the worst that could happen would be too much confidence between the nun and Hester, too good an understanding on the nun's part of the foolish treatment which the girl had received. Lady Humphrey, however, felt instinctively that Hester would be somewhat likely to use delicacy in dealing with her character.

And so, after having detained the nun in conversation for some time longer, ingeniously exposing the generosity of her own nature, and quite as clearly insinuating the instability of Hester's, Lady Humphrey at last made a most reverent farewell salutation to the abbess of St. Mark's, and rumbled away in her old coach, out of the quietude of Blank Square.

And when all this was over the Mother Augustine sat thoughtfully in her little room; and afterwards took her way into the garden to seek Hester; and came gravely through the sunset light, between the lavender and the rose-bushes.

Vindictive, ungrateful, not to be trusted! Our Mother Augustine's kind heart was disturbed about her protégée. The lady, be she what she might, had spoken wisely, and her anxiety could scarcely be assumed.

If Hester were to prove wild, impetuous, not easy to be controlled? If she were to get herself and her friends into trouble wherever she went? What then? Why, disappointment of course, to those who had loved, and trusted in her; disappointment but never despair. She should fall seven times, and seven times be raised up again.

CHAPTER XIII

MRS HAZELDEAN ACTS UPON HER INSTRUCTIONS

POST hour was not breakfast hour in the village of Glenluce. The postman had to travel some thirty miles by outside car from the nearest rather important town, at which the letters for the mountains arrived early in the morning. Consequently, people in this neighbourhood read their despatches from their friends or their enemies over their supper table, and took their news with them to their pillows, instead of looking for it beside their plate in the morning. The post-horn was heard sounding through the village just as the children in the cottages were going to bed. They could hear the first echo of it before they slept, coming down to them from some winding of the high road, around the hill above the bay and the village street. To many a little dreaming ear it has seemed like the "horns of VOL. XXXVI.-No. 415.

3

Elfland faintly blowing;" while to older watchers, wide awake and abroad, it has sounded terrible and significant, as the first blast from a war trumpet. For it was a time when all the heartstrings of Ireland were strained, from east to west, from north to south, and a fearful sympathy thrilled its veins.

Autumn evenings are wont to wear out the remnant of their summer balminess much sooner in wild Irish bye-ways, haunted by sea breeze and mountain mist, than they are known to do in regions more civilized and less moist. Evening fires blaze on the hearthstones of drawing-rooms under the shelter of the everlasting hills, whilst people sitting close to the walls of cities are yet lingering by their open windows, loath to stir. First herald of the winter are the purrings of such homely flames. And so pleasant and genial an undercurrent of melody is kept up by the piping and whistling of the new wood upon the hearth, so fragrant is the perfume from the glowing peat logs, that our farewell shakehands with the summer grow less reluctant. We watch her slow retreat from our gardens and dingles; see the sad cloak of her departure dropping gradually over the gay bravery of attire which was her wearing; we put our feet, which have rambled, upon the stool before our fender, and wonder that we can hardly bear to sigh.

The post brought a letter to Mrs. Hazeldean one evening, when her first autumn fire had just been kindled in her grate. Mrs. Hazeldean at her tea-table, with her letter spread before her, made the centre of a picture such as most eyes would like to see. It was not in her pretty drawing-room that she made tea for herself and husband, albeit her windows admitted a noble view of the mountains, around which, on this evening, cold mists were wrapping winding-sheets. Mrs. Hazeldean's teapot had made its way into her little study. Her garden lay stretched beyond her window, before her eyes. Her geraniums, still blooming, clung together in burning circles, her late roses lingered in sparse blossoms on their trees, and her ferns, scenting rain in the moist air, lifted their long delicate plumes and grew greener in the chill dews.

So the warmth of deeply-coloured flowers, set in the cool greyness of the air, filled the lower space of the window, while the firelight took impertinently to itself all the credit for making brightness in the room. It gambolled over everything in the ecstacies of this conceit, books, pictures, the curtains, the tea-kettle. It fell upon the floor in adoration, and kissed the hem of Mrs. Hazeldean's purple robe. It played with her little well-shod foot; but glanced off the fair foldings of her

white muslin vest, as if it felt the inferiority of its own warmth when so near the fervent heat of her most womanly heart. It was restless, as if it felt that it could not have things all its own way until the dusk should have quite fallen, and extinguished the rival brilliance of the flower-beds without. But in the meantime the new fire that sent it forth intensified its glowing in the ardour of its delight, and sang songs to itself loudly and cheerily. It had resumed its magic empire within the dwellings It had recovered its lost influence over human heart

of men.

and limb. Mrs. Hazeldean rested her cheek in her hand as she read. Her head was leaned aside a little; a head of such rare shape, both for intellect and womanly beauty, that people involuntarily wondered while they delighted in looking at it. Ignorant people, who would have stared it you had told them such was the fact, put faith, without knowing it, in the moulding of that head. It spoke to them of her judgment, as her smile spoke of her heart. It was clothcd, not disguised, with a tightfitting covering of satin-smooth hair, seamed with silver threads, which had made their appearance-too soon if we would speak of fitting time; not too soon if we would speak only of beauty. No nut-brown tresses, nor golden curls, ever more enriched the head that wore them than did those gleaming braids passing the richly-coloured cheeks. Her broad brow, full of grace, shone with the goodness and power of all the thoughts that continually passed behind it. Her soft hazel eyes seemed black sometimes, from intensity of expression, as well as the shadows that lay above them from their strong dark settings. They were mirthful, tender, or solemn, those eyes, and they always carried sunshine to whatever side they turned. As for her mouth, it began and finished the perfection of her face. It was so firm and yet so indulgent, so sweet and yet so grave; people listened, and looked at it, and were won. Its smile was so good, and said so much, that its word could scarce be better, or say more. But when the two came forth together it were little wonder if a hard heart should give way in sheer surprise. The habitual expression of her face was a serene look of happy content, as if she had a secret joy somewhere, which would not consent to be altogether hiddenunder which dwelt a strong presence of mental resources, quietly basking in the sunshine of her temper, ready to spring at a moment's notice into vigorous action.

Dr. Hazeldean sat opposite to his wife, and he also read his letters. He was a pleasant-looking, fresh-complexioned gentleman, with a face betraying high intellectual culture, as

well as a peculiar generosity and benevolence of disposition. If one wanted to know his opinion of his wife, one might just watch him looking at her across the table. "The heart of her husband trusteth in her," said that look. "She will render him good and not evil all the days of her life."

"Will you read this, John, and tell me what you think?" said Mrs. Hazeldean. And she handed him her letter from the Mother Augustine.

The doctor read and shook his head.

"It is a scheme worthy of Mary and of you," he said, "and if only you and Mary were to be the actors in carrying it out, I should feel no doubt that you would make it flourish to perfection. But, considering the style of the people at the Castle, I don't think such a poor girl would be happy in the position."

"I can see that danger myself," said Mrs. Hazeldean; "yet Mary seems anxious about the matter; and if the girl is now in the keeping of Lady Humphrey, who was Judith Blake, why, I would rather see her out of it, if I happened to be her friend."

Which you will be, I foresee, if she comes here," said the

doctor.

"Which I will be, please God!" said Mrs. Hazeldean. And the doctor took up his paper with a smile, and his wife poured out the tea.

The next morning, when Doctor Hazeldean was seated in his trap, his wife appeared, in her bonnet, in the doorway.

"I am going to pay a visit at the Castle," she said, "and I want you to leave me a bit up the glen, on my way."

And so a bit up the glen she was left. The mountains opened before her as she walked, after that, and the village and the bay lay behind and far beneath her. The glen unfolded its windings, and the river that ran meeting her, which she had seen playing with the sedges in the lower ground, grew noisy and angry and picked a quarrel with all the stones in its way. Purple hills loomed high in the distance, looking through their wreaths of silver mist. Autumn woods lay in the lap of the hills, and stood round about the grey chimneys of the castle.

Mrs. Hazeldean paid many a visit on her way, as she went along; for all things knew her on this road, and the humblest creature felt no awe at her approach. Even the hen-mothers pecking about the doors of the thatched cottages just blinked her a bright look and did not hurry themselves to drive their broods out of her way. The children lifted their heads and

laughed right in her face. The very cows looked up from their grazing and approved of her as she passed by. Many a brightening face was thrust to greet her through open doorways; many a welcome awaited her within, from expectant sick people beyond the thresholds; many a homely chair was dusted that she might rest.

There was not an interest of these poor people that was too little for her sympathy. Were they sick or were they in trouble, here was their friend. Not alone the sister of the late baronet, who had been their master, but a sister of their own; never impatient at their ignorance, never scornful of their poverty, never angry at their mistakes, never weary of their complaints; not sweeping in, like Lady Helen, in a grand dress, breaking her feathers and her temper against the low lintels of their doors, overwhelming them in confusion with a few words of condescension, chucking the frightened children under the chin-maybe giving a present like an alms, and sweeping out again; more like the old lady, her dead mother, but warmer, less stately, more familiar.

Most like of all to Miss Mary and Sir Archie, though with a keen insight into all the little needs of the cottiers' humble lives which even they did not possess in the same degree. These two had been her children, her disciples; though not a great many years younger than herself.

Just of late there had been many a wild torrent of grief which Mrs. Hazeldean had been called upon to stem. Though the horrors that were abroad in the country had not actually set foot upon the glens, yet scarce a cottage of the mountains but had some friend elsewhere, who was in prison or in torture, who had been beggared, or put to death. Pale faces were getting plentiful in the fields and on the roads, and tears by the firesides.

There was a fine new approach to the Castle, through great gates, round a sward, near a deer park. Lady Helen's carriage horses had room to prance in the avenue. But there was another way of coming upon the Castle, by a wilder bit of glen than had been passed. In ancient times there had been a moat, and a part of it yet remained, in which lilies multiplied and sedges mustered, while weeds and wild flowers dipped and dabbled in its margin. This had been the former entrance to the Castle, and the old drawbridge still arched its brown back over the water, throwing a solemn black shadow amidst the whiteness of the lilies. Crossing the old bridge one came upon the most ancient portion of the Castle, now worn into disuse, with a little black door, no bigger than a postern gate, set low