ties of society or the inequalities of rank. In the mountains they did not exist, at Mon Repos they were either ignored or denounced. At the same time, there was noching about her either ungirlish or pedantic. She would discuss a question of social ethics or a point in history with M. Senarclens one moment, and be running round the garden with Georgette the next. Painting and reading were her favourite occupations; but she made her own dresses, was a good cook and a keen hand at small bargains, and could have earned her living as a dairy-maid. As M. Senarclens said, Vera was a well-instructed girl; he might have added that in some things she was as ignorant as an infant.

In the afternoon Gabrielle came, and was shown into the salon, where, in a few minutes, she was joined by Vera, whose kindly greeting reassured her, and she began to think that her fears were premature. Then the door opened a second time and M. Senarclens, followed by Balmaine and Martino, entered the room.

"I think there is somebody here you ought to know," observed Vera, pointing to Martino.

"Don't you know me, Mademoiselle Gabrielle?" said the Italian, coming forward with outstretched hand.

'Signor Martino!" exclaimed the bonne, in a low intense voice, her face turning deadly pale. "I did not expect to see you

here.'

"I dare say not; but why did you not write to me as you promised?"

"Because-because-" (desperately). "It is no use trying to deceive you. I will tell the truth-I will tell everything." (Here she sank into a chair and wiped the perspiration from her face.) "Yes, I will tell the truth."

"By all means," put in M. Senarclens soothingly, "as well for Vera's sake as for your own peace of mind. We guess much, but we want to know all."

So the bonne made a clean breast of it; and though she did not try to justify herself she laid great stress on the temptation to which she had been exposed, and pleaded further in extenuation of her offence that she feared M. Hardy père might deprive her of the care of Vera, "who was dearer to her than her life." One thing only she kept back-that she had received a packet of paperz from her master and given it to Corfe. She had persuaded herself that it was of no importance and she feared Corfe's vengeance. "I know I have done you a great wrong,'

said Gabrielle, when her confession was finished-turning to Vera with streaming eyes-" and that you can never, never forgive me ; but I was sorely tried, my darling, and your money is safe; my father will pay it all back."

"Never forgive you?" said Vera tenderly, putting her arms round Gabrielle's neck and kissing her. "Never forgive you! Why, you are my benefactor. You have been to me as a mother. My grandfather died almost at the same time as my father. If you had taken me to London I should have been brought up by strangers, my life would have been wretched, whereas here, in this mountain land, I have been very happy."

"But my father has been so cross, Vera, he has used you very ill."

'Only since your mother died, and I have been so much with my dear friends here that it was not much, after all. Do not let that trouble you, Gabrielle."

"It is like you, Vera, to make little of your bonne's fault," said M. Senarclens gravely, "and I am quite of your opinion that her bringing you to Canton Vaud has been for your good; but it might have been just the reverse, and Gabrielle did very wrong, and exposed you to serious risk, by forgetting her promise to your father. I do not think the end in this cases justifies the means. But it is not for me to sit in judgment on you, Gabrielle, for after all you are more sinned against than sinning. If there were no such institution as property your father would not have got into trouble, and you would have been under no temptation to lend him M. Hardy's money."

"In that case," observed Balmaine, with a covert smile, "it is just possible that there would have been none of Mr. Hardy's money to lend."

The historian made as if he was going to reply, but seeing that Vera had something to say he refrained.

"Can I dispose of this money?" she. asked. "I shall not want it, and I should like to give it not to Père Courbet, who has enough already and is very avariciousbut to Gabrielle, who, although she has done so much for me, has taken nothing for herself."

At present I do not think you can, Vera," said M. Senarclens.

"And I would not take it from you if you could," said Gabrielle. "I shall never feel happy until it is repaid. And we have plenty without it; there is only my father and me."

"We will see," returned Vera with a smile, and (whispering) "keep up your courage; if I go to England you shall go with me. me." The bonne went back to La Boissière happier than she had been for many a day, so happy that she forgot for a while the bad quarter of an hour she would have to pass with her father, and the packet which she had so unfortunately given to Corfe.

CHAPTER XLVI.—BALMAINE'S DEFEAT. AFTER Gabrielle was gone-and her visit did not last more than half an hour-M. Senarclens went, as usual, into his study, and Balmaine and Martino betook themselves to the garden, where they smoked, contemplated the scenery and talked with the ladies. As before, Alfred fell into conversation with Vera. He told her that he should be obliged to leave for Geneva by the next morning's steamer; but Martino liked the neighbour hood so well that he proposed to stay there a few days longer, returning to Geneva on his way to Italy.

"I am sorry you are obliged to return so soon," said Vera, "for though I have known you so short a time you have taken so kind an interest in me and my affairs that I look upon you rather as an old friend than a new acquaintance."

"I am glad to hear you say so," answered Alfred gaily, "and you may be sure that I shall do my best to prove myself as true a friend as if I were really an old one. And I do not suppose it will be long before we meet again. I shall be hearing from Artful and Higginbottom in the course of a post or too.

"The lawyers?" "Yes."

"Does my destiny depend upon them?" "In a great measure. The trustees will doubtless be a good deal guided by their advice."

"Shall I have to go to England very soon, do you think?"

"Probably. Yes; I dare say they will want you to go to England. Why, don't you want to go?"

"I should like to see England very much, but I think I would rather first go to Italy. Will you be there ?"

"In Italy or England ?" "In England."

Why do you ask?” "Because I know nobody there. I shall be a stranger in a strange land, and I am so ignorant of the world and its ways. My life, since I was seven years old, has been spent

here. For all that time I have never once been out of sight of the lake and these mountains, and a country without mountains I can hardly imagine. To meet in London somebody whom I have known here would be like a gleam of sunshine during a black bise."

"Don't compare London to a black bise, if you please, Miss Hardy. It is not quite so bad as that. And there are other places in England besides London; and some very beautiful places. And you will very soon make friends-troops of them."

"But you have not answered my question." "About England ?"

"Yes."

"I am afraid there is very little chance of my being in England for a long time, Miss Hardy."

He was afraid; yet three days before he would have regarded return to England as little less than a calamity!

"I suppose you will stay here for the present?" asked Balmaine, by way of changing the subject.

"I do not know what else I can do. After the last scene with Père Courbet, it would be too painful to return to La Boissière.' "The old ragamuffin! He was very rude, then."

"Very," said the girl, reddening at the recollection of the old man's threats of what he would do if she persisted in her refusal of Corfe. "But never mind that now; it is past. Let us talk about something more agreeable-the Senarclens, for instance. M. Senarclens is a noble character, and he has the courage of his principles. He would rather die than do anything which he deems incompatible with his dignity and his honour. The Emperor has made him the most splendid offers. If he would only go to Paris and accept the empire, he might be a senator, member of the Academy-anything he liked But he

have both honours and money. treats them all with disdain and lives here in voluntary exile. As you see, the family live very simply and he gives much-chiefly, I think, to brother exiles who are less fortunate than himself."

"Yes, as you say, M. Senarclens is a man of noble nature. But though I admire his courage, his constancy, and his learning, I cannot say as much for his opinions. Some of them are awfully wild."

"If you mean by wild that they are not well thought out, you are wrong. For every one of his opinions M. Senarclens can give very excellent reasons. I have heard several

people try to confute him, but they always retire discomfited."

"You are a partial judge, I fear, Miss Hardy. But did you notice the singular remark he made a little while ago in reference to Madame Gabrielle-that it was not one of those cases in which the end justifies the means?"

"Well."

"Can there be such a case?"

Vera smiled. "Of course there can." "You really think there are circumstances in which we are justified in doing evil that good may come.

"I did not say so, M. Balmaine, and I might retort by asking you to define good and evil. I do not think you would find it very easy. But I will meet you on your own ground and use the words in their ordinary acceptation. I presume you would consider war an evil?"

"Certainly," said the unsophisticated youth, falling headlong into the trap which this ingenious maiden had set for him.

"I was not aware you were a Quaker, M. Balmaine," returned Vera with an amused smile.

"I am not a Quaker, Miss Hardy. How could you conceive so absurd an idea?" said Balmaine, with some warmth.

"Then you are of opinion that war in certain eventualities may be justifiable?" "Decidedly."

"So war is a justifiable evil. The end -say of a people struggling to be freesanctifies the means. I do not think you could confute M. Senarclens, M. Balmaine," said Vera, bursting into a merry laugh.

"I acknowledge my defeat," answered Alfred good-humouredly, though he felt very much sold. "I am thoroughly beaten; I made an initial mistake. I should have said that war is not always an evil.”

"But it always is an evil. It must be bad for men to kill and maim each other, and the doing so can only be defended on the ground that still greater evils are thereby avoided. When nations go to war they do evil that good may come; but very often, unfortunately, the expectation is not fulfilled. Slavery is an evil, but society enslaves its malefactors for their greater good. If the principle that the end does not justify the means were insisted upon there would be an end not alone to government but to every sort of authority."

"Who taught you to argue, may I ask, Miss Hardy?

"

"M. Senarclens. We often have discus

sions-he and I and Georgette generally on some subject suggested by what we have been reading. We take whichever side we prefer, and he takes the other."

"And always beats you, I suppose?" "Nearly; but once or twice the cause we have espoused has been too strong for him, and victory has declared for us."

"I should like to be present at one of your discussions."

"Well, when you come again, you perhaps may. We are reading Herbert Spencer's 'Sociology,' and that promises to be very suggestive of topics. But" (here her countenance fell) "if I go away we can have no more discussions, no more sails by moonlight to La Meillerie, no more pleasant excursions to Les Avants and the Rochers de Naye. Ah, M. Balmaine, I almost wish you had not discovered me!"

"I am sorry to hear you say that, Miss Hardy

"But" (eagerly) "perhaps they will let me come back. Do you think they will ?"

"I have not a doubt of it; and nobody will be more pleased to see you back than Ì, for in all probability I shall remain in Swit zerland several years.'

"I beg pardon for interrupting you, M. Balmaine, but don't you think it is time we set out on our proposed walk to Chillon?"

The speaker was Martino, he had been describing Algeria to Madame Senarclens and Georgette.

"Quite time," said Alfred with feigned alacrity, and looking at his watch; "I had no idea how late it was. I am sure these ladies must be getting tired of us."

"Quite the contrary," said Madame Senarclens graciously. "M. Martino has interested us very much with his account of Algeria, and Vera does not look as if she were tired of your conversation, M. Balmaine. We generally take a walk about this time ourselves, and if you have no objection, we will accompany you to Chillon. I daresay, too, that my husband would be glad to make one of the party."

Balmaine and Martino declared that nothing would please them better, and they had a most enjoyable walk to the old castle. On the way thither, M. Senarclens entertained them with an account of its history, and told some legends about the castle which are not found in ordinary chronicles.

CHAPTER XLVII.-MAYO'S PROPOSAL.

ON arriving at Geneva Balmaine went straight to the office of the Helvetic News.

He had written the greater part of his leader at the Rousseau, and it required only a few retouches and rounding off with a sentence or two in conclusion to be ready for the printer.

He found the two subs at their post. They hoped he had enjoyed his journey, and he asked if anything particular had happened during his absence.

"Rather," said Delane, "something very particular. Mayo sent us each fifty francs yesterday, and said there would be a hundred for you on Monday. But as I have not much confidence in that safe, big as it is, I said I was sure it would be a great convenience for you to have the money to-day, and that if he would give it to me I would hand it to you. Here it is; a nice crisp hundred franc note."

"Thank you very much, old fellow. What do you suppose has happened, where has the money come from?"

"He has opened a new banking account," said Milnthorpe, "and drawn bills against the orders Bevis brought the other day. It scems that you can discount unaccepted drafts in this country, and it is not the custom to present them for acceptance before they fall due, a mighty convenience for financial dodgers like Mr. Mayo. And he will let these bankers-I don't know who they are-have as many as they can digest, I'll warrant."

"There's a private letter and a telegram for you at the pension, Balmaine," put in Delane. "I thought you would be calling there before you came here, so I did not bring them."

"A telegram! When did it come?" "Yesterday. I would have sent it on to you, but I was not quite sure whether you meant to leave the Rousseau last night or this morning."

"Curious," said Alfred. "I cannot think who in this country is likely to send me a private telegram. It must be about the paper. You should have opened it, Delane.'

"It was marked personnel."

'Ah, that makes it more curious still. However, I shall see what it is when I get home, and that won't be long. Whistle for the boy, Delane, and tell Jan to let me have a pull of the leader as soon as possible. Here is the first part of it."

When the work on hand was finished, Balmaine told his friends what had taken him to the other end of the lake. He did not see any reason why Vera's story should be kept

secret, even if it could, and it was better that they should have the facts from him than a garbled version of them from somebody else.

"You see, I was right," observed Milnthorpe; "I knew Corfe was after money. Catch him marrying a portionless girl!"

"I hope he did not chuck his wife down that hole in order to qualify himself for taking another," said Delane lightly.

"I should not be at all surprised if he did," returned Milnthorpe seriously; "many things more unlikely have happened.”

"What a suspicious fellow you are, Milnthorpe !" said Balmaine.

"So I am, of people I don't like, and I don't like Corfe a bit."

Alfred made no reply, but when he recalled his conversation with Corfe on their way to the Rousseau fête, and remembered how possible it was, despite his disclaimer, for him to have heard something of the Hardys in Italy, or from some of his Italian friends in Geneva, he had his thoughts. And then there occurred to him-strange that it had not occurred to him before-the remarkable discussion about murder just before the journey to Chamouni, and he asked himself if it was possible that Delane's jest expressed a truth, and that Corfe had killed his wife in order that he might marry Vera Hardy. He could hardly think so it would be really too atrocious. Yet the circumstances, look at them as he might, were undeniably suspicious, and true or false they were an additional reason for watching over Vera's safety and standing between her and harm. Dangers might threaten her he knew not of.

Delane and Milnthorpe were going to sup at the Café du Roi ; but Alfred, curious about his telegram, went straight home. It was from Cora, and as follows:

"Your mother grew suddenly worse this morning and died at four this afternoon. Shall bury her on Tuesday.”

He read the fateful words a second and a third time, to make sure that he had gathered their purport aright, and then, sinking into a chair, covered his face with his hands. His poor mother! He thought of her, not as the querulous invalid which she had lately become, but as the genial, easytempered woman she had been in the happy days at their old home; how indulgently she had treated him in his boyhood, how tenderly nursed him in his long illness! Days gone

beyond recall, the home broken up, the members of the household dispersed and 'dead. His father and mother dead, George in India, Cora in Calder, himself in Geneva. All this had come to pass in little more than two years, and as Alfred mentally rehearsed these incidents of a painful past his heart was heavy within him. It seemed as if his misfortunes would never cease. And this last stroke was so sudden. In a letter received from Cora only the week before, she said that his mother, though still ailing, was no worse than usual.

Then he opened his letters. One was from his cousin, written the Thursday before. It told him that his mother's illness had begun to assume a graver character; that they had called in a doctor, who did not think there was any immediate danger, and that if Mrs. Balmaine's symptoms became serious (which Cora did not apprehend) she would telegraph to him at once.

It was evident that the symptoms had become so much more serious that his mother had died within the following twenty-four hours. What should he do? That was the question. To receive his mother's blessing, or to see her laid in the ground, he would have gone to Calder, cost what it might even his situation. But now it was too late for either. If he were to leave the following afternoon and he could not leave before he would not be able to reach Calder until Wednesday night or Thursday morning. But he might perhaps be of use to Cora. He would telegraph and ask the question, and act accordingly. It was satisfactory to think that at his instance his mother had made a will, leaving the furniture at the cottage, and anything else she might have, to her niece.

So the telegram was dispatched, and in the course of the following day came the answer: "You must not think of coming; it is not at all necessary. I write."

Cora's letter (which followed the telegram), besides giving full particulars of his mother's last illness, informed him that, so soon as she had administered the will and disposed of the furniture, his cousin would leave Calder for good. An old friend of her father's living in London had invited her to stay with him and his wife for an indefinite time, and she meant for the future to make London her home, and literature her profession. She had received an offer for the serial copyright of her novel, and though it was very disappointing, being a mere trifle, she should accept it, and hope

for better luck another time. And perhaps she should esteem herself fortunate in getting the story accepted on any terms. The sale of the furniture and other effects might bring in some two hundred pounds-quite enough to keep her, especially as her board for the present would cost her nothinguntil she could earn her living by her pen. Anticipating an offer of help from Alfred, she told him that she was resolved to be independent of everybody-even of him. "I consider myself," she wrote, "quite as able to earn my own living as you are to earn yours. At any rate I mean to try. If I fail I will ask you for help with as little hesitation as I am sure in similar circumstances you would ask me."

Balmaine sorrowed for his mother, but he had too many occupations and distractions to brood over his sorrow. Two days after his return from Territet he received a letter from Artful and Higginbottom, thanking him warmly, on behalf of the trustees, for his exertions in seeking Miss Hardy, and congratulating him on his success. Mr. Artful would leave London for Switzerland towards the end of the week, for the double purpose of escorting Vera to England and putting into proper shape the evidence of Martino and Gabrielle Courbet, with a view to establishing the young lady's identity. Mr. Artful proposed to travel by way of Geneva, and, being ignorant of the French language, said that he should esteem it a favour if Mr. Balmaine could accompany him to Territet.

Alfred had nothing to say against this proposal. He would only be too glad to make another visit to Territet; but he thought it might be as well to mention the matter to Mayo, and obtain leave of absence beforehand. So he went down-stairs, demanded an interview with the manager, and told his story. It raised him, as he could easily perceive, immensely in Mayo's estimation.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the latter, "I never knew anything like it. Highly romantic, isn't it? And how close you have kept it all this time! I had no idea, when you went to Italy there, what you were after. And the fortune is a large one, you say. How much do you suppose she will have?"

"I don't know exactly; but it is said. about two millions."

"Whew! By the Lord Harry! two millions! Now look here, Balmaine, don't you think you could turn Miss Hardy to account for the paper somehow? We