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"I wouldn't wear it if I could. unladylike to display one's riches." "Who else was on the ponds?" "All Longham. I suppose Captain Grant hardly knows who are the right people to ask yet; it was rather awkward skating with people one does not visit."

"I don't see why it was awkward. I expect Captain Grant thinks our cliques rather foolish."

"Beatrice, what will you say next? I suppose you have been reading some horrid Radical book lately. The Miss Waynes were there; very forward girls, who spoke to me as if we were intimate friends. Clergymen's daughters always think that because they are their fathers' daughters they can patronise everybody."

"I am sure they could not patronise you," said Beatrice, thinking of Minnie's chilly politeness to those who presumed to make too many advances with her. "But I think these are sensible, downright girls." Beatrice, somehow, experienced to-day a gentle feeling of universal good-will towards all the visitors that Captain Grant had invited.

"I did not say they were not very good," said Minnie, pettishly. "Do let's have tea, Beatrice; skating makes one so thirsty."

"I'll ask mother if she will come down;" and, so saying, Beatrice skipped out of the room, feeling very young and very happy, for, evidently, Minnie had not had such a happy five minutes as had fallen to her share that morning.

Frances opened the door of her mother's room as Beatrice knocked.

"What do you want, Beatrice?" Beatrice was so astonished to see, through the half-opened door, her mother's travelling-box and various articles strewn about that she could hardly speak.

"Minnie wishes to know if we may have tea; and-why! wherever is mother going?"

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"Yes, order tea," said Mrs. Gordon, from the far end of the room. "I coming down soon. Frances, have you ordered the fly?"

"Yes, mother."

The door was shut, and Beatrice was still more astonished. What could her mother be thinking of doing at four o'clock on this November afternoon, and why was the matter kept so secret? When she returned to the drawing-room Minnie had gone to take off her jacket, and before she returned all the party were assembled.

"I must go to London on business this evening," said Mrs. Gordon, simply; but Beatrice, looking up at her mother, saw an unusual look in her face. There was an excitement about her which she tried in vain to conceal.

"Not for long, mother? Who will go to the ball with Frances and Minnie, on Thursday? I have been working so hard at the dress,"

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"Mrs. Crozby will take them. I have just written a note to ask her; and, as I may be away for several days, I must trust you and Minnie to do nothing foolish orunladylike in my absence. Don't go to the ponds without Mrs. Crozby or some one else of whom I should approve. Frances must take head of the house."

"How tiresome that you are going away just now, mother," said Minnie. "I suppose it is to talk with that horrible little lawyer?"

Mrs. Gordon looked up quickly; but Minnie had evidently said this most innocently.

"Yes; now that Christmas is coming on we must be

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Mrs. Gordon paused, and began looking about the room in search of something she had lost.

"Why can't he come here, as he usually does?" asked Beatrice.

"Don't ask so many questions," said Frances, crossly. "How curious you are, Beatrice; it is very unladylike."

Bee blushed, but said no more; only she could not help wondering in her heart what very unusual events could make it necessary for her mother-who never left her daughters alone to start off on a journey without any previous notice.

Perhaps we have lost some money, and that worries her. Oh, dear! how tiresome money is! I wish we were like the Miss Waynes, who go out as nurses and governesses, instead of trying to keep up appearances by slaving away at our clothes."

But then, looking at Minnie with her pretty face and elegant manners, Beatrice decided that people would not like such a pretty governess if they had the chance of such a treasure.

"Good-bye, mother," said the three Miss Gordons as Mrs. Gordon stepped into a fly; "good-bye, and don't be anxious about us."

"Do write to-night," said Frances.

And, mother, do bring me a new hat, if you can, from London," said Minnie.

But Beatrice only kissed her mother Sibyl had cried still more on hearing and said nothing but "Good-bye." She this; but Grace knew that Nan never could not tell why, but a presentiment of exaggerated; if she said she could not misfortune made her sad this afternoon. come, she knew it was true, but oh! the Why all this secrecy? Why this uncertainty loneliness she experienced as she went of return? Perhaps it was as she half softly along the passages of the big house thought-they were ruined. "And we all alone. Sibyl, comfortably asleep among could not be anything but dressmakers," her soft pillows, never knew what Grace sighed the girl as the sisters re-entered the went through; and kind, unselfish Grace drawing-room and tried to settle down to would not tell her. their various occupations. "I am sure Minnie never could stoop to being a dressmaker even now, when ladies do so many queer things. And then, even Captain Grant might object to marrying a dress

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ONLY a week had passed since the death of the master of the Warren, but what a change it had wrought in the house. Perhaps the difference was more in the minds of the survivors than in the ways of the household itself; all the servants were still there awaiting further orders from Mr. Blackston, who now seemed the master of the Warren. Every day he had visited Grace, had carried out all the arrangements for the funeral, and had in the most kind manner saved the girl all the trouble attending a death in the house. Not only had the lawyer been kind, but Mr. Smith, the doctor, had been unremitting in his visits, making an excuse of Sibyl's health to come daily to the Warren, Sibyl had caught a bad cold on the night of her father's death, and had been kept in bed ever since.

Troubles had not come singly to the sisters; for "Nan" had written to Grace, saying nothing but real compulsion could have kept her away from the Warren at a time of such great and unexpected trouble; but her aunt, an old lady of seventy, was dangerously ill, and Nan being her only relation, she felt bound to nurse her; indeed, old Miss Evans had begged her not to leave her, but the moment she was better, Nan would hasten back to the Warren.

To-day Grace felt happier; the weather had turned to bright frost, the great heath-covered hills shone out in glorious browns and deep purples in the bright sunshine, and Grace, standing at the hall door, found pleasure in watching the cloud shadows chase themselves on the distant landscape. She had not been out even in the grounds till to-day; but now, even without going further than the front of the house, she could see miles away over blue-brown hills. The Warren was situated on the top of a hill, or heathy moor, extending down one side into a valley, whilst beyond this lay a long stretch of undulating moors, or reclaimed, or partly reclaimed, lands.

Grace loved every inch of this view; she knew each tree in the landscape, every rising ground in the distance, just as she could find her way about the old house that had been home to her in a special manner. Home indeed, for she had known no other.

The funeral had been of a very private character, no one but the Doctor and the lawyer attended, no relations were sent for and none came. The master had been one who had courted the acquaintance of few, and these few were not such as cared to be depressed by attending a funeral.

Grace had taken one look behind the drawn blind at the terrible black-plumed hearse; only one look, and then she had turned away and burst into a great passion of tears-the first real tears she had shed since her father's death.

To-day, however, she was not crying, for Nan was coming back. Mr. Blackston had written to say that he would call upon Miss Evans as soon as possible after her arrival, and then he would settle up with her everything that had to be left. Grace had then put away all ideas of business till Nan's return, because after that, of course, everything would go smoothly.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon, bright and frosty, the ground felt as hard as a rock, the crisp, sharp feeling of the keen air was bracing in the extreme.

Grace felt that she only wanted Sibyl's presence to feel almost happy; but her sister was still upstairs in her bedroom, though she had been allowed to get up and sit by the fire.

Grace had never even wished to smile all this week, but now youth was reasserting itself, she hurried in and out, putting everything tidy because Nan was soon to arrive, and Nan's arrival was an event that made Grace feel cheerful. Nan was coming! Hark! there were sounds on the gravel some way off towards the entrance drive-certainly carriage wheels-then a fly turned a corner, and, at that minute, Grace could stop still no longer, but ran forward just as the vehicle took the last turn up to the front door.

"Nan!" cried the girl, and from out the carriage there stepped forth a tall, gaunt woman; she was dressed in black, but her clothes were so old-fashioned and so utterly unbecomingly made and put on, that they were of no assistance to her in the way of embellishment.

But even handsome, well-made garments would not have softened the austere features of Miss Evans. She had coalblack hair drawn down over her ears without any attempt at artistic waviness; her forehead was low and massive; her eyes small and stern-looking; her nose was the best feature she possessed, straight and severe but well formed; whilst her lips were thin and compressed.

Nan's manner agreed with her face. There was no softness about her; she was a woman of few words, firm will, and untiring energy, and yet it was this same woman who had been able to win Grace's heart, and to attach to herself even frivolous, easily led Sibyl. But much as these girls knew what they owed to Miss Evans, they did not know all, they did not guess that it was her influence and her dogged determination that had made the master of the Warren keep these innocent girls ignorant of all evil. All this and more they owed-and happily they knew not they owed it-to Nan.

"Dear Nan," whispered Grace, as she put both her arms round Nan's neck and was about to kiss her, "I am glad you are come at last."

"Let me pay the flyman," was Nan's answer, taking off her cotton gloves and counting five shillings into the driver's hand, with a certain look of regret at parting with so much good coin. The man drove off, not without casting a look of

curiosity at the windows of the Warren. What was going to happen to the house now its master was dead? Down at Coleham they had been asking him about it, but he would not be able to take back much news on this subject.

"Are you cold and tired, dear Nan?" said Grace, now that they were alone. "Come in quickly, I have made up such a nice fire in our dear old schoolroom. Do you know, I have not been in the downstair rooms since—that night. Nan, Nan, why were you not here?"

"Don't waste your energy over the past, Grace," said Miss Evans, in her dry way. Any other than Grace might have thought her hard and unsympathetic at this moment, but Grace knew better. "Tell me, child, what has Mr. Blackston said to you, and what is arranged about the-servants! Tell me everything." Miss Evans looked straight into Grace's face as they entered the schoolroom, but she saw nothing unusual in its expression, except a shadow of sadness. This discovery seemed to relieve her mind, for she undid her bonnet strings, and folded them up in a precise manner. Certainly Miss Evans was old-maidish.

"I told you everything in my letter. Mr. Blackston and our good Doctor have both been so very kind; but the former said he would leave all business matters till he could see you; indeed, he talked of coming this evening, or sending you a letter. How safe I feel with you now, dear Nan. Oh! this week has made me so old, so very, very old."

"Nonsense, child, you are always fond of analysing your feelings, Grace; and so Sibyl is in bed?" Miss Evans turned her head away, rose hastily, and appeared to be very anxious to tidy some ornaments on the shelf.

"When will you two girls learn to put things away, in my absence?" she said, quickly and almost testily, so that even Grace did not notice the slight tremor in her voice, or detect a few tears roll down her thin, hard face, for there was no trace of this emotion as she turned round again towards her darling.

"I am very sorry, but don't mind about it now. Your feet are cold, dear, let me take off your boots. There are many things I want to tell you which I could not put in my letters. Do you know, I can't bear Mrs. Ashton; she is barely civil to me now. I expect I offended her when father was dying. We need not keep all those servants now, need we? There

will be no more dinner parties, and we can live so quietly, we three; you can teach me to cook-you said you would some day, and——"

"Let us settle just what we can do to-day; come, I want to see Sibyl. As to Mrs. Ashton, she can go if she is uncivil. But you have asked nothing of my affairs." Grace looked up surprised; Nan usually never spoke of her affairs, never asked or requested sympathy, and had once for all given her reason-"I can't bear my aunt; she is a proud, mean, uncharitable old woman, and I only nurse her because she is my aunt, and because I can't help myself" but to-day Nan was actually finding fault with Grace for not enquiring.

"Come and tell us everything upstairs; Sibyl will like to hear you talk too. She has been so good, poor Sibyl, though I know she feels more than she shows us. If I had not had her to think for I think I should have died too."

"Nonsense, Grace! Girls of your age don't die, as far as I can see. You look much the same as usual, only a little paler. You must keep up your strength, and not give way so easily; you may want all your courage some day."

Grace smiled; it was quite pleasant to be scolded by Nan again; her scolding did not mean much, for that was her way, and generally heralded some unusual piece of self-denial or thoughtfulness.

Sibyl was delighted to see Nan, who to-day showed her more kindness in manner, perhaps, than she did to Grace; and Grace mentally said: "No one can be anything but loving to Sibyl, she is so winning, so sad, when she is in trouble."

So the three spent a pleasant time together; and, because Sibyl was ill, they had tea by her fireside, listening to Nan's stories, told in a quaint, original manner, about the aunt who had really been very ill, and very much frightened about herself.

"One day," said Miss Evans, among other things, "she made me sit up all night reading to her, because she said it kept the thought of dying out of her head. However, she did not mind about my aching throat, and was much amused because towards morning I nearly fell asleep. Still, when she recovered her temper, she told me she would make me her heir. You may fancy, Grace, how much that compensated me for my sleepless night."

"You don't care about money, certainly," laughed Grace. "But you know, Nan, you stayed up a whole week with me, night after night, when I was ill."

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"It was necessary in that case; butSibyl here interrupted the conversation. "Nan, dear," she half-whispered, "did father make Grace his heir Will she be rich? Will she be able to buy us pretty dresses, and-"

Nan jumped up quite crossly, and it seemed as if she really were cross this time. "Sibyl, I am ashamed of you, asking about pretty dresses, at this time, too. You always were vain, though I have tried to knock it out of you. Well, I must go and unpack my things. I suppose, Grace, Mr. Blackston did not say for certain when he would come?"

Miss Evans bustled off, and then, for the first time, Grace fancied that hor manner was strange, and that she was certainly more angry than was necessary with Sibyl. She hastened to say:

"Of course, Sibyl, you shall have all that I can give you, darling. We two shall always share alike; what I have is yours, you know that, little sister."

"Yes, Grace; but do you think we shall see more-more people, and go about more, like the girls I read of in books?" "I don't think we are quite old enough yet."

"You are; you are past 'sweet seventeen,' Gracie, so shall I be next year, and then

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"Do you really like seeing new faces, Sibyl? I don't much; yours and Nan's faces are the only ones I care to know."

"You always were like that, Gracie; but I should like to know just something beyond all this. I should like to know that pretty lady we saw in church oncedo you remember her 1-and other people too. Then I should like to go out to parties."

Sibyl's longings were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a young maid bringing in a note.

"Is Miss Evans here, miss?" she asked. There was something in the tone of her voice that jarred on Sibyl, something that was not quite respectful. Was this fancy?

"Take it to Miss Evans's own room, Fanny," answered Grace, quietly, and when the door was shut, she added:

"It is from Mr. Blackaton, I suppose. I hope he will come soon, and dismiss Mrs. Ashton; we do not want all these servants."

"No; of course not, and I do believe, Grace, they are not so nice to us now that we are alone, and that father is dead. But it's rather strange."

"I don't think they mean it, Sibyl, dear, and, if they did Nan would soon make them ashamed of themselves. I don't believe any one could be rude to her!"

Up in her room, Miss Evans was opening the letter that had been brought to her. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the sheet of paper.

"Coleham, November, 18

"DEAR MISS EVANS,-I have delayed the discussion of all business matters with your charges till your return. Would you be kind enough to come over to Coleham to-morrow at eleven o'clock, to meet a relation of my late lamented client? As your presence is absolutely necessary, I trust that nothing will prevent you from keeping this appointment.-Yours faithfully, R. BLACKSTON."

"It must come sooner or later," said Miss Evans, after reading the letter. "Oh, Heaven! that such things should happen, and that I should be powerless to help them! My poor Grace, my little Sibyl, if only I could bear it for you!" It was a long time before Miss Evans could regain enough composure to rejoin the two girls, but when she did so, not a trace of her anxiety was visible.

"Let them be happy at least one more evening," she said, "if it must be their

last."

A RUN THROUGH CORSICA.

IN TWO PARTS. PART I. We had a sensational approach to the island. A violent storm from the south-west broke upon the ship-the "Desiderade," of the Transatlantique Company-when we were off the middle of the west coast of Sardinia, on our way from Bone in Algeria. It came with a grey, half-blue scirocco haze. The mountains of Orisotano, in Sardinia, suddenly put on mantles, and we could see the quiet water in the distance gradually toss itself into wavelets. Then the wind reached us, and in a quarter of an hour the "Desiderade," with its five or six score passengers and its enormous cargo of wine, tobacco, and dried fruits—the lading of which had kept us idling for several hours at Bone-was tossing and rolling like a child sick of a fever.

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It was really most unpleasant. Until this came upon us there was a certain amount of diversion from the society of eight or ten commercial travellers from Marseilles, who told curious tales or sang songs, one after the other. Among them was one very singular little fellow. At first, I took him for a schoolboy of sixteen or seventeen; but his self-possession and audacity in the midst of a knot of men of various ages up to fifty, declared him older than he looked. He sang, too, with rare drollery, so that the steward could not help coming in, with his napkin over his arm, and joining in the applause the youngster excited, with the remark: "Well, that gentleman is a funny one!" He played the fool, with himself as a butt, so admirably and genially that every one whispered his praises. He was a jewel of a fellow traveller, in spite of his diminutiveness, his red-bleared eyes-the work of the North African sun-and his consummate "cheek." The phrase, “C'est un bon garçon," was applied to him a hundred times in my hearing.

But an hour after luncheon, which had been protracted from one o'clock until three, "to kill the time," the storm took us, and then, instead of songs and anecdotes, there were groans.

The consequence was, that we did not reach Ajaccio until eight o'clock in the evening of the second day at sea. Even then it seemed doubtful if we could land. Some said it was impossible, as the wind was right on shore. But the Captain, who wished to get his cargo to Marseilles as quickly as he could, said "Yes;" and so we came to an anchor in the dark and the rain, with the roar of the waves upon the shore in our ears, and prepared for the trials of embarkation.

These trials were far from inconsiderable. The sea ran high even where we were under the lee of a stone pier. There was furious strife between the various boatmen of Ajaccio, who had come out in quest of their prey. And the lamps in the ship gave us so dim a light that it seemed that one were as likely to step into the sea as into the boats, which rose and fell tumultuously, amid the curses of their different proprietors and the angry arguments of the different passengers. was hard work to get oneself and one's luggage into the same boat. The man who was parted from his portmanteau, or lost one of his trunks, had to face the likelihood that his baggage would be held

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