sisted me to dress. None of the clothes were my own, but all suited me exactly, and appeared to be of the most expensive kind.

'Glad to see you off that couch, sir,' said the servant, as I finished dressing. Change of air will make you strong, sir; the room ordered for you is a very delightful one.'

'I have met with great attention and kindness here,' I said; 'I feel very grateful.'

The man gave a peculiar laugh. 'Only to save your life,' he returned. 'No one is entertained here.'

'Now,' I thought, I have a chance of hearing something about this mysterious place-this old fellow is communicative.-Indeed!' I said. 'Lord Arnley is probably an invalid?' He was silent, and appeared not to have heard my remark. 'Is Lady Arnley living? I asked, becoming quite desperate in my resolution to obtain some information. 'Any young ladies in the castle ?'

At the last question he literally bounded from my side, and at a little distance from me exclaimed, 'Let no one hear you ask that question within these walls, young gentleman. If you did, I would not answer for the consequences. Now, sir,' he added, bowing, as if nothing had been spoken, 'I will show you to your sitting-room.'

I followed him through a long corridor, and up a flight of marble steps so white and polished, that it seemed as if no one had ascended them for a long time. At the top we reached a large square landing, at one side of which was an archway leading to a corridor corresponding with that near the bedroom. The servant opened the last door on the landing, saying, 'Your room, sir;' and I walked in, while he held the door open for me. The luxury of the room I had left faded away before the gorgeousness of that into which I was then

shown; but I looked in vain for any trace of those who were in the habit of using it. I reclined on one of the silken couches, feeling as if in a state of semi-consciousness I had been dropped into a fairy palace, all that was wanting being the lovely fairy of whom I had a glimpse the evening before. I must come down to everyday commonplace feelings, and say that I thought one thing more was wanting-creature comforts. But I had not long to wait for the inviting luncheon, which was placed before me by the same old servant who had shown me into the room.

'Lord Arnley wishes me to tell you, sir, with his compliments, that he will visit you at three.' Changing his tone, he added in a low voice, 'On your life, do not repeat the question you asked me this morning.'

I thanked him, took the hint, and, as I saw him depart, threw myself back on the low couch, which was close to an open window. There was not enough breeze to stir the lace curtains near me, yet it was deliciously cool. Again I thought of my mother. What torture of mind she must be enduring! I closed my eyes-why should I not write it ?-I felt hot tears starting at the thought of so much suffering, which I was powerless to alleviate. Then I became sensible of that unaccountable feeling which sometimes tells us we are not alone. At the same moment a hand was laid on mine. I opened my eyes quickly, and there close to me, bending down over me, was the beautiful being I had seen in my room the evening before.

'Hush! Do not speak,' she said in a voice so low, so sweet, that I felt charmed as I listened. 'You are weak,' she continued, in a kind pitying tone. "Take this; write to your mother. I will call again for it, and forward it to her; she must

not reply to it. I have heard all, heard how you longed to write to her.'

I stood up. In what words shall I thank you?' I said. 'Only tell me who is so kind to me.'

'Mabel Lynn,' she answered quickly and with a childlike naïveté; 'but, if you value my peace, be silent.'

Then she left the room as noiselessly as she had entered, and I turned in mute astonishment to the little parcel in my hand for evidence that all was reality. It contained all requisites for writing, with the words, 'Keep all out of sight,' written on the cover in a small finished hand. I need not say how joyfully I wrote and prepared the letter for my mother. I had only concluded it and laid all aside, when the old valet appeared to say that Lord Arnley was coming.

II.

I FELT my heart beat as I fixed my eyes on the door, expecting when it would open to see an old gentleman quite as hideous and grotesque-looking as his servants and attendants. But when I saw Lord Arnley enter, I seemed in an instant to forget my peculiar position, surrounded as I was by mystery and by persons different from any I had ever seen-all, I say, was lost in surprise and admiration. Before me was one who was the very impersonation of dignity, almost majestic in appearance, his figure slightly bent, yet scarcely with age; for although his white hair, resting on his shoulders, at first sight would give that idea, the brightness of his sparkling black

eyes contradicted it. Evidently other causes than time had given his hair that striking appearance, and left on his handsome face a settled expression of melancholy,

which when he smiled looked sadder still.

He bowed low as he entered, and advancing quickly towards me, said, 'I bid you welcome to Arnley Castle, Mr. Fernmore, and congratulate you on your restoration to health.'

I expressed my gratitude, I fear, in a very awkward way; for I had been so taken by surprise, that I had not time to recover my selfpossession. Doubtless he noticed it, for he took my hand kindly.

'Ah, I see you are weak yet— very. Recline on this couch. Do not mind sitting up, I beg; your strength is not equal to it, Mr. Fernmore.'

However, I politely persisted in sitting up; I felt so impressed by the presence I was in, that, do what I would, I could not lie down.

'Well, if you prefer it, sit up,' he said mildly-so mildly, that I felt soothed by his voice. For a moment he placed his right hand over his eyes; when he removed it, he looked at me so intently, that I felt my face becoming red.

'Forgive me,' he said quickly.. 'I distress you by my steady gaze;. but there is a likeness in your features to one who rendered me a service so great, that the sacrifice of my life would not requite it.. That was your father, Mr. Fernmore. You start,' he said-'yes, yes, but for the name you gave, you would have been removed before now from within these walls, where stranger's foot has not trodden for many a year. I see that I surprise you. Doubtless you are anxious to know how you got in here. You shall hear all, if you will honour me with your company at eight o'clock this evening. My servant will conduct you to my room. Now tell me if my people have done all for you as you wished.'

I was profuse in my expressions

of gratitude, and declared that nothing was wanting in their attention

to me.

'That is as I wished it,' he returned. There are kind hearts beneath the gaunt exteriors my people present.' My thoughts turned with the swiftness of lightning to the loveliness of Mabel Lynn. He said quietly, but as if he could read my thoughts at a glance, 'You think my people different from those you meet in everyday life, do you not, Mr. Fernmore? There was no exception, was there?'

Very singular indeed, my lord,' I replied to his first question, "but truly kind.'

"That is well,' he said, withdrawing from my face the steady gaze with which he had regarded me while I answered. It seemed to me that he suspected the visit of the morning.

He rose, and again taking my hand with great kindness, said, This evening I shall see you again. If your hand and heart are as true as your father's, I shall not have to regret your gaining an entrance to Arnley Castle.'

He bowed, and went out, leaving me more perplexed and puzzled than before. He knew my father, then, years ago. Strange that I never heard Lord Arnley spoken of at home! True, I was young when my father died. Once only had I heard my mother mention the name; when speaking of the castle, she said that its owner had isolated himself from the rest of mankind.

I cannot tell the intensity of my excitement as the afternoon passed on. I expected each moment that Mabel would come, as she had said, for the letter. Should I see her with Lord Arnley in the evening? And what should I hear, and to what would that interview lead? As the time went by, I was beginning to think she was not coming, when the door opened slowly, and

Mabel entered with a timid cautious step and look. I walked forward to meet her.

'Is your letter ready?' she asked. 'I have come for it.'

'A thousand thousand thanks for such exceeding kindness to me, a stranger,' I replied, as I handed her the letter.

'No thanks are due to me, Mr. Fernmore; I am only performing a duty to one in sorrow-your mother. Now, good-bye; we do not meet again.'

That I loved my mother very dearly is unquestionable; but at that moment I experienced something like a feeling of disappointment at hearing her declare that she did all for my mother, nothing, it seemed, for me. Only performing a duty. How cold the words sounded!

She turned to go as she said, 'We do not meet again.' All selfcontrol left me when I heard the words; before I was well aware of the act, I had taken a small fair hand in mine. Not meet again!' I repeated. 'Do unsay those words.'

'It does not rest with me to unsay them,' she answered with simplicity, as, not hurriedly, she withdrew her hand. 'You raved so piteously about your mother while you were ill, that I felt it would be wrong not to assist you to write to her.'

'Then,' I said, 'Warp has told you all this?'

'No, O no; I heard you while I helped Warp to cool your head with vinegar-and-water.' She laughed; it was a low musical laugh, but evidently involuntary, for she looked nervously around her, as if startled at the sound. Recovering herself, she continued, 'I dare say your city belles would not like to dabble in vinegar-and-water;' and again her face was bright with the pleasantry her remark afforded her.

'Better than let a poor wretch die, was it not? Farewell; I wish you good health.'

Before I could reply I was alone, standing where she had left me, almost stupefied at the turn her remarks had taken. Then, after all, Mabel looked on me as a 'poor wretch,' whom she had condescended to nurse to save his life, rather than let him die—nothing more.

I went back to my couch sad and disheartened. I felt ill-it was not fancy-my head ached. Dinner was removed without being touched by me. But I must rouse myself,' I thought; in another hour I shall have to meet Lord Arnley again.' All chance of seeing Mabel with him was at an end.

At eight o'clock precisely the old servant came to show me to Lord Arnley's room. After passing through many corridors and descending some flights of stairs, I was ushered into a large room on the ground floor. One of the windows opened on a terrace, beyond which was a garden exquisitely laid out, and the perfume of flowers filled the air. Lord Arnley, who was alone, rose, and received me courteously. I sat, at his desire, in a large easy-chair, and he drew another opposite to mine, and took his place in it. While he was doing so, I noticed that the room corresponded with the other parts of the castle I had seen.

'Pray, Mr. Fernmore, don't stand on ceremony; just lean back in your chair. Shall I close the window? the air might injure you.'

All this he said without stopping, but with such ease, that in a moment I felt quite at home, and availed myself of the luxury of the velvet cushions at my back. Again I began to express my gratitude for his attention, but he asked me as a favour not to repeat my thanks.

'I see,' he began, that you are not as well as Dr. Mar thinks. In

his opinion, you are fit to leave here to-morrow; I think otherwise. I have no doubt but you are curious to know how you got into this castle?' I expressed my desire to hear it, and he went on: 'Under Providence, you owe your life to the old doctor who attended you. During that fearful storm he was coming in a carriage towards the castle, when he saw two men and a horse lying, as he thought, dead by the roadside. On examination, he found that life was not extinct in one-yourself; the other, apparently the driver, and the horse were past all aid the lightning had done its work surely there. You were stunned by having been thrown violently from the vehicle. With his servant's help, he lifted you into the carriage, and thus was brought to Arnley Castle the first stranger for many years. I would not leave you outside the gates to die; and in vain might I try to tell you how my heart was raised in thankfulness when I found that the life thus saved was that of George Fernmore's son. Can you bear with an old man, Mr. Fernmore, while I tell you a tale of years ago, a tale of desolating woe

of a time when your father helped to soothe bruised and bleeding hearts ?'

He had placed his hands on the edge of a little ornamental table that stood beside him; as he ceased speaking, he bent his head forward until it rested on them. When he raised it after a few minutes, his face was colourless, showing plainly the intensity of his emotion. Pardon me, pray pardon me,' he said; 'indeed, I did not intend to let my feelings be seen, but—'

'I beg that you will not distress yourself, my lord,' I replied. 'I would listen and sympathise with you freely, but not when the remembrance pains you so much.'

'It is due to you, Mr. Fernmore. I never had an opportunity of tell

son.

ing your father how grateful I was for his brotherly and loving act to me, therefore I must tell it to his I was not as old as you are, Mr. Fernmore, at the time to which I wish to go back. I was in my twentieth year when I met one whom it was only to see and know to love. I loved her, my after life showed me how deeply. She returned my love, and before I was twenty-one, she being a year younger, we were married. In three years I lost her; death had no respect for my deep love. One child, a daughter, was left to me in her place. As she grew up, she was the living image of my lost one, and she became the idol of my life. When she was seventeen, one who visited here with others under the name of a friend won her young heart. I saw it; sooner would I have seen her dead than wedded to him. I told him so I prohibited his visits to the castle; but a viper, a snake, can sometimes enter despite our efforts.

'A word tells all. She left her home, left a father's heart, for one who cared more for the wealth she was expected to inherit than for the priceless treasure he had in her. The same day on which she left the castle they were married; after a week they returned, expecting to be received here. In an hour of passion and cruelty, I banished her from my presence, and she went forth a wanderer, I knew not whither-I never knew. Your father was a young man then. I do not doubt but he admired Mabel; had he sought her, he might have obtained her hand; perhaps later on he would have done so. He hurried to the castle when the news of the marriage got circulated. I saw that he felt deeply. He implored me to bring her back. No, fool that I was! I was inexorable-passion blinded reason.

'A few years had passed, miser

able years, during which I lived a life of seclusion. They had passed, I say, when on a night in December-a night when the elements seemed to vie with one another in fury-a loud knocking at the gates roused all within the castle. The gates were opened, and your father rode into the courtyard. He came to the room where I was to ask assistance for a wretched being whom, as he was riding home from Erston, he had found dying in the storm by the wayside. A vehicle and servants were immediately at his command, and, half an hour after, a woman, holding an infant firmly to her bosom, was placed by the fire in the servants'-hall. I went to see what service I could render. Her hair was partly covering her face, blown there by the wind and rain. It was put on one side.'

The last few sentences were much broken by Lord Arnley's sobs. I was prepared for the sequel. He paused, looked at me with an expression of indescribable agony, and then said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, 'It was Mabel !' Again his head was bent down upon his hands at the edge of the table, and large bright drops fell on the carpet at his feet.

'A little more and you will know all,' he went on, recovering himself. 'In three days she died. She lived to know that I had forgiven her. She was able to tell me that she had lost her husband within two years of their marriage, that she was making her way back to me, when she was overtaken by the storm, and Providence sent your father to save her. Her child lived; I sent her to the Continent to be educated-sent her away from a house of desolation, to spare her young life from sharing my misery. I got a promise from your father to keep all secret, as if he had never seen such woe; he kept it. By a strange fatality, I did not meet him