CHAPTER III.

Ir was very different at Millthorpe Grange; though only in the next county, you might well have fanciedl it another country. It was a pleasant house, standing almost amongst the moors, and you came upon it suddenly, lying in a deep narrow valley; not bleak and barren as many of those valleys are, but whose sides were covered with trees. To come suddenly upon the trim, beautiful garden, after leaving the road, which wound for some way amongst the firs and ash-trees, was a pleasant sunny contrast from that wild road with its trees rapidly changing as every autumn day passed on.

There was still sunshine on the hills opposite the house; the gentlemen were not yet come in from shooting, and Mrs. Lewis and Mrs. Everett were sitting over the fire, in the midst of a long and intimate conversation. Dress and sentiment, intellectualities and actualities, people one cultivates for pleasure, and those who are necessities; all these were talked over and despatched in that quick, womanly way, where one word must explain the whole: for every

two or three people have a sort of cant language of

their own.

Constance Everett was not pretty in the strict acceptation of the word—not pretty, if regular features are all that make the beauty which dwells longest in our recollection; but a thousand pretty women have faded from my memory, while this one, with her faults and her graces, her enthusiasm and her worldliness, her simplicity and her vanity, is still before me, and her laughter is always pleasanter to my remembrance than that of most other women in this world. She was very fair, and enemies would have called her colouring fâde; but no one who had ever seen her face change as she told a story, or felt her smile when she wished to please (and it was her wish pretty often) could have thought her so. She seemed to fulfil the description of one of Madame Hahn Hahn's heroines, of whom beauties said, "she is very clever, but not a beauty; and the wise literary women, she is very fascinating, but not deep."

Margaret Lewis was a great contrast to her friend and old schoolfellow Constance-tall, but rather awkward: fine-looking, some people might have called her, but few would have said pleasing. She had a good deal of capacity, and of the material for success, yet did not possess the art of making the most of herself. People less good-looking than she was have often been called pretty, and those who far less

deserved it, clever. And yet she valued both these triumphs keenly: or rather had valued them; those around her did so, and she had learnt it of them. Singularly devoid of all those small attractions which give success in society, she had been taught to consider society her vocation. Her mother, an extravagant, brilliant woman, who did succeed in the world, brought her out in vain: it appeared that neither success nor husband were in store for her.

Poor Margaret! she was romantic, and her ideas of a husband were rather exacting. Her day came at length; a worthy, prosaic gentleman presented himself, and Margaret contented her mother by accepting him. But she was disappointed, and showed it in her sarcasm, which was not natural, but had grown upon her. She was really kind-hearted, and was never bitter against individuals, but against things and institutions in the abstract. Her general reflections were always sarcastic when she was unconstrained, but sometimes she suppressed her natural disposition, as if she feared the ridicule which attaches. to a disappointed person. What is a sarcastic bitter tone after all, but the expression of disappointment? more wearisome sometimes, and gaining smaller indulgence than a downright sentimental complaint, which is less disguised and arrogates less distinction for itself. It was the knowledge of this which repressed Margaret's bitterness; and perhaps time and

children, who so change every woman, would efface it. Neither so ready nor so expansive as Constance, it was the great difference between them which constituted their mutual attraction. Margaret always came out under her friend's influence, and Constance enjoyed Margaret's hearty appreciation of her.

Constance had married for love. Luxuriously brought up by a strict and stupid aunt, she had always looked forward to falling in love as a great entertainment and delectation. She had a "grande passion" for her husband, and for a short time they worshipped each other most devoutly, whilst her visions of life seemed better fulfilled than those of most people. But in time there fell some shades upon her pleasant existence. She, her husband, or somebody, was extravagant, and their London house was sold, and he fell ill. It was whispered, too, that he had not behaved to her in all things as he should. She never spoke ill of him, and no blame whatever attached to her. He was in Italy now for his health, and did not care to have her with him; it was better in every way, and more economical, that she should stay. "In the spring he would rejoin her," she said, rather languidly; and perhaps had no great desire that that spring should come quickly.

"And what shall you do then?" asked Margaret.

"Do?-Why we must settle somewhere. Frank

may perhaps get a place somewhere in India, or some outlandish country."

"And shall you go?"

"Yes, I suppose I must; but I shan't stay long," said Constance, with a wilful, merry look:-"I can't be too much away from Frank," she added, more softly; "he does not like it: I don't know why,

He was pleased once

for he does not care for me. when anybody admired me; but now he sneers when they do, and seems to be jealous."

"You are right, my dear; you must not be too much away from him: it would never do," said Margaret (who was generally practical in her remarks)" and then you have more power over him than it pleases you to own to in your melancholy moods."

"Power over some people, perhaps; but not over him," she replied, sadly.

"Yes, you have power over some people I know: James Erskine, for one."

And Constance smiled rather consciously.