Denbighshire Free Press

LALL RIGHTS RBSB £ VKD.J THE SECOND I LADY LYTCI-IETr. "By RITA" Author of "P-!z the Rako," "The Sinner," "Vanity," "The Pointing1 Finger, "Saba Maccionald," "Queer Lady Yudas," &c. CHAPTER I. The village post-office of Clonmacure yam an institution for well-organised gossip as well as for the dispensing of stamps and other insignificant matters relating to Government regulations. The head and chief of the busi- ness was a good-looking, buxom widow, by name Mrs. Timothy Mulligan, but more usually addressed as Biddy Mulligan or the Widow Mulligan. On a certain December afternoon in the year 1899 the widow stood behind her counter, and was alternately listening to a knot of her cronies and attend- ing to customers as occasion warranted. For th subject in hand was nothing short of stu- pendous importance. It dealt with two facts. One that Mr. Terence O'Farrol of the big house on the hill had let that same house nnd property to an English family. The other, that nothing would suit the said Mr. Terence O'Farrol but that he should volunteer for the South African War, of which the papers were full, and the whole world talking! With regard to Hurrish and ite neglected park, and more or less unprofitable farm- steads, little could be said that had not been said already. The O'Farrols had always been a wild, thriftless race. Their last repre- ficntative had proved no less wild, and quite as thriftless as his I)redece.,is ors. 'Twa-s in the blood," and what could you expect? This was the general verdict, delivered with much volubility and head shaking- It was the verdict that reached one quiet listener who stood a little in the background waiting for the discussion to offer a temporary lull in which she might put a question to the mis- tress of the post-office. As yet there seemed no immediate charice ol such an opportunity. 'Tis his last night in the ould country," Biddy Mulligan was saying, as she bent over the counter and pushed aside its multifarious contents. For the post-office was a general store a.s well as a revenue department. And sure 'tis sore and sorry I am for his sake, lavm' alone the bad luck that's come to the place. For who wants English gin try up be- yalit? "Well, Biddy woman, 'tis thev has the money, any way. And what they buys they'll pay for, which is more than Mr. Terence iver did, 01" for that matter, any o' his family be- j for him." "Then 'tis shame on you, Mary Riley, to be | blayguardin' the ould race one an' all. Sure the rale gintry is bein' driven out o' the country intirely by rasin o' misfortunes. And who's to blame for (him ? Tell me that! j "The misfortunes o' the O'Farrols are mainlv o' their own begsttin' interposed another voice. j Troth, Kitty dear, an' it's well known you niver had much love for Mr. Terry," said the Widow Mulligan. I He ruined me own bhoy. bodv and soul. Tisn t I have much cau6e to feel grateful." | Well, well, a vie., there's worse thinrs maybe before a bhoy than to turn sodier, an' S'.u-e, since Mr. Terence will be goinsf out to Hontli Africay himself, why shouldn't he be meetin' your Patrick an' stand the good friend to him, as he's always done." I "Ah, why indade?" chimed in another voice; and surmise, and assertion, and specu- lation all burst into a sudden sympathetic babel of sounds. In the interest of the discussion no one seemed to noticd' that quiet figure in the back- ground of the excited group. The figure of a woman. She was slight and tall. She wore a long travelling cloak of dark tweed, and a black felt hat with a rather thick veil twisted round the crown and tied under her chin. The only distinguishing mark about her was I her hair. It lay in thick soft coils at the back of her head, gleaming even through the veil by right of its ruddy hue. The conversa- tion seemed to interest her even more than her intended questions, and Biddy Mulligan, when she caught sight of her, wondered at acr.jjersistcnt.aiiitnde of attention. "Sure, an' can't ye see there's a lady wait- in' behind ye all!" she exclaimed, suddenly. What can I do for ye, ma'am? she added, dignity of office and the interest of curiosity mingling in the polite query. The group of women parted and looked round. The stranger, seeing she wa6 attract- ing universal attention, advanced and asked for some staiiine. I The fact that no one present-knew her in- fested her with supreme attraction. To no race does the unknown or the mysterious ap- peal so strongly ac to the Irish. Biddy Mulligan produced the stamps and tore them from their perforated sheet with a I dilatory carefulness that made less tax on her I eyes than her hands. She, too, was wonder- ing who the stranger was. From whence had she come? What was her business here? She handed over the stamps and received a shil- ling in exchange. Then the unknown said, gently: I heard you speaking of a place called Hurrish. Is it far from here? A matter of a mile or so, ma'am," an- swered the widow. You can follow the road to your right straight up the street and across the bridge. Then turn to the left, and 'tisn't a;sv to miso sacin' the house. It stands on a hill, square an' white. But may I ax is it the new people you're wishful to see, or Mr. Terence? They're just come in, and he, Mr. Terence, is just goin' out. He laves this place an Ireland too on the morrow morning. But plaze Heaven he'll be back agin with us all some day, an' none the worse for seein' the world out there bevant." I Ihere was a hush of expectation through- out the shop. Every eye was on the graceful figure and the shrouded face; every ear I stretched to hear what she would answer, or I what reveal of her own antecedents and future movements. She put the stamps slowly and carefullv into her shabby morpcco purse. She returned the parde to a small travelling-bae: she was carrying. Then she said I don't know Mr. 0 Terence. I am going to-to stay with Sir John and Lady Lytchett, who have just rented Hurrish." for ye>_ now," whispered Mary

GOOD NEWS FROM RUYL. All of ns in Rhyl will bs glftd to hear such good news. We congratulate ourselves as well as this lihyl resident., for the intelligence is of the frravest importance to many of us here. Mr. Thomas Wright, 25, Grcnant Street, Rhyl. I am pleased to speak out about the good I have derived from the use of Doan's backache kidney pills. F,)r a long lime I was a grsat sufFnirer from kidney complaint. The pains in my back were very bad, and at times it seemed as though knives wore beinc thrust into my back. When I stepped off the kerb the pain was awful. Dean's back-ache kidney pilia are the only medicine I have to thank for making me well again, for tha others I tried did not help tno at all. My health is first-rate, and I can highiv recommend Doan's piils. (Signed) T. WEIGHT." A boada-chc, an acning back, pains in the limbs, spells of dizziness, broken sleep, a con- tinual feeling of tiredness, cold hands and feet, puffiness under the eyes, twingas of rheumatism, urinary trouble of any kind, all these am warnings that your kidneys are not doing their work properly; upon their work depends the health of the whoie body. The kidneys filter impurities from the blood. If these deadly pcisons remain in the blood, disease of the most painful and destructive character must follow, such as gravel, dropsy, rheumatism, lumbago, etc. It is no use taking medicines to alleviate the painful fayinptoma of these maladies. Begin at once with Doan's Backache Kidney Pills which act directly upon the kidnevs, stimulating and strengthening them. They restore diseased kidneys to healt h and keep them healthy. Doan's B Kidney Fills are two shillings and ninepenoe per box (six boxes for thirteen shillings and ninepsnee). Of all chemists and stores, or post free, direct from Foster- McClellan Go. 8. Wrilis Street, Oxford Street, London, W. You are sure to get the tight medicine if you ask distinctly for Doan'ts. I itrrry x=o irrr tvary ICdV'gufre. Anither o' them stuck-up English in the place-bad 'cess to'thim Hush-h whisrpered Mary, warningly. Where's your sinse, woman, not to be seeiiil that she's no Englishwoman. Is it ignorant-o' your own mother's tongue ye are? There's Irish blood and Irish divilment in that red head o' hers, or I'm much mis- taken." "Arrah, thin, 'tis dramin' ye are' Irish j dressed foreign fashion an' stavin' wi" thim j ondaeint rogues up in tho big house. Sure, it's not one o' us 'ud be beholden to the likes o' thim I didn't say 'twas from these parts she was. Maybe Soutjjr or West. She's the soft tongue plain enough. But ? what's that they're talkin' of? Hold your peace, avic. I want to hear her biz'noss." The business in question was merelv a re- iteration of directions, coupled with the in- formation that a bhoywould be glad to carry her bag if sire d».\ired. ) The stranger hesitated, and glanced round t at the gronp. "I left my luggage at the station. she said. I expected a carriage to meet me, but none was sent." "Carriage, is it? Sure thin, ma'am, it's divil a horse they have left in the stables beyant exclaimed Mary Rilev. But Mickey the porter will be after bringin' it up on his barrow to-night, unless he's the drop taken, and thin maybe 'twill be mid- night. or to-morrow itself, before you'll recayve it." OIL, I hope not! exclaimed the embar- rassed traveller. I shall want mv box to- night in order to dress for dinner. The announcement, brought about more nudges and whisperings. The idea of "dre-ssing for dinner" proved her as veri- table "quality," and gave her fresh import- ance. •'Where's Jimmy?" cried c-.it the widow Mulligan, suddenly. Sure he can carry the lady's bag for her, and put her on the way." A red-faced, grey-hahx>d thrust her stout person and shawled head out of the throng near the door. "Jimmy's not far off," she said. and ITB proud he'll be to be of sarvic-e to the lady. Shall I call him, ma'am? 'Tis me own he is, an' if not as wise as most, sure tiä Heaven's will that same; an' doesn't Father Roache be always tellin' us that to biame Providence for our own misfortunes is a mor- tal sin? ''l'wa¡; an evil day I thought it whin me only child turned out a bora innocent. But he's a good son for all that, air can run an errand an' do a job that's to his likin' wid any o' thim fortunates as has their full vsitc an' sinses." She ■went to the door after this lucid ex- j planation, and called out her sou's name in a high and piercing falsetto. It was answered by the instantaneous arrival of a short- statured, shock-headed youth with a pale face and watery eyes. j "Here now, Jimmv," explained hie mother, taking the entire management of affairs into !ier own hands, you're to carry this lady's bag and shew her the way to the big house." 0 Jimmy pulled at his greasy old cap br way of respect to the quality," and grimaced amiably as expressive of willingness in its service. The strange lady regarded him with some doubt. He certainly was not a prepossessing escort. If your son will just point out the road," she said, I'm 6ure I can find my way perfectly." Is it tramping through the bog your lady- ship 'ud be, by manes av missin' the turn lav the road, an' lonesome it is at the best av I times, lave alone the winter's dusk. You trust yourself to Jimmy, ma'am, an' he'll take you to Hurrish straight as the crow fliee, an' no marauding thafe will be after terrifyin' the wits out o' ye as might otherwise happen. For they're not safe thim parts for dacint fay- males whin 'tiB dark like this same blessed night." Sure now, Mary Donovan: 'tis you'll be after terrifyin' the poor lady, lave alone giv- in' her a mighty bad opinion o' the place. There's not a soul would hurt ye, ma'am. Don't be payin' any attintion to Mrs. Dono- van there." And I had a better opinion of ye. Mary Dozzovazi, chimed in the Widow Mulligan. But Mary Donovan poured scorn on such rebukes, and in some diplomatic fashion had coaxed the bag out of the stranger's hand and given it to Jimmy, and hifstled them both to the door and out into the street with many injunctions and cautions while still the post- office was in full cry at her audacity. Once in the cold night air Jimmv started off at full speed, and Judith Sarsefield had no choice but to follow him. The street was narrow and badly lit. The houses and shops leant together in the friendly dusk as if age and neglect had bent them out of structural- formality. There was a curious, slanting effect about the architecture of Clonmacure. Even the streets and lanes shewed it. Thev all sloped and twisted and intermingled in a vague, uncertain way, as bewildering to a stranger as were Irish methods and Irish speech. As far as the bridge which spanned the river the two strange companions proceeded in silence. In the darkness of the roadway, however, Judith Sarsefield quickened her pace and kept step with her escort. She also ad. ventured into brief conversational efforts. But Jimmy's wits could only be tuned to one key at a time. He was carrying the lady's travelling-bag and guiding the lady herself. He was oppressed by the importance of the situation,, and only answered with brief Yes or No," supplemented by an occa- I sional preface of Divil take me "He lived here? Yes." "Did he know any- thing of the strangers who had taken Hur- rish? No." "Of Mr. O'Farrol? Yes." "Was he young? He was that, and a nice kind- hearted gentleman who never forgot the vil- lage fool or made mock of him as others did." The road stretched on into darkness. A young moon shewed itself Jn the clear sky above; the stars glittered here and there above bare trees and sloping hills. Just as they approached the lonesomest bit of the road Jimmy gave a sudden exclamation, fol- lowed by a wild veil. He flung down the bag and fled like a startled hare along the road they had just traversed. ¡ Judith stood transfixed, wondering what had happened. Suddenly a grey-clad figure stood before her, the figure of a man in a long white mackintosh. She heard his voice ad- dressing her. dressing her. I hope I haven't startled you? That must have been Jimmy the Fool who ran off like, that. I suppose he took me for the ghctt." Judith Sarsefield gave a little exclamation of relief. I couldn't think what was the matter. The boy took to his heels as if he was going to be murdered. I wonder where h3 threw my bag? "Let me look," entreated the stranger; and proceeded to peer and grope about until he found it. "I hope no harm's he I said. The lock seems safe. It wasn't open." She took it from his outstretched hand and thanked him for his trouble. I rtm going to Hurrish." she explained. There was no conveyance at the station, PO I had to walk." "To—my house? At leiiet, I suppose I- mustn't consider it mine for a year or two. I've just let it to an English baronet and his wife. Are you a friend of theirs? i No," she said. I've never seen them." In the embarrassed pause she fe!t his eyes on her face trying to make out what matter of personality she might present. I suppose you are wondering what mv of personality she might present. I suppose you are wondering what mv business is at the big house.' a? they call it ? Well, that's soon explained. I am going to be Lady Lytchett's companion while" she k in Ireland; that's all." Are you on your way there now? I was. and Jimmy w as supposed to be conducting me, till you startled him. But I I suppose I can't miss it easily. The house stands on a hill and this road leads to it, I I was told." I "If you will allow me, I'll take Jimmy's place?" he suggested. Oil. but you were going in exactly the opposite direction That is of no consequence. I couldn't al- low a stranger, and—a lady. to be wandeiing along this dark. horrible road by herself." He turned, and Judith moved on besido him. Is it a horrible road?" she aeked. "And why.?^ --nint place where Jimmy ran away was once the scene of a brutal murder. People fight shy of it after dark." I understand. We are timorous and super- stitiour, folk. we Irish." "I am glad you say—we. I was a little bil doubtful As to my nationality? I was educated chiefly in France. I've not lived much in this country, though I love it and its people ae well as if I knew them better." They are a queer lot, Heaven knows," he said, somewhat bitterly. "A thriftless, pur- poseless set of beings who cling devotedly to I shreds of patriotism and traditions of pride and honour. AlJ. wellI'm soon leaving them all behind, to face a new life and follow my fortunes on the battlefield. Do you know. this is my last night here in my old home, in my own land? I came out to say farewell to rhe village, and to certain of my old friends there. But—you've turned me back, and I'm not sorry. I hate good-byes,' and Irish good-byes are like the swelling of Jordan. Everyone weeps floods of tears, and wrings your heart with fresh grief. I'm a coward like most men where emotion is concerned. I hate it. and therefore avoid it if possible. You've made it possible, and I'm grateful. Chance has thrown U6 together. Let us forget the cir- cumstanccs. end only remember you are bound for my house and I am your host— for to-night." I agree," she said, quickly, cpirit leaping to spirit as only warm and rendy sympathies do leap and rush into one broad, unconven- tional channel. Oh I was so unhappy and depressed, though it is not the first time I have been thrown on my own resources. I-will be frank. I had to leave home I couldn't live there. A friend of mine got me this engage- ment through her mother, who is a friend of Lady Lytchett's. By the wav, what is 6he like? You know her. of eniirce "Ihey arrived yesterday," he said. "I knew Sir John. but not his wife. He offered to take this house just as it is off my hands while I was abroad. He said his wife needed entire change of scene and life. Sllfe is lie paused. In the dusk his companion tried to read his face, but failed. "Yes— what is she? II "I hardly know k^w to describe her. The impression she gave me last night- But, then, of course, she was tired, and everything was strange. Still "You are rousing my curiosity to fever- pitch. Remember, I have to live with this Jady; be her companion wait on her whims obey her orders. Is she young or old, amiable or despotic, good to live with, or the re- verse? Really, it is hard to say on such brief ac- quaintance. But I thought—I fancied—sh« was a little—well, eccentric." The girl stopped short in the middle of tht road. For a mfament she was silent; then, in road. For a mbment she was silent; then, in a hurried whisper, she said, huskily: Don't eay she—drinks." Oh, great heavens, no he exclaimed. Why. she took nothing but water, and has hot milk sent to her room the last thing at night. Oh. no! I only meant a little—well, not all there/ as we say. Foolish, flighty, and with a perfect mania for card-playing." "Oh!" She moved on again, and for a. few yards neither spoke. Tiien she said: And her husband, Sir John, what is he like? Oh, he's a. splendid old fellow. Genial, kind-hearted, hospitable. Half Irish, I always j tell him, in his happy-go-lucky fashion. He is a very wealthy man too, and has a beautiful place in Devon and a house in London. You'll get on splendidly with him." She laughed, a harsh, sudden laugh. "How do you know that? I am quite a stranger to you, and, all said and done, I don't get on well with anybody. That's why I left home. I couldn't get on with my stepmother. My father married again when I was in France, and I never quite forgave him." That's no uncommon happening," said Terence O'Farrol. We have instances of it even here, in this outlandish place. There is a girl, a sort of third or fourth cousin of my own, whom I look upon as a sister. Her father married a second time, and, of all people, a French lady. not very young. She is always called The Madam.' You'll soon hear of her. Kathleen—that's my cousin—can't get along with her at all. She is always running off from Ballywrack. and spending her time at Hurrish. The Madam' professes to be greatly scandalised at such, proceedings, al- though she and I are excellent friends. I wonder if you and Kathleen would get on together? It would be nice if she had some- one of her own age and sex to make friends with. She is by way of being a bit of a pariah down here." "How old is she?" inquired Judith. Twenty-one or two, but she is a tiny elfish creature, and looks quite a child still." I am not much older, then. But being built on a larger scale makes a difference. My stepmother always said I looked thirty This unfriendly gloom prevents ine from contradicting so unflattering an opinion," maid Terence, politely. His companion laughed. "Oh it doesn't matter about one's age. It depends on what one feels. I have had enough to make me feel old, so it's no wonder if I look it. Besides, since I'm obliged to face the world, and earn my own living, it is just as well I shouldn't present such circumstances with too juvenile an appearance." nate to think of women fighting the battle of life," exclaimed Terence. "They should always be 6heltered) protected, be- loved. It is man's province to work for them and care for them keep them in the shelter of home and love." Ah! that is old fashioned." she said, bitterly. Girls arc brought up nowadays to be independent, to trust to their own re- resources, and tcylo without man's protection. After all. what are we but chance seeds blown across life's pathway. Some of us fall into sheltered gardens, and some into byways of neglect, and some on the high road, where we are trampled bv careless feet; and some the wind scatters across the ocean, and they are sucked down into depths unfathomable, never to be seen again of mortal eye. I won- der, often, which of these fates will be mine? I hope the sheltered gaxden he said, softly. It is strange we should have met as strangers, both on the eve of a new life, a change of experience met in the darkness of a night that leaves us strange, so far as per- sonal recognition of each other goes. I told you it is my last night in my old home. It has been the home of my people for genera- tions. and. sad to say. none of us have reckoned with its loss till now. When I am far away in tent or on battlefield I shall recal! this night, our meeting, our talk together. I shall think of you Acre, and hope you are happy. I wonder if you will ever give thought to me?" "Why should I not?" she said, softly. The unusual circumstance of this recontre of ours would alone invest it with interest. And what interests one's mind has a claim on one's thoughts. I hate the idea of this war. Candidly, I think England is all in the wrong, and will pay the penalty of iier boastful arro- gance. I hate to think that our misfortunnte country7 is sending its sons. to perish in that unhappy land. Why should Ireland be drawn into England's political muddle? "Ah! why?" he echoed. "And no grati- tude for our assistance either. Yet we have given her Wellington." And Roberts." I suppose lie will go—eventually. They'll wait till the tangle is knotted hopelessly and then ask him to unravel it. But we arc close to my gates now. That is the house. It is good of the moon to shew it to you. Her light is kinder to deficiencies than the sun." They stood and looked up at a grey stone house, partly overgrown with ivy and creepers. It, faced a series of terraces that, again dipped into lawn and garden, and a maze of trees all bare and shadowy. There was something desolate and uncanny about it. Lights gleamed from some of the upper windows, but those below were closely shut- tered. As they stood side by side in the gloom and looked at it all the ajirl heard her companion sigh. She guessed what was in his mind. It was not difficult. 1 his was his home, and the home of his people. And to-night he would say good-bye to it. Would he ever return? Would they ever know each other betbrt Who could say? CHAPTER II. Judith Sarseneld's first impression of her new home was one of agreeable surprise. She stepped into a large, square hall, where She stepped into a large, square hall, where a blazing wood fire threw its welcome light i and warmth over rugs and seats, and the j carved oak of wall-panelling and staircase, What she had heard of impoverished fortunes I was not borne out by the beauty and comfort of first impressions. A handsome, elderly man of come three- score years sprang up from his chair by the i fire and advanced to greet her. 44 Miss Sarsefield, I must apologise for our seeming negligence. My wife told me you j were not expected till to-morrow, and I only received your telegram a few moments ago. I'm afraia- ) Then his eyes fell on Terence. "Ab! so you did escort duty, O'Farrol. What luck! I really didn't know what to do, or how you'd ¡ find your way. Do come to the fire and warm yourself, and have some tea. I ordered it to I be sent in directly you arrived." Judith advanced to the fire and began to unfasten the heavy veil, which she threw back over her travelling hat. She glanced round, expecting to see her new employer, but she was not visible. Then her eyes turned to the handsome, kindly face of her host, and she smiled involuntarily. It was the sort of face that invariably attracted women and children and dogs. But she was unconscious that the 0 keen grey eyes were taking in her own ap.. pearance with a sort of uneasy wonder. A The cold air had given her a brilliance of colouring that added to the somewhat bizarre effect of her rich coppery hair-hair which seemed alive with magnetism, and framed face and head in a glory" almost indescribable. Such hair as this would have been a won- der and beauty to even the plainest woman, But Judith Sarsefield was not plain. Far from it. She was almost beautiful. She had the exquisite skin and complexion which nature gives to warm-haired folk. Her features were not regular, but had a charm that defied all canons of Greek art. Her eyes were of a clear, deep blue, and nature had kindly be- stowed on them a fringe of dark ] .shes as dower of an Irish heritage. Her Lns were full and curved, and the chin shewed deter- mination. The whole face was full of spirit and charm. It was one on which few men's eyes ever glanced once without glancing again. A baffling, irregular, yet singularly fascinating face. Terence O'Farrol's eyes were saying so, and Sir John's had already said it. But Judith Sarsefield was serenely indifferent to the fact. She was a little tired, a little excited, and ehe wanted her tea. It was brought in very quickly by an Eng- lish footman. Sir John having supplemented the somewhat deficient Irish staff by some of his own domestics. He drew one of the big, deep chairs up to the table for her, and left her to help herself. O'Farrol came softly to her side and begged for a cup also. She gave it him with a long. scrutinising glance that meant a mental photograph. From his voice and manner she had half expected him to be what he was- just sufficiently tall, just sufficiently Celtic, just sufficiently good to look at. He was all this. Tall and slight, brown- haired and blue-eyed. with a humorous smile, and just a little weakness about the mouth and chin. He was young, too; she guessed seven-and-twTenty, jind felt sorry for the deep lines in his brow. Care and he should have had no acquaintance yet. She heard him ex- plaining to Sir John how they had met, and how he had terrified Jimmy. She let him tell the story in his own fashion while she drank her tea and ate thin bread and butter con- tentedly. Presently Sir John began to apologise for his wife's absence. She had gone to her dress- ing-room to lie down. She was not-strong. She would probably not appear till dinner- time. But Miss Sarsefield's room was ready, and a maid would shew her to it, and unpack her trunks as soon as they arrived. Judith looked up suddenly. Ah that re- minds me. I had to leave them at the station to the tender mercies of a queer old porter, who assured me they would be here in time for dinner." Well, there's still two hours. It's only half-past five, and we don't dine till half-past seven. But, with due deference to Mr. O'Farrol, I don't place much trust in Irish promises. These people have a way of saying one thing and doing another which is particu- larly vexatious to methodical minds." Oh, they do keep their word sometimes said Terence. In this instance I hope they will," said Judith. Otherwise, I shall have to appear at dinner in my travelling dress." t The circumstances would plead excuse, if excuse were needed," said the baronet. She put down her cup and rose from the chair. The two men were standing by the great fireplace. The warm light shewed up each face and figure in strong contrast, one in the hey-day of youth and its promise, the other with something gained even by youth's loss. The girl's eyes wandered from one to the other. They might have been father and son, she thought, as she glanced from Sir John'6 thick, iron-grey hair and cleanshaven face to the brown head and dark, sweeping mous- tache of the younger mao- J3T7 —tc- rTcocr mere, tall and slim and beautiful, she caught the unconscious yearn- ing of his eyes. She remembered their meet- ing and their talk. A sense of the bitter in- justice of life swept over her soul. He was fit for better things than to be a target for the Boer bullets, she told herself. Are you going away—already-?" Terence asked. Then, before she could reply, be added May I just shew you over the old place? It may be my la6t chance of playing cicerone to its decaying glories." 1-well, yes, if it's not troubling you," she answered, with some hesitation. The situation Y,-ac, -i little odd, she felt. Sir John was ostensibly her host, and her em- ployer. But the young man was master here still, and he could not forget the fact. He led her across the hall and opened one of the doors. She saw a large room with long win- dows opening to the ground. Its furnishing was of dull ivories and gold. A grand piano stood open. There were all sorts of quaint- shaped chairs and spindle-legged tables. A rose-wood cabinet filled with china stood between two of the windows. Mirrors in gilt frames and of quaint shapes reflected the fire- light. The lamps had not yet been lit. This is the small drawing-room," said Terence. Another opens out of it, but it's large and draoghty. and we don't use it in winter. The dining-room and library are on the other side of the hall. The ceilings are all Italian work—stucco. We have a few good pictures in the gallery thai runs round the hall, as you may have noticed. This is a pleasant old room in the summer. It gets the morning sun and opens on to the terrace and gardens. You can't see all that to-nighi. but I hope they have given you a room with the same view. You'll see the road we came up. and the river, and the bridge, and the old yew-tree avenue." He mentioned them all, as if catalo^uh: them in his mind. 11 I wonder if you'll be happy liere," lie went on. I hope so, with all my heart. I wish I could be sure that I'd come back and find you here still. But that would be too much luck for such an unlucky wretch as I am. We O'Farrols ware born to misfortune, I think. At least, that's our record." Do you really believe in ill luck ruling certain people? she asked, as they lingered by the great fireplace. Indeed I do. Don't you? She debated the question for a moment. She was not quite sure that she did believe in it. It seemed so foolish to think of human destiny as the sport of mere chance—thistle- down blown hither and thither at the wind's will. "No." she said, suddenly. I think we should be strong enough to overcome ob- stacles. and not a-eeept them as inevitable." There arc obstacles that no power on earth can overcome." he said, sadly. Here- ditary failings and follies, instiifets that lead us into quagmire* in which our feet c-ik despite our struggles. Y>Te've been a bad lot, a wild. thriftless, useless lot. we Ü'I'arroIs, and the best thing that the last of them can do is—just what the last of them is doing! You- are the last? I'm glad to 6ay so." You should not be glad." she said. Old rag eg, b&xc n heritage of honour, and a birth- rtgfit of dignity. Tsuch thIngs are ennobling as well as responsible. To relinquish them voluntarily is wrong. I would not do it wera I a man." The proud poise of her head, the sudde* flash of her blue eyes, delighted him. He loved spirit and pride in a woman. Ah! he said, eagerly. "Nature knew best what she was about when she planned you. You will have more influence, more power, perhaps more happiness because'of your sex than you .would ever have had if vou owned mine. But let us go on. I have more to Sliew you." He led her to and fro. Into the panelled library, rich in books and old leather-covered furniture and embossed screens; into the din- ing-room, massive and gloomy, its walls Eapered with crimson flock, its lofty side- oard covered with massive pieces of old silver. Across the hall again, and up the wide. shallow stairs. Through galleries, gloomy and dark and ill-lit, past many doors of many rooms. Then the sound of a cloekj deep-toned and resonant, arrested them. In three- quarters of an hour it would be dinner-time, and she had not yet seen her own room. A sudden sense of remissness swept over him. He had pointed out the doors of the suite oc- cupied by Sir John and his wife. Now he re- membered his ignorance of her own quarters. I must ring for one of the maids," he said. I do hope your boxes have arrived. I'm afraid I left your dressing-bag in the h&IL I'll run down for it." He left her standing there in the gloom of j the long corridor. She looked over the rail- ings into the well of the hall and watched for him to appear. As she waited a noise behind her made her turn round. A door had been suddenly opened. A figure was standing there and looking at her. j The figure of a woman in a white wrapper, with pale flaxen hair streaming over her 6houlders. Her face was of a curious leaden i i pallor; her eyes at that distance seemed dull and There was something weird and v • auny about the figure in ite attitude of 6trained attention, about the eyes that looked out and beyond, and yet, to Judith's fancy, suw nothing of what they looked at. z, Involuntarily she made a step forward. The woman in the doorway gave vent to X faint scream. "Who are you? die cried, and shrank back as if in terror. (To be continued.) ;>r>

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