted that there must be some evil thing requiring concealment, and in many cases this supposition is correct. Here was even more ground for it than usual; for this man shrank from the sight of his fellow-creatures, and there were visible tokens on his brow and in his deep-set eyes of something darker and sterner than sorrow, which might either have been left there by bitter resentment or life-long regret. He had arrived at home--if home it might be called--unexpectedly, as was his custom, a few hours before, and was already, as was his wont, hard at work. On the threshold no welcoming word or glance had met him, for his child, ignorant of his intended return had gone to attend the evening service with her maidens, leaving the house empty and shut up. He had opened the door with his latch-key, and entered--that was simple enough, and he was alone there now.

Alone--yes, quite alone--it was a word he often repeated softly to himself. Few men were more solitary! Some deed, whether evil or not time will reveal, had cut him off in early youth; and he had ever since, though for a brief space he had lived and loved, felt himself to be a solitary man. No matter; there was work for him as well as for others, even if he were never known to be the doer of it--work which he could do, and which made existence less lonesome.

Do we not meet with, occasionally, some book or pamphlet or printed matter which seems not to be written by one of ourselves? Where everything is treated in a manner so utterly impartial, so disconnected with any feelings of social relation to those whom the writer would yet wish to serve and edify, that we wonder who could have taken so lofty, so intensely solitary, a stand-point, and yet so keenly sympathize in joys and sorrows with his fellow-mortals from whom he stands apart. Perhaps it is some abstruse theory of this description which is passing through his mind and forming itself into energetic language as the writer at the window bends over the page; and, ceasing to listen to any outward sound, throws his whole soul into his work. His are not idle, useless meditations or vain regrets. His past, be it what it may have been, has nerved him for the present and the future. Let his sufferings or even crimes, there are lines dark enough to have been furrowed by guilt, pass--that man has done and is doing good work in his day--work that will live after him; when whatever wrong or wretchedness, folly or vice, has marred his life will have been long since forgotten.

After the sound of the bells died away the landscape was utterly quiet. The hours of labour were over, and the workmen gone; all the valley was still. Without an interruption the writer finished his task, whatever it might be, and folded the sheets together, placing them ready for the domestic whose duty it was to post them at the proper time. Then the master of the house glanced round somewhat wearily; and, finding the aspect indoors of the empty house not to his taste, went out into the fresh, cool, evening twilight. Though there had been much pains and cost bestowed on the road now winding through the valley, and loving womanly hands had twined flowery garlands among the rocks by Stella's waterfall, very little expense had been incurred, or alteration made on the domain itself.

The dwelling-house had been at one time partially rebuilt, but scarcely ever since revisited. Nature had made the site very beautiful, but fire had scathed the building, and in parts laid it low. As it had been, so, almost, did it remain; partly charred and blackened, but with a fine group of ash-trees as a background, and lavish wreaths of bramble and honeysuckle twisting among the fallen stonework. Here were no garden-walks or flower-beds, no planned approach, no formal avenues. A rough bridle-road by the brook side, often in stormy weather covered with water, dark beds of heath not yet in bloom, blue forget-me-nots and nodding foxgloves, winding eglantines, and other wild sweet flowers, exhaling fragrance, and putting forth blossoms at their own sweet will, were the only ornaments of that rude dwelling. The long straight rows of windows in the part of the structure which had been rescued from destruction and made simply habitable, looked down upon the running water and green banks of turf just as they had done when, lighted up nightly for the workmen's labours, the Mill windows were reflected in the brook.

It was a surprise--perhaps a shock--to the man, standing at last at rest with folded arms, looking down the course of the stream, to hear the sound of youthful voices. He drew back into the deep shadow cast by the building, and watched the course of the path, ready to retire into the house if unable otherwise to avoid meeting strangers; but at a corner of the pathway voices and steps ceased to come nearer, and finally died away. Then, after a considerable interval, one figure was seen approaching, the only one which ever brought the light of joy to his eyes, and he stepped forward to meet his daughter.

"Who were your companions, Violet?" he said, after a warm but quiet embrace. "I do not wish you to make acquaintances here. Above all, do not bring them home with you."

"The young clergyman and his sister came to take care of me. It was so dark and lonely among the hills," said the girl, looking round timidly. "He has never come farther than the waterfall before, and his sisters have been away for a year. They are strangers, like ourselves. Is there any harm, father, in my knowing them? It would make life here less lonely."

"Does it seem so to you, Violet? I thought you liked it, and felt happy among your maidens. Why did they leave you to come back alone, or to receive attention from these strangers?"

"Oh, they were not far off--I heard their voices, poor girls! They only loitered a little by the way, singing their Church hymns, and talking to their friends from the hills. But it was pleasant to have companions with whom I could exchange ideas. You have been longer away than usual, and I have felt lonely. When you are here I want no other company. Father, why is Colonel Derinzy angry with you for making the road more level and easy for the poor horses? He rode over here last week and threatened to stop the good work you have been doing for his people and cattle during his absence."

Her companion's dark brow lowered.

"Let him try it," he said fiercely; "I do not believe the men will obey him. If he goes to law I can light him with his own weapons. One like myself, who has few ties, and cares nothing for luxuries, can stand out against a rich man who has innumerable expenses and desires. But we shall never be friends. It is best therefore that you and this man's children should not meet. Violet, can I trust you?"

"Yes, if you demand the sacrifice," she said frankly; "but I own it will cost a struggle. Father, these young people are not like me, who have nothing but love for my parent. They seem very much afraid of theirs. Even their mother they do not trust. Might I not teach them better--a more loving childlike faith? While you are improving by your writings, by your exertions, by your example, men like yourself, and even the rough hinds of these hills; might I not do something to aid these young girls who are of my own age and station? I do not wish to go into their world, but if they cross my sequestered path may I not turn aside to help them?"

The lonely man stood still and looked down the valley towards the opening in the hills where Hugo and his father had ridden.

"Yes," he said; "if God has put it into your heart to be the good guardian angel of these young creatures I will not forbid it. But do not seek them. On no pretence be tempted to cross the threshold of Colonel Derinzy's house. Remember this--and do not break my solitude by bringing strangers home with you. On these conditions, Violet, I will trust to you, and still more to that Providence, which in your simple creed--which I honour even when it is most perplexing to men of this world--shapes our course through life, crookedly enough it seems sometimes, like yonder running brook; but in the end leading us all, let us hope, through the passes of the hills to better and clearer light."

Ursula Derinzy had retained, besides her maiden name, most of her girlish associations. She had been brought up in the old Hall among the Home-woods under "The Crest" by Stella Derinzy's parents; and the same old bells which summoned her and her household to Church on the first Sunday after her return from abroad, had rung out at her wedding. Few women had apparently enjoyed a more prosperous uneventful career. It was strange that her bloom and beauty should have faded prematurely. It was true that all her children were grown up. The eldest son, three-and-twenty, Leopold a year younger, Althea nearly two years older. Laura not long since introduced into society; her two youngest sisters just emancipated from the schoolroom. The second daughter was to have been presented at Court this season, had not Colonel Derinzy hurried them all away. As she was only nineteen, her father perhaps thought that it would do her no material injury to wait another year. Neither of the young girls cared much for the curtailment of their London gaieties and sight-seeing. They were longing to be at home again, free to range the woods and climb the hills, now that their arduous course of studies was relaxed; and yet still interested in their accomplishments and in their books and writings of various kinds. Each one had her own favourite separate pursuit, and as yet no foreign influences had interfered with the natural bias of their minds. They were very independent, very ardent, totally unlike their parents, but docile, well-trained, and modest. Althea, the eldest daughter of the house, was an especially good and dutiful child, helpful to all, particularly to her clerical brother, only too anxious, her mother considered, to do good in her generation. Laura was the acknowledged beauty of the family, though all were handsome, and a general favourite.

Though few persons would have supposed it, this lovely girl was the image of what her faded mother had been in early girlhood, when she was the constant companion of Stella and Hugh Derinzy. She had always lived with them before the death of their parents; and the villagers remembered the time when it was confidently expected that their young master, when he came back from the wars, would marry his pretty cousin. But it was not so decreed. When Hugh came home as the young heir, monarch in prospect of all he surveyed, he was accompanied by his cousin, Captain Derinzy, a much older man than himself, who fell a victim sooner than the young cornet to the attractions of their fair relative. Hugh was too busy a man just then to fall in love, and he was quite devoted to his sister. They rode, walked, drove, together, forming all kinds of plans for the future, but neither of them at that time thought of love and matrimony; they were all in all to each other.

Hugh's jesting gallantry often excited his cousin's jealous displeasure; whilst Ursula's coldness of manner, conscious timidity, and frequent evasions aggravated his distrust, laying the foundations of a mass of wrong and evil which could never now be thrown down. Had Colonel Derinzy stood by his young cousin at the crowning moment of his misfortunes, life and honour might have been saved, Stella always thought; and perhaps his wife shared the conviction, though she made no open sign then or afterwards of her feelings. Many years had gone by since that troubled time. Stella's parents had died; Ursula's children had grown up. Colonel Derinzy, when his military duties were over, returned to the Hall, as the next heir, and established himself there as a matter of course. But Stella, though she made no opposition, and had even consented to his assuming the management of the property which must one day be his own, had never liked or forgiven him. Soon after his arrival at Hagleth, where Ursula and her young family had resided during his absence, she quietly retired from the Hall and took up her abode at the Nest; still continuing to befriend and sympathize with Mrs. Derinzy and the young people, while she carried out her brother's and her own youthful plans for the amelioration of the condition of the peasantry. In all these improvements Hugo, her godson--named after her ill-fated brother--had taken an active part, until he went abroad to join his regiment. When Stella was first incapacitated from prolonged active exercise, she had longed for a substitute--an energetic messenger to carry her gifts and kind words to cottages far away among the hills--and God had given her what she wished. As boys, Hugo and Leo had braved many a winter storm and flood, and they were known and beloved through all the countryside. Their 'young Master,' as the people still called the handsome cavalry officer, was welcomed home with a joy which did not burst forth spontaneously on the return of his father. It was said in the village that the parish church bells would not have been rung in welcome if Hugo had not met his parents in London and returned with them to Hagleth Hall.

There is a brighter light in Stella's eyes as she lifts them to the youth's beaming face--on whose arm she has leant for support in her walk to the Lady's Chair this afternoon--than was seen in them while she talked with his mother. He has been telling her of the marvellous good done by the stranger in the Carding-Mill Valley and his daughter; and of his own father's resolution to put a stop at once to his benevolent exertions in behalf of man and beast, and, if possible, drive him away.

"Never fear, Hugo, such good deeds are not easily crushed, especially when they are done, as I believe they are in this ease, for the love of Christ and of God's creatures. Your father did not write to his lawyer. He thought better of it, no doubt; and I, though not the oldest inhabitant of these hills and dales, warned him that he could not stop the right of way through the valley; though he may say with truth that this stranger, probably ignorant of English customs, did not quite go the right way to work. Still, there are circumstances which I have pointed out to your father--which he is sure to see in his calmer moments--which would make it highly inexpedient for him to interfere. In the first place, if a suit were instituted, I should be the first witness on his enemy's side, and my word and opinion would do him good service in this part of the country."

"Of course it would;' said the young officer. "Cousin Stella, it would be an awful thing to have you against us. I am sure my father would not like it. Though you are scarcely friends, you always give him silent support in the parish. To have you openly arrayed against him would be death to his cause. But I do not quite understand why you say that my father is not the man who ought to interfere. Surely he is the proper person to vindicate your cause when your rights are infringed; and, next to yourself, he has the deepest interest in the welfare of the property."

The light faded out of Stella's expressive eyes as she looked sadly down on the brook winding among the forget-me-nots. She did not answer her young cousin's question. Hugo's frank brow clouded over.

"It seems to me always," he said, "as if we had no business at the Hall. It ought to have been yours. When I was a child, and you lived there, I always thought you were the Lady of Hagleth. Why did you leave us? It has never been such a happy place since."

"That is because childhood and boyhood have passed away from you, even as my youth is long past," said Stella, with an effort. "Your mother and I always lived there together, Hugo. She does not, any more than myself, remember any other home. It seemed natural when my parents, who had been like father and mother to her, died, and her husband was far away, that she should remain at the Hall."

"But you had no other ties, Cousin Stella. We might have followed my father's fortunes--soldiers are always wanderers. I always regretted his giving up his profession, and nothing ever grieved me more than hearing that you had left Hagleth. If it is ever mine I shall fetch you back again."

Stella smiled on the ardent youth.

"There may be some one else to consult then, Hugo; but if you ask me, I think I shall not say you nay. No, I will not promise," she said, as he eagerly pressed her. "I do not like engagements for the far future. None of us can tell what it may bring. Let us all do the best we can in the day or hour which is all we can call our own. Now, have you grown lazy, or will you run down the hill, as you used to do, and gather a bunch of those blue-eyed flowers by the brook-side for me? I miss my usual nosegay, but I am seldom here so early, and no one has placed one on the stone ledge for me."

Hugo sprang down the steep green face of the hill without waiting for a second bidding. Stella watched him till, without a pause, for the grass was slippery, he reached the path by the stream, and stooped to gather her azure favourites. In a few minutes he stood again beside her.

"Tell me," she said, after thanking him while she arranged the flowers, "was it only the unknown philanthropist at the Burnt Mill, or his lovely daughter, whose cause you pleaded so eloquently? Some people like violets even more than forget-me-nots."

The young man coloured.

"She has one of your pretty little serving-maidens in attendance upon her, Cousin Stella. It was a festival yesterday in honour of the completion of the drinking-fountain, and the girls carried their dinners to the workmen. I wish you had seen the governor's countenance when they offered him refreshment, after breaking up the soil of which he considered himself, as your representative, and, at your will and pleasure, lord and master. For my part, I was very glad of a draught of cider, more especially when it was handed to me by my pretty little friend Lucy Langden. Her mistress did not even do me the honour of speaking to me."

"I'm glad of it," said Stella. "Remember, Hugo, that my hopes, as well as those of your parents, rest on you; and I hope you will see more of the world and of life than you have hitherto done, before you make up your mind which of its fair flowers will suit my knight's coronet best. If I am not very much mistaken, Leo, who has fewer opportunities of selection, has chosen the Violet, and I should not like to have rivalry between you."

"Leo!" exclaimed his brother in amazement. "Surely he is not thinking of love and marriage! Why, I was asked the day before yesterday in the village whether my brother had not taken 'vows of celibacy,' and I replied that, to the best of my belief, he had. No, I cannot promise to let the lovely Violet wither on his cold breast. Cousin Stella, if you wished me to quit the lists you should not have told me this."

"Nay, you have not entered them," said his cousin. "Leo has been beforehand with you. Althea confided to me this morning that he had asked her to join him and to accompany the young lady from the Burnt Mill home after the evening service. She did so; and, from what passed, learnt that it was not the first time Leo had escorted the Violet part of the way home through the pass in the hills. I do not say that he has any more than yourself any serious views, but it would go hard with him, I feel certain, if his affections were engaged, to give up the woman he loved, even to a brother."

"Well, I do not suppose that either of us can have what are called serious intentions at present," said Hugo; "I, at all events, have barely seen, and never spoken to the young lady. Leo may have had more opportunities, but I doubt his making the most of them. Will you spare me one sprig of forget-me-nots? I promise not to give it away."

Stella picked out the prettiest and the bluest of the flowers and handed it over to him. Hugo gravely placed it in his pocket-book.

"It is a pledge of our contract, Cousin Stella; though you will not promise to live with me at the Hall, I shall one day remind you that I asked you, and that you did not say me nay."

The youngest of Mrs. Derinzy's daughters, though named after her (Ursula), was generally called in the family, Nursy, from a sort of general supervision which she had exercised over her brothers and sisters. Even her mother usually in domestic matters owned her sway; and she was seated now at the head of the breakfast-table, waiting for the grey-headed butler to complete its arrangements. It was with some difficulty that the impatient girl curbed her impetuous desire to quicken his proceedings. She longed to jump up and cut short his several journeys from end to end of the long room, and to place the different articles required more speedily in readiness. But she knew by experience that it would not do to hurry Manning, and her own dignity necessitated her sitting still at the post of honour, which by common consent she had occupied for the last two years.

There was, in fact, not the least occasion to hurry, for the master of the house was occupied with his letters and newspapers, and as yet the rest of the family had not made their appearance, nor had the gong sounded to summon them. Mrs. Derinzy was always late, and slipped quietly into her usual place at the side of the table. A faint smile of recognition was by her own wish the only welcome she received, as she disliked causing any change of position and disturbing her husband. She was always languid and ill-at-ease in the morning, ate scarcely anything, and spoke very little. The family were none of them great talkers, especially in the presence of the master of the house.

Nursy was the most energetic spirit amongst them. She was her mother's chief helper in domestic management, and had an inborn genius for housekeeping. If Althea vexed her quiet mother's soul by anxious longings to benefit the wicked world labouring in sin and travailing in wickedness, this little home-bird would have stripped her own breast of feathers to re-line her nest. She was truly the house-mother--thinking of and for everyone but herself--and striving with all her might to make home brighter and more cheerful than it was its nature to be.

When the gong at last sounded, after Manning had completed, according to Nursy, his usual twentieth gyration, the family dropped in noiselessly and took their places at the table, none of them taking much notice of the others. Colonel Derinzy did not look up from his paper till the butler handed him his teacup and dry toast, and whatever else he was likely to require. Leo, the young Clergyman, said a low grace, to which no one responded, though there was a momentary respectful pause. Hugo made a little more noise, preferring to help himself from the side-table, and declining Manning's attentions. He tried to coax his mother to partake of some delicacy; but she declined everything, and remained silent and absorbed, as if anxious to avoid notice. No one spoke again until Colonel Derinzy, having completed his breakfast, rose, and with a good deal of rustling and folding of newspapers, departed to his library. Then tongues were released from the icy spell his presence laid upon all innocent hilarity, and the young people laughed and chatted together, till Nursy rose with an air of authority, locked up the tea-caddy, and went to order dinner. Leo said grace, this time silently, after completing his repast, and went off on his rounds in the village. He had held an early service already at the Chapel among the hills, which Althea had attended. They went out of the breakfast-room together.

Hugo watched his clerical brother as he left the room; and noticed, as it appeared to himself for the first time, how exceedingly handsome he had grown since they had been last together at home. He even fancied that he looked less formal and ascetic, that there was more light in his dark eyes, that they had a likeness he had never seen before in them to Cousin Stella's. Leo Derinzy was tall and slender, with abundant, softly-waving dark hair, which grew low in his neck, and fell over the straightly-cut collar of his priestly garment, softening its rigidity. Surely there was some departure in this mode from the rules of the strictly Anglican costume--but Hugo was too slightly acquainted with them to feel certain. At all events, it was more becoming than the closely-cropped style of his former coiffure. The young officer rather envied his brother those beautiful glossy tresses, and his one inch of superior height. After all, it was quite possible that the Violet might admire him, and women always idolized priests. Leo had been first in the field, as Stella said; and might have had precious opportunities of making himself agreeable, as yet denied to himself.

Hugo longed to inquire whether the young lady at the Burnt Mill had attended the service, from which his brother and sister had barely time to return previous to the usual breakfast-hour; which, whatever might be the duties or employments of different members of the family, was never altered. But in most households the example of the head of the establishment is to a certain extent followed, and the habits of the brothers and sisters were not usually confidential. When they departed from custom it was when any two of the family were quite alone. The little amount of conversation carried on when assembled together was almost always on general subjects. Perhaps Leo and Althea spoke on the serious topics near to their young hearts, when they took their way in the early morning or at nightfall to the Chapel among the hills. They might even wander then into other theories, but no one heard their more intimate communions. The stars reflected in the brook looking down from the summer Heaven were their only watchers. The winds playing over the heather and fern, and among the tendrils of honeysuckle and eglantine, could alone have betrayed their secrets.

"Leo has improved wonderfully," said Hugo suddenly; turning away from the window at which he had been standing, and speaking to his mother, who still sat at the breakfast-table lost in a mournful reverie. "I had really no idea he would be such a fine-looking fellow. When I left home he had just donned for the first time his strictly clerical garb, and it did not suit him. He always looked stiff and uncomfortable. Now he wears it more easily, and looks as if he thought more of the spirit and less of the letter of his holy calling. Mother, is he at all like the brother for whom Cousin Stella has mourned so deeply? I thought this morning for the first time that he resembled her."

Mrs. Derinzy started as he addressed her.

"Like him--Leo!" she said, in a sort of bewilderment. "Not in the least. Hugh was much handsomer, and as gay as yourself. What made you think of him?"

"I often do," said Hugo; "and something Cousin Stella said yesterday reminded me of him more particularly. What a terrible blow it must have been to her to lose an only brother! He must have been in the very prime of his youth and beauty! Like Leo, I still fancy, as he walked away across the terrace with Althea, who is as fond of him as Stella was of her brother; and there were only those two. They were all in all to each other."

"Yes; it was a terrible, a heart-rending stroke," said his mother, with more feeling than she often manifested. "Neither Stella nor I have ever entirely recovered from it. Hugo, I would rather not speak about that sorrowful time."

Her son came back to the breakfast-table, on which Mrs. Derinzy had laid her hands feebly, one on either side of her untouched plate.

"Mother, you have taken nothing this morning, absolutely nothing. I thought Nursy took better care of you. I must look after you myself. Come out into the garden with me. The morning air will be refreshing after this hot room."

Mrs. Derinzy rose slowly and took her son's arm.

"I was better when we were abroad," she said. "I don't think this place suits me or your father. He is graver than ever. Do you know what is troubling him so much? I do not like to ask questions."

"Oh, he is bothering about this stranger, and the new road through the valley. He rode there with me the other day, and talked of going to law with him; but Cousin Stella says nothing will come of it. She has written to him, and advised him to put up with the affront, and with having a good road instead of a bad one through his land made without expense or trouble. She says that there was always a right-of-way through the Carding-Mill Valley, and that if necessary she would come forward as witness against its being stopped up. Nothing, she is sure, will be done. In my opinion it would be much wiser to make friends with this gentleman and his daughter. This place, in spite of its beauty, is very dull. We want agreeable neighbours, and can ill afford to quarrel with them."

"Oh, do not vex your father by saying anything of that sort, Hugo! Your visits are not frequent; you see plenty of the world and of society when you are away from us. The man who has settled at such a forlorn place as the Burnt Mill cannot be a fit person to associate with your sisters. I am certain your father would never sanction the acquaintance."

A half-smile flitted round Hugo's mouth as he reflected that one of the family, at all events, found the stranger's daughter a fitting associate for himself and his sister; but he would not betray his brother or Stella's confidences. He did not pursue the subject farther with his mother, but soothed her trouble by talking about things far removed from Hagleth as they walked arm-in-arm round the garden; until Mrs. Derinzy, soon tired, proposed returning to the house.

Like most large families, that of Derinzy divided itself into pairs. There were the husband and wife, who, if not a loving couple, showed much consideration for each other. Leo and Althea had the same lofty unworldly views. Hugo and Laura cared more for society, and for the beauties of nature, art, and poetry. Estelle and Ursula, the two youngest sisters, loved the quiet routine of out-of-door and in-door duties which make life pleasant; and shared these pursuits together, each giving up her peculiar taste by turns to help the other. Estelle was as devoted to the garden as Nursy was to her housekeeping labours, and they contrived between them to make Hagleth Hall a much pleasanter place than it would otherwise have been. The young people were all unselfish, good-tempered, and fond of each other, with as much love for their cold- mannered parents as could be expected, but perhaps, above all, for Cousin Stella, who was like a mother to them, and inspired less fear. Estelle and Hugo were her God-children, and especial favourites; but she loved them all.

At her sunny, tranquil cottage the happiest hours of their childhood had been spent, and they gathered round her again now at The Nest whenever circumstances admitted of their leaving home. Estelle brought plants from the Riviera for her cousin's garden, which she declared would not flower half as well at the Hall, where there were not such sheltered corners as in the dear old nook under the rock. Ursula confided her little housekeeping difficulties, respecting which she never troubled her mother, to the same kind friend. If Leo had become, as Hugo believed, more holy in heart, and less narrow in form, it was probably owing to Stella's large-minded piety. Althea, too, was learning to bide her time, and to do her duty, in the place allotted to her by Divine Providence; and to seek for objects of care and kindness among her own people.

Many a wild cabin among the hills felt the benefit of Stella's loving counsels when gladdened by the presence of the young Pastor and his sister. There were sad and terrible cases of ignorance and neglect, suffering and sadness, to be dealt with in those cottage-homes without forsaking her own; and no small need of energy and youthful strength to fulfil the demand for loving Christian charity and instruction in that remote district. Places set deep among the lone hills, and seldom visited, where Stella could no longer penetrate, but where her messages and gifts were carried, often through storm and gloom, giving sunshine in the darkest hour to feeble human beings like herself.

Mrs. Derinzy's flower-garden was looking as lovely as when she tried to tempt her Cousin Stella to visit the Hall. It was Estelle's turn to give orders; and having willingly helped her more domestic-minded sister, all the morning, in re-arranging store-closets and linen-presses after their long absence, she was now fairly entitled to Ursula's loving service among the beds and borders which contained her own especial treasures.

These two young girls perhaps loved their silent suffering mother best. They had not reached the age when her total insignificance in the household became most apparent--when it would be felt that between them and the iron will of their father there was no firm, fearless, motherly love to interfere and to qualify its sternness. Their elder brothers and sisters viewed their timid parent with more wondering pity, and shrank from the conviction which they could scarcely banish, that in that timid nature there was a lack of truth as well as of courage. To them all, as long as they were children, Mrs. Derinzy was very indulgent, and her two youngest daughters had scarcely passed the bounds within which her feeble will was law.

Colonel Derinzy had made it a point not to interfere in certain departments. The nursery was one, and the flower-garden of his wife, another. Perhaps it was from the fear of departing from principle that he seldom set his foot in either. Never could his children remember their tall grave father unbending so far as to romp with them in nursery or garden. If he had penetrated there, all sports would have speedily come to an end.

On this account the mother's garden was a favourite haunt with the young people; and she, too, the pensive, ailing woman, loved its quiet precincts. Often she sat there for hours watching her children, with her pretty fancy-work, and embroidery or crochet-needle in her hands or in her lap, and a novel or poetry-book beside her, but generally idle. There was a sunny green lawn, with gay flower-beds of all colours set in the turf, and riband borders, yet brighter, sloping away from her favourite seat, which was in a very shady arbour open to the south, but protected from every rude breath of wind by high trees. From the hills a clear stream rushed down over pebbles, and fell, at but a short distance, under a heavy mass of ivy which hung about portions of an ancient wall, over a ledge of dark rocks into a deep pool, whence it glided away rapidly and noisily down the side of the garden. Though but a tiny rill in summer, like most of the features of the surrounding scenery, it had the characteristics of its birthplace high up among the mountains. It was wonderful what a great deal of trouble "mother's burn," as the children loved to call it, frequently gave. Solid masonry could not withstand its pressure when, swelled by sudden rains, it burst on its way with the force of a torrent.

More than once, when obliged to be told of mischief done by the brawling foaming rivulet in winter-time, Colonel Derinzy's brow was contracted, but he did not depart from the rule he had laid down. Orders were given if necessary; but he did not, as was his wont, superintend, perhaps impede, their execution. Once one of the tiny children rushed in and tried to pull him away to look at the stream "all turned to ice and standing stock still," but the little rash pleader's invitation was not accepted. The brook was flowing on merrily and harmlessly now, under the old wall fringed and curtained with ivy. June, the month of roses, had blossomed out fairly. Every rare description of the flower cultivated so successfully by modern gardeners, was blooming freely, scenting the air deliciously, whilst a few of dear Aunt Stella's old favourites, carefully cherished, held their ground amongst more fashionable beauties. One large flowering perfumed blush-rose clung to the ivied wall and was mirrored in the stream. A few of its petals had fallen and were rapidly whirling down the swiftly-flowing water.

Mrs. Derinzy's wandering gaze followed their course, but they were not the subject of her thoughts. Hers was not a fanciful or poetical cast of character. It did not occur to her, as she sat in her low, lounging chair, with unoccupied fingers and listless air, how many hopes she had seen whirled away down the stream of life, like the fast-vanishing rose-leaves, since she came first, in her early girlhood, to Hagleth Hall.

On either side of the sunny bright-hued heart-shaped garden, which fell away in front of her, and was sheltered by belts of evergreen, and beyond these by lofty trees, were straight walks, dark in shadow; with, at intervals, groups of tall white lilies, and those yellow fleeting sisters of the same tribe whose beauty lasts but a day. No sunshine caught them, but still they gleamed out in their own golden or silvery purity under the dark canopy of foliage. Neither was the anxious-looking mother thinking of her children, though several of them were near her, and she spoke a few words kindly in answer to their remarks or inquiries when they occasionally approached her. Ursula and Estelle were busy gardening, though in that trimly kept parterre it was difficult to discover what they could find to occupy themselves with. No matter, if idle hands and thoughts find work in mischief, industrious souls will find some good to do, even under the most unpromising circumstances. Estelle and Nursy were as busy as the bees flitting from flower to flower.

Even in the best kept beds and borders there will from hour to hour occur little disturbances. The roses wither and die, the leaves begin to fall, even when all is or should be brightest and strongest: some inward canker, or the poison kiss of an insect on the wing, blights them suddenly.

Young hearts and wills are not always in unison with the dictates of modern culture. The girls after their long absence missed some old favourites, and were with difficulty convinced that they were past their best days and only cumbered the borders. The conversation between Estelle and the head-gardener, as he crossed the lawn and stopped to point out some newly-imported flowers, had a slight tone of acrimony which reached her mother's often inattentive ears. She called her daughter to her side and inquired what was the matter.

"Oh, mother, it is only that I do not care as much for some of Ferguson's great rarities as for our own dear old flowering shrubs and famous roses. That one that Aunt Stella called the Hagleth Rose is gone, and I do not believe it had outgrown its strength. Look how beautifully its old companion is flowering alone this year on the wall--the large pale rose that contrasts so well with these dark wreaths and masses of ivy; but the red one that used to twine so lovingly round those thick stems has been taken away."

"Perhaps it died, love," said her mother. "It must have been quite an old tree, for I remember it ever since I came here, when I was but your age."

"Then you must be even more sorry than we are, mother dear, to part with such an old friend. I am sorry I mentioned that it was gone," said Estelle; while her mother's gaze rested on the ivied wall as she relapsed into silence.

"No--oh no! It was time it should be taken away. No doubt Ferguson is right; he is sure to know better; and he is such a favourite with your father, who says truly that the place never was in such excellent order. I wish I could persuade Aunt Stella to come and see my roses. Do not find fault with the head-gardener. He might give warning, and assign that as a reason to your father."

"No danger of that, I fancy," said Estelle lightly. "He has an excellent situation, and he knows it. But I do not want to teaze you; and I do wish Aunt Stella would come and see your garden whilst it is in full beauty. It never looks so well as when the roses are in bloom."

"It is of no use wishing it, Estelle; though I do not believe it is farther than that uncomfortable stone seat where she spends so much of her time looking at the mountains. That can be no real rest."

"I do not think I quite agree with you there, mother;" said the girl, lifting her eyes gravely to the heights above the trees. "Looking at the mountains is always restful, and there is nothing between her eyes and the highlands she so loves. When she is sitting in her favourite spot, I have seen quite a heavenly expression on her upturned face. Here the trees shut out half the view. I think they have grown much taller and thicker whilst we were away. Would it not be an improvement if the woods were thinned?"

"No; I do not think so. Nothing could suit me better than these sheltered, pleasant grounds. I do not like seeing too much of the mountains:" replied her mother, with a shiver; turning away even from the prospect of their distant summits, and looking across the garden.

"Well, we will say nothing about it, then, if you are satisfied. This is your own garden, and no one has a right to find fault or give orders in it without your leave," said the girl, kissing her. "Now I must run back to Nursy and help her to train that beautiful honeysuckle. Ferguson was very good about that, and has left us to do what we like with it, provided it does not interfere with one of his new shrubs, which it has taken a fancy to clamber over and rest upon. It is a real pleasure to be allowed by these grand gardeners to do a little honest bit of work for one's self!"

When her daughter had left the arbour, Mrs. Derinzy's eyes did not seem to follow her, but were turned in the direction of one of the long straight alleys of verdure, where Hugo and Laura were walking up and down, arm-in-arm, in earnest conversation.

"I wonder what they are talking about," she said to herself. "I hope he is not telling her of those strangers, and urging her to make acquaintance with them. Excepting in Church matters I can trust Althea, but Laura is so impetuous, and so fond of society. Oh, how I wish they could keep being children! Estelle and Ursula have scarcely outgrown their nursery ways, but these older boys and girls are so headstrong. Each in their own way so satisfied that what they do or wish to do must be wisest and best, that I am always in fear of a collision between them and their father."

She sighed and took up her book, but it failed to amuse; then tried work with the same ill-success. Meanwhile the sun passed off one side of the garden and began to gleam down the long vistas of the shrubberies, lighting up the lilies in succession. The rays caught the white dress of the girl clinging caressingly to her brother's arm as they stood still in one spot for several moments; and the timid mother felt as if the sheltered, shadowy walks were no longer safe. Even there the glare and glitter of the world and its many temptations and pleasures could not be shut out. Her young brood would soon break the barriers which, as yet, had kept them and herself from the dangers which she half-foresaw awaited them, when in full manhood and womanhood they overstepped the hard, narrow limits assigned to them, and chose to take their share in the game of life.

In the wild tangled grounds of The Burnt Mill there was no lack of work for willing hands, and no grand gardener to monopolize it. Sometimes one or two of the labourers lent ready and willing service, and Viola and her maidens toiled unremittingly; but still it was such a wild garden as the Poet Laureate loved, on the edge of the moorland.

There were roses in plenty, white and pink, throwing wreaths over rock and stone, and honeysuckles allowed to climb as their own fancy willed up the stems of the mountain ash and birch trees, or to mat themselves among the lower growth of the thicket. Bright clumps of orange lilies and water-plants of all sorts and colours--broad leaves resting on the surface of the pools formed by the river, and bearing up white crowns, worthy to be worn by queens, on their smooth dark surface.

Many rare and tender ferns flourished in cool damp nooks, which all the fostering care in the world could not cherish in my lady's flower-garden on the banks of "Mother's Burn." The sun shone down too fiercely; and the little brawling stream, in its turbulent fretfulness, washed away those which Estelle planted there, treasures culled in many lands. They would not do at all, Ferguson said, in the open; the young ladies must come to him for delicate maidenhair and parsley ferns, for their bouquets, from the glass-houses.

But here, with the caprice which belongs as much to plants as to womankind or fine-ladyism, the ferns grew luxuriantly; fringing the banks of the stream and overhanging the little rills, where hundreds of tiny flowers peeped like stars out of the vivid green, specked with scarlet and white, of the cup moss. Within the bounds of the wild garden the rivulet flowed tranquilly, under deep banks which were never overflowed or undermined, without making half the noise created by the turbulent brook. It wound round hazel copse and grassy knoll with a song-like murmur, or lay dark and tranquil beneath high rocks and ancient trees.

There were no sounds of labour in the valley excepting the tap of Viola's trowel against a stone, or the voice of one of the happy girls attending upon her. The men had finished the very last part of the work which had kept them contented during the past winter and spring; and were gone off to gather in the hay, which owing to a wet season was somewhat late in this mountain district. The owner of the lately purchased property had made no stay there, and the place was left with only its girlish mistress and her serving maidens within its walls. No male protector was needed; the young lady was as safe as if an armed guard had been left to take care of her.

Here were no playful attempts at keeping order, like those in the garden at Hagleth. It required all the strength of the merry girls, and a great part of their time, to keep the paths clear of weeds and straying boughs of brambles and nettles. They were all at work as busy as the bees which were rifling the bells of the honeysuckle, and their mistress was as much in earnest as the youngest among them. They were not in their purple and white striped holiday frocks now, but each and all arrayed in sober working suits of brown holland. Viola's only distinction was a wide belt of her favourite colour round her waist, and a narrower edge tipping her delicate white linen cuffs and collar. Nor was there any distinction in their zealous labour. Perhaps the young lady was a little the most energetic, but the country girls were more strongly built and did the most work. All were thoroughly in earnest.

It was some time before anyone noticed that they were watched from the opposite side of the river, where a gentleman, followed by two dogs, was walking very slowly past the scene of labour. He raised his cap respectfully when Viola at last perceived him, and she recognised that it was the more courteous of the two horsemen who had come suddenly upon the workmen in the glen at the hour of their mid-day meal.

Viola returned the salutation slightly, and tried to think no more of the intruder; but she did not resume her efforts to twist a straggling bough of one of the large old rose-trees round the fence of a rustic bridge which here spanned the stream. She knew it was too much for her strength, and did not wish to betray her ill-success, but it had not escaped the notice of the observant spectator. Before she could turn away to summon assistance, Hugo Derinzy was standing beside her, and the obstinate branch was fixed securely in the right place.

"Forgive my trespassing," he said, smiling. "This is undoubtedly your father's land, but I have been seeking an opportunity to tell you that mine has relented from the harsh purpose he expressed, when taken completely by surprise, last week. None of the men employed during his absence will be sufferers, and the new road will not be touched. As this is the case, may we not be friends?"

Viola coloured deeply.

"I am not allowed," she said, "to form friendships easily. It is a sacred bond."

"Neither have we many friends in this lone country-side," persisted Hugo. "My sisters lead almost as quiet lives as yourself when at home. I think you already know one of them; and," he added, looking searchingly at his companion, "my brother Leo."

The colour had faded as quickly as it rose, and Viola's glance met his frankly as she answered, without any embarrassment:

"We all know our good pastor. He is kind to everyone, and he was at Hagleth through the winter. I have seen your sister once only, when she was good enough to take care of me on my way back from the Chapel. That scarcely made us friends."

"No; but it may lead to friendship," said Hugo. "She has said enough to make Laura, who must be nearer your age, most anxious to know you. The others are mere children. But I claim to know you through your courteous order, on that sultry day, that your little handmaiden should offer me some refreshment. I think she knows me, for I have often seen her waiting on our cousin Stella, with whom she is a favourite. I told her yesterday of her good fortune in being your attendant; and she, too, would like to thank you for your kindness to her little pupil."

"I have heard a great deal of Miss Derinzy from her own people. I should like to see her; but indeed it is not possible for me to make acquaintance with others besides my good Pastor and, perhaps, his sisters. My father does not deny me that pleasure; but I am not permitted to visit anywhere."

"Surely I am not especially excluded? I am a constant attendant at the Chapel. We must meet there, and you will not pass me by unnoticed."

"There can be no reason for such discourtesy," said Viola simply. "My father is never unreasonable; only it would not suit his love of retirement that I should have visitors or leave home unnecessarily. Thank you for your help with that refractory bough. I think we have done a good day's work, and I and my girls may leave off now. The sun is too much overhead for toil to be pleasant."

She bowed and retreated from the bridge on which they had been standing for a few minutes together, leaving Hugo no excuse for not pursuing his homeward way. Hugo Derinzy went very slowly and reluctantly up the path by the stream. His dogs, who had soon made friends with Viola, and were lapping the cool water, also seemed loth to depart. He did not whistle them away, but stood quietly, waiting for them to join him; still casting envious glances across the stream which seemed to divide him from a very garden of Eden.

Viola, on her part, though she moved at first more quickly away, did not put in practice immediately her threat of retiring indoors or quite out of sight. Perhaps she did not wish to disturb the busy maidens who were working away happily on the banks of the stream, under the shade, not at all, apparently, incommoded by the heat. She sat down beneath a spreading chestnut-tree and watched their progress; not looking across the water--perhaps not aware of the furtive glances still directed towards her.

This young creature had led such an extremely secluded life that she was entirely free from even the least tinge of coquetry or affectation. It was pleasant to see and speak to persons of her own age and position; and she remembered with joy that her father, stern recluse as he was, had not prohibited limited intercourse with the family at Hagleth.

Viola had not the slightest idea how long she had been sitting idle under the chestnut-tree, when suddenly the bell of the Chapel broke the spell of silent meditation. She looked round for her companions, but they had all gone indoors to change their dress preparatory for the evening service. She was quite alone in the garden, and the sun had sunk below the mountains.

When she came out of a side door in the mansion, prepared to follow her maidens, their young mistress had made also some alteration in her simple toilette.

She now wore a plain black silk dress and dark hat; and carried a light cloak over her arm, and her prayer and hymn book in her hand, as she went quietly along the narrow path up the valley towards the building where, since the young clergyman took possession of the family living, service had been performed every evening for some outlying parishioners. Occasionally there was a short discourse; at other times the children were questioned or practised their singing. Viola for the last nine months had been a constant and punctual attendant.

Though she had braved the storms of winter and spring, she for the first time hesitated and looked at the light clouds on the mountains' brow as if she rather desired an excuse for not performing her accustomed voluntary duty. But though twilight was beginning to gather, the evening was fine, and she resisted the impulse which for a brief interval had stayed her usually light, buoyant footsteps.

She was a little late--almost for the first time. The girls of her household were all in their places, and the opening hymn had commenced. She fancied that the clergyman looked at her reproachfully as she passed timidly between the standing rows of the small congregation to her usual place. No other member of the family at the Hall was present.

It struck her as a startling coincidence when Leo gave out his text, that the sermon should be about a garden. She saw the green banks and tangled rose-thickets, the stream brawling beside the mossy path where she had lingered; for his picture was one not of trim parterres like the one at Hagleth Hall, but of a wild flowery wilderness. He might, perhaps, have first thought of it as he walked by her side a few evenings before under the sweetbriar hedges; for, in Scripture phrases, he alluded to groups which he had then pointed out to her, of lilies growing on the banks of the stream. There was a fervour in his words as he described the first sinless Eden.

The discourse deepened in fervour when he came to the entrance of the tempter and his insidious flatteries, and the change wrought in the bowers of Paradise by the woman's wilful act. Disobedience followed with expulsion from Eden, and the darkening of those happy paths where man once walked with God.

A slight sound disturbed Viola's thoughts, and caused her eyes, which were fixed upon the preacher, to turn in the direction whence it came. A hand had put back the curtain which hung in front of the Squire's seat, the only one which had any distinction from the rest. Now Hugo Derinzy was there with his sister Laura. Viola did not know when they had entered the Chapel by a private door kept solely for their use.

It was much more difficult to fix her attention with those two pair of bright eyes fixed upon her. She found herself, in fancy, back in the real garden at home, with Hugo Derinzy standing by her on the bridge; and she blushed at thinking how earnestly she had been looking at his brother, totally unconscious of any observation more critical than that of the rustics all around who were staring at him contentedly. Was this false shame the first-fruits of the tempter's teaching? Ought she not to blame herself much more for her present distraction?

However that might be, the spell was broken, and Viola could not again succumb to its influence. She listened, as if in a dream, to the conclusion of the sermon, which was in fact much less eloquent and heart-stirring than its commencement. The moment it was over, and the parting hymn sung, she put on her cloak and hastily left the chapel.

But there were footsteps on the path behind her, and she felt that an unsuccessful attempt at flight would be undignified. Better not to hurry, and to let both the brothers and their sister accompany her part of the way home. The next moment they had overtaken her; and, her momentary embarrassment conquered, Viola found herself walking beside Laura Derinzy, and followed by Hugo and Leo. The scent of the sweetbriar came on the evening wind long before they reached the boundary of the recluse's garden.

There seemed to be no harm in allowing them to enter those precincts, though she knew that she must not invite them to set foot within her father's house. He was far away on a long journey, and this brief pleasant companionship, which he had not forbidden, was very precious to the usually solitary girl. Laura Derinzy, as Hugo had anticipated, suited her much better than the older and graver Althea, with whom she had spoken only about Church matters and Psalmody. Now the twilight garden, the sleeping flowers, poetry and romance, were more congenial topics.

Hugo stepped forward when they came to the rustic bridge; but he did not say to their companions that he had seen her there before earlier in the day, nor had Viola courage enough to allude to the circumstance. She wished that she had done so when he glanced half-laughingly, half-confidentially, at her as they passed it; and touched the rail to which he had fastened the rose branch, gathering a flower which he fastened carefully in his button-hole. The girl blushed and trembled, feeling that there was a slight secret understanding between them.

All the time Leo stood talking gravely, as was his wont, her thoughts were troubled, but she only sighed and made no sign. He imagined that his sermon had made her unusually pensive, and felt flattered. He confessed that he had drawn his inspiration from that very scene, a few evenings before.

On his way back after entering for the first time that lovely garden by the water-side, and in the watches of the night, the moonlight on the flowers and soft scent of the roses had haunted him; and he could not refrain from trying to reproduce that dream of Paradise.

"My father came home that evening," said Viola. "He often takes me by surprise, but never stays long."

"Do you not find it very dreary here when you are quite alone?" said Laura kindly. "You must come up to the Hall when he leaves you."

"No," said Viola. "My father may return at any moment, and does not like me to pay visits or to receive visitors. I am afraid I cannot ask you to accompany me any farther. I am within sight of the house now. Thank you for your escort so far."

She stood still, just where, above a ledge of rock, the half-ruinous house, with its old dark grey walls perforated with many windows, became visible.

Laura looked at it with interest.

"You really live there often quite alone?" she said compassionately. "Pardon me if I say that it seems cruel to leave you. I remember when we were children we were half afraid to run about in these long passages and empty rooms; but no doubt all is altered now."

"I do not think there is much change," said Viola. "The owner seems never to visit the place now, and half the rooms are empty still--some are not inhabitable. My father does not care to spend money on furniture, and we require so little. He has his books and papers, with which, when at home, he is always busy; and often he is absent for weeks, sometimes for months. My rooms are full of pretty things which he has brought from different parts of the world. I am never dull and lonely. Some day he may, perhaps, give me leave to show you my treasures. I dare not without permission; but he is very indulgent. "See! there is a light in that end window, and it is mine," she added. "One of my girls is there waiting for me. They are good little creatures, and like me to teach them. One of them was Miss Derinzy's pupil, and I should not like her to forget what she has learnt."

The light flickered near the open window for a moment; then blind and curtain were drawn across, concealing it. Laura and her brothers bade Viola adieu reluctantly, and the regret was mutual. She went back a little way along the path with them; and, for the first time in her young life, home seemed somewhat dreary when she returned to it.

Viola lingered on the doorstep, listening to the receding steps and voices of her recent companions. Was it true, as Laura Derinsy had said, that it was rather cruel to leave her alone in the old grey house--the Burnt Mill about which, she well knew, hung many a dreary tradition? Never before had she felt inclined to question the wisdom of any of her father's arrangements. Had the tempter really taken possession of her Eden, raising up gloomy surmisings where hitherto all had been peace and perfect confidence? Viola turned away from the question, and tried to dismiss it from her thoughts; but it returned again and again as she sat alone, listening rather despondently to the many strange sounds which haunt such solitary buildings as the old house by the water, where once the mill-wheel went merrily round, and all was active industry.

Colonel Derinzy had at last put in practice the intention, several times announced, of going to London "on business." It was not his custom ever to make his children acquainted with the nature of these mysterious occupations, but they always looked upon them as welcome deliverances from an almost insupportable oppression.

Even his pale timid wife woke up into rather brisker activity when the incubus of his presence was removed. When she felt that she could order her own carriage, or even invite some friends of the young people to the house, unquestioned and without fear of consequences; for every member of that household, from the highest to the lowest, had learnt from dire experience to keep their own and each others' secrets.

Though accustomed to a slight change of manner and a more decided purpose in their mother's usually languid movements, it was with surprise that Hugo and Althea heard her order the carriage without hesitation one afternoon, and express a wish that they should be her companions in a drive.

"I have been thinking," she said, "that, as it will not worry your father, I should like to see this new road, which Stella assures me is such a benefit to the district. We might," she added, "if the weather continued fine, and I felt equal to it, go on as far as the old Mill. I should like to pass Stella's Waterfall--I have not seen it for years--and call upon the young lady who is, you say, so lonely and so pleasant."

She smiled, though there was a nervous contraction at the corners of her mouth as she stopped abruptly.

"Well done, little mother," said Hugo; "I am delighted to hear that you are inclined for a frolic in the Governor's absence."

"Oh, you should not say that," said Mrs. Derinzy, shrinking into herself, terrified when her own boldness was put into fuller light by her son's laughing comment. "Your father has not forbidden my calling on the young lady. In fact, I rather think, though I have not asked him, that on his account it may be better to propitiate these newcomers. The young lady, at all events. It would be such a blessing to have peace established. And I think, I hope, I may bring it about. If not--if she is not to be conciliated--if, in short, it seems advisable--we can drop the matter--one short visit from me cannot do much harm, and I own to a curiosity--a desire to see her."

"Harm! I should think not, mother," said Leopold, looking up from his book, and taking part for once in a domestic discussion. "Peace is a blessed thing, especially between neighbours. I honour you, mother, for your kind resolution."

"Oh, I don't know, I am not sure," said his mother, folding up her work nervously. "I am glad you think me right, Leo; time will show whether what I propose is for the best."

She sighed as she left the room to prepare for her drive, followed by Althea. The young clergyman and his brother did not speak to each other on the subject; but they were both at the front door ready to arrange their mother's numerous wraps, sunshade and umbrella, in readiness for shower or sunshine, and to assist and encourage her before starting on a longer drive than usual. They both noticed that Mrs. Derinzy was dressed not in her usually trailing neutral-tinted garments, but in handsome sable robes, and that she looked remarkably well.

Her delicate complexion was flushed and her eyes sparkled as they drove through the lanes, with the soft summer air in their faces. Though she seldom spoke except in answer to some remark which Hugo turned round from his high seat to address to her, Althea thought that her mother noticed more than usual the objects by the wayside. They did not follow the rough bridle-road through the pass, but wound round the hills; taking the much easier course which the stranger had adopted in the construction of the new road. Mrs. Derinzy, who was very timid and easily fatigued by the motion of a carriage, felt all the advantage of the change.

"Why, this is quite a blessing. What a pity your father does not see it in the same light," she said with unusual animation, when Hugo showed her at a distance the old steep road from which they had turned aside. "So tormented and trammelled as he is about repairing roads and dwellings--and hampered by restrictions--and here without expense or trouble is this excellent road. I remember the last, the very last time, I came with Stella to see her waterfall--I was terrified nearly to death. I walked nearly half the way--though it was only a little pony-carriage the roads were quite unfit for wheels, and now I declare I have really enjoyed the drive."

Delighted with their mother's unusual cheerfulness, Althea and Hugo pointed out different features of the scenery, which every moment became more romantic; showing their mother glimpses which might have escaped her notice of the cataract in the glen, and telling her how carefully Stella's wild garden was tended.

"Why should utter strangers take such trouble?" said Mrs. Derinzy somewhat suspiciously. "I do not understand what brought them to such a place as the Burnt Mill--horrid name. Perhaps, after all, your father knows best! Hugo, do you think, are you quite sure that I am right? Had we not better turn back?"

"No, no, we are just at the place--Millburn is its proper name;--we cannot go back, you have passed the Rubicon, little mother. See how beautifully the stream winds under that bank crowned with white wild roses. Look at those splendid rocks starting up as if to stop its course. They have turned it, and now it foams and ripples at their base as if perpetually trying to undermine them. That is where I rode with my father, and we saw the last day of work terminated by a rustic banquet. The young lady and her handmaidens stood under that May-tree, looking like a cluster of white and purple violets. How the men cheered after drinking their healths! It was strange that my father could see only the rough side of the affair. Perhaps the road-making was a trespass on his rights, but it has done him much more good than harm."

"Oh, do not let us talk upon that subject, Hugo; no doubt it was a mistake--a great infringement of your Cousin Stella's rights as Lady of the Manor;--of course we are not going to give up that point. But the young lady had nothing to do with it, except taking out their dinner to the workpeople--at least, her maids carried it, I think you said. I declare we are at the gates. And yet, perhaps, it is not too late. Shall we--do you and Althea think we had better go in?"

"Certainly, mother; how strange it would seem if we drew back so rudely," said Althea gently. "There is some one standing at the door now; and, oh, is not this wild garden pretty?--"

Mrs. Derinzy scarcely heard her remarks, but she made no further attempt to stay their course. Hugo's words she felt were true. She had crossed the Rubicon; and now, as she drove between dark beds of as yet unflowering heath--under the interlacing boughs of an avenue of very ancient oaks, up to the half ruinous structure overhanging the brawling stream, memory was very busy recalling another day--another companion, on whose strong arm she had rested--but whom she would never in this life meet again;--never again, never again, seemed to sound in the murmuring water, in the rustling leaves, in the sigh of the wind in the tree-tops.

Hugo sprang down from his seat as soon as the carriage stopped, as he perceived that the figure dimly visible under the portico was that of the young mistress of the house, Violet Forester. She came timidly forward to greet his mother.

Mrs. Derinzy, however, did not stir. The colour had faded from her cheeks, leaving them white as death. The young girl looked at her with tender compassion. "It is very good of you to come and see me. I am afraid the long drive has been too great a fatigue. Do come in and rest."

Hugo seconded the entreaty, a little impatiently, holding out his hand to assist his mother to alight.

"Wait one moment--oh, I think I had better go home. It was very unwise of me to come"--Mrs. Derinzy, still immovable, faltered out--"this good young lady will excuse me--"No, mother," said Hugo, almost as imperatively as his father--"Miss Forester will not excuse you--another day will not do--you will be better inside this cool shadowy house. The motion of the carriage and the glare of sunshine on the white road has tired you, that is all. Besides, the horses must have half an hour's rest."

This argument, as he probably knew would be the case, had more effect than the reference to her own need of repose. Her husband was very particular about his fine carriage-horses, and Mrs. Derinzy, a most obedient wife, regarded Hugo as his representative in matters appertaining to the stables.

She laid a limp trembling hand in the one Violet extended, but shrank back nervously from the girl's warm clasp. Then, leaning on her son's arm, she alighted slowly and entered the house, pausing once more under the low-arched doorway.

Miss Forester led the way in silence to her own sitting-room, which had a large window, built out from the straight wall of the mill, overhanging the stream. Mrs. Derinzy sank into a chair near the fireplace, which was of dark oak, reaching almost to the ceiling, and quaintly carved, with a few old china ornaments on the shelf, high up, almost out of sight. Her indisposition was very real, and she struggled vainly to regain composure.

Something in that pale sad face--the blighted aspect of the woman cowering in what had been her own mother's chair, awoke a strong feeling of tenderness in Viola's mind. She leant over her visitor, fanning her with a large plume of peacock's feathers which hung against the dark fireplace; tears stood in her eyes.

"I am so grieved that you should suffer so much through your kindness"--she murmured in soft tones, which soothed Mrs. Derinzy's fluttered nerves. Then, kneeling beside her, she chafed her cold hands--cold always, despite the summer sunshine--and sprinkled scented water from a very old-fashioned cut flagon on the table over the small palms, pressing them tenderly. Suddenly Mrs. Derinzy bent forward and kissed her young hostess on the forehead. "God bless you, child," she said, much more fervently than usual. "I shall be better presently; leave me for a few moments to myself."

The young girl sprang to her feet gratified and relieved, while Mrs. Derinzy leant back, silently contemplating the old room, and recognising its distinctive features. It was very little altered since she had seen it last; when, after the fire, it had been fitted up for a sportsman's temporary occupation.

She remembered the look of the place well, and could almost have fancied that the same books and ornaments were scattered about; but no doubt had she examined more closely this would have been found to be an illusion. Certainly the American rocking-chair, in which she was slowly swaying to and fro, had not occupied the place by the hearth then.

It had been carved by Mr. Forester's own hand out of wood grown in the forests of the Far West for his dead wife, Viola's mother.

Neither was the book which Althea had taken up from the table, and which speedily absorbed her a