Fortune, by whose caprices the ragged boy had been transformed into the thriving scholar, had lined with gold the pockets of the lovely girl whose form and face were now ripening into womanly beauty.

Fairer in the eyes of the spell-bound Cleve than even her mother had ever been, his heart thrilled within him as she directed a few kindly words to the gifted parvenu, who, for the first time, was offered a chair in presence of Mrs Hecksworth of Bilston Hall.

"You find your father comfortable, I hope, Mr Cleve?" demanded the squire's widow, in a tone of patronage. "Your aunt, poor woman, is getting sadly infirm. But it appears there is no longer a necessity for her working so hard as formerly. You have only one sister at home, I think?"

"Only one, madam."

"The others are in place, in London, I fancy?"

"The eldest is married to a tradesman;

-the second is no more."

"And your brothers? There was one, I remember, who turned out unfortunately. Have you never had tidings of him?"

"None, madam."

"The others are in service?"

"In service, madam, and doing well." "You were acquainted, I believe, at Cambridge with a connexion of ours?" said Lucy Hecksworth, feeling for the embarrassment of poor Cleve under the catechizing investigations of her mother. "Davenport-Mr

Herbert Davenport?"

"I was very slightly acquainted with him,” replied the embarrassed young man.

"We met him the other day on our way from town, at my cousin Sir Richard's, at the Grange," continued Lucy; "and he gave us a highly flattering account of your college achievements, without hinting that we should see you here. Mr Davenport mentioned that

you were going on a visit to Lord Wrexhill."

"His lordship did me the honour to invite me, but I declined the invitation."

"Quite right!" observed Mrs Hecksworth, more worldly-wise in her estimate of social distinctions now than when a sentimental paleness and a crop of raven hair had sufficed to interest her in the destinies of a sickly gar"Nothing leads to mortification

dener's boy.

แ

and disappointment more surely, than disproportionate connexions."

"But Mr Cleve, mamma, is the intimate friend of Lord John Howard, the son of Lord Wrexhill."

"The intimate friend of his lordship's tutor, Mr Fairfax,"-amended Cleve, with haughty bitterness. "Lord John Howard honours me with his notice."

"I am happy to find that

you discriminate

so judiciously," observed Mrs Hecksworth,

with some dignity.

"And I am surprised to find that Mr Cleve creates a distinction where it is not made by others. Herbert Davenport (the constant associate of the Duke of Attleborough, a cousin of Lord John), assured me that Lord John Howard had not a friend he regarded more dearly."

"What do you think of our improvements?" abruptly demanded the lady-mother, eager to change the conversation, which was taking a critical turn. "Don't you find the lawn vastly improved by the removal of that high laurel hedge which used to shut out the evening sun?"

Lucy Hecksworth looked vexed, and Cleve coloured as deeply as his sallow complexion would admit. All this sounded to both of them so like "Admire how we have improved our family place, since you used to weed in the garden!"

After a few words in reply, he rose therefore to take a respectful leave. It was impos

sible for him to forget that the domineering squire's widow, by whom he was despised as

parvenu, was the identical creature who, in her kindlier youth, had extended a hand of compassion to his miseries.

But though it was impossible to be less than grateful, it was impossible to be more!

On every side, indeed, his feelings were tortured at Bilston. He was as much a stranger in his father's house, as in that of the squire. The poor half-doting man stood in awe of his own child; and even his sister, as they strolled together through the old coppice, marking the same effects of the same evening sun on the hoary trunks of the same old beech trees,-or stood watching near a secluded foot-bridge over the brook, where its course was obstructed by the clustered alder bushes which formed a shelter for the kingfisher hovering over beds of blue forget-me-nots, so bright of hue that they looked like feathers shed from its breast, even Jane,-even Jenny,—did