"Hush!" said Fleda smiling. "That happened not to be an English rose, Constance."

"What was it?"

"American, unfortunately; it was a Noisette; the variety, I think, that they call Conque de Venus.

"My dear little Fleda, you're too wise for anything!" said Constance with a rather significant arching of her eyebrows. "You musn't expect other people to be as rural in their acquirements as yourself. I don't pretend to know any rose by sight but the Queechy," she said, with a change of expression meant to cover the former one.

Fleda's face, however, did not call for any apology. It was perfectly quiet.

"But what has become of him?" said Constance with her comic impatience. "My dear Fleda! if my eyes cannot rest upon that development of elegance the parterre is become a wilderness to me !"

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Hush, Constance!" Fleda whispered earnestly; "you are not safe— he may be near you.'

"Safe!" ejaculated Constance; but a half backward hasty glance of her eye brought home so strong an impression that the person in question was seated a little behind her that she dared not venture another look, and became straightway extremely well-behaved.

He was there; and being presently convinced that he was in the neighbourhood of his little friend of former days he resolved with his own excellent eyes to test the truth of the opinion he had formed as to the natural and inevitable effect of circumstances upon her character; whether it could by possibility have retained its great delicacy and refinement under the rough handling and unkindly bearing of things seemingly foreign to both. He had thought not.

It

Truffi did not sing, and the entertainment was of a very secondary quality. This seemed to give no uneasiness to the Miss Evelyns, for if they pouted they laughed and talked in the same breath, and that incessantly. It was nothing to Mr. Carleton, for his mind was bent on something else. And with a little surprise he saw that it was nothing to the subject of his thoughts, either because her own were elsewhere too, or because they were in league with a nice taste that permitted them to take no interest in what was going on. Even her eyes, trained as they had been to recluse habits, were far less busy than those of her companions; indeed they were not busy at all; for the greater part of the time one hand was upon the brow, shielding them from the glare of the gas-lights. Ostensibly, but the very quiet air of the face led him to guess that the mind was glad of a shield too. relaxed sometimes. Constance and Florence and Mr. Thorn and Mr. Thorn's mother were every now and then making demands upon her, and they were met always with an intelligent well-bred eye, and often with a smile of equal gentleness and character; but her observer noticed that though the smile came readily it went as readily, and the lines of the face quickly settled again into what seemed to be an habitual composure. There were the same outlines, the same characters, he remembered very well; yet there was a difference; not grief had changed them, but life had. The brow had all its fine chiselling and high purity of expression; but now there sat there a hopelessness, or rather a want of hopefulness, that a child's face never knows. The mouth was sweet and pliable as ever, but now often patience and endurance did not quit their seat upon the lip even when it smiled. The eye with all its old clearness and truthfulness had a shade upon it that nine years ago only fell at the bidding of sorrow; and in every

line of the face there was a quiet gravity that went to the heart of the person who was studying it. Whatever causes had been at work he was very sure had done no harm to the character; its old simplicity had suffered no change, as every look and movement proved; the very unstudied careless position of the fingers over the eyes shewed that the thoughts had nothing to do there.

On one half of his doubt Mr. Carleton's mind was entirely made up; but education? the training and storing of the mind? how had that fared? He would know!

Perhaps he would have made some attempt that very evening towards satisfying himself; but noticing that in coming out Thorn permitted the Evelyns to pass him and attached himself determinately to Fleda, he drew back, and resolved to make his observations indirectly and on more than one point before he should seem to make them at all.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Hark! I hear the sound of coaches,

The hour of attack approaches.-Gay.

MRS. PRITCHARD had the

amount of satisfaction and admiration that all the lines of her face were insufficient to express.

"Now," she said, " you must just run down and let the doctor see you— afore you take the shine off-or he won't be able to look at anything else when you get to the place.'

ور

"That would be unfortunate!" said Fleda, and she ran down laughing into the room where the doctor was waiting for her; but her astonished eyes encountering the figure of Dr. Quackenboss she stopped short, with an air that no woman of the world could have bettered. The physician of Queechy on his part was at least equally taken aback,

"Dr. Quackenboss!" said Fleda.

"I-I was going to say, Miss Ringgan," said the doctor with a most unaffected obeisance; "but-a—I am afraid, sir, it is a deceptive influence!"

"I hope not," said Dr. Gregory smiling, one corner of his mouth for his guest and the other for his niece. "Real enough to do real execution, or I am mistaken, sir."

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Upon my word, sir," said Dr. Quackenboss bowing again, "I hopea- -Miss Ringgan!-will remember the acts of her executive power at home, and return in time to prevent an unfortunate termination!"

Dr. Gregory laughed heartily now, while Fleda's cheeks relieved her dress to admiration.

"Who will complain of her if she don't?" said the doctor. "Who will complain of her if she don't?

But Fleda put in her question.

"How are you all at home, Dr. Quackenboss?"

"All Queechy, sir," answered the doctor politely on the principle of "first come, first served," "and individuals-I shouldn't like to specify." "How are you all in Queechy, Dr. Quackenboss?" said Fleda.

"I have the pleasure to say we are coming along as usual," replied the doctor, who seemed to have lost his power of standing up straight; 'my sister Flora enjoys but poor health lately,-they are all holding their heads up at your house. Mr. Rossitur has come home."

"Uncle Rolf! Has he!" exclaimed Fleda, the colour of joy quite supplanting the other. "Oh, I'm very glad!"

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Yes," said the doctor, "he's been home now-I guess, going on four days."

"I am very glad!" repeated Fleda. "But won't you come and see me another time, Dr. Quackenboss? I am obliged to go out."

The doctor professed his great willingness, adding that he had only come down to the city to do two or three chores and thought she might perhaps like to take the opportunity, which would afford him such very great gratification.

"No, indeed, faire Una," said Dr. Gregory when they were on their way to Mrs. Thorn's, "they've got your uncle at home now and we've got you; and I mean to keep you till I'm satisfied. So you may bring home that eye that has been squinting at Queechy ever since you have been here and make up your mind to enjoy yourself; I shan't let you go till you do."

"I ought to enjoy myself, uncle Orrin," said Fleda squeezing his arm gratefully.

"See you do," said he.

The pleasant news from home had given Fleda's spirits the needed spur, which the quick walk to Mrs. Thorn's did not take off.

"Did you ever see Fleda look so well, mamma?" said Florence, as the former entered the drawing-room.

"That is the loveliest and best face in the room," said Mr. Evelyn; "and she looks like herself to-night.'

"There is a matchless simplicity about her," said agentleman standing by. "Her dress is becoming," said Mrs. Evelyn.

"Why where did you ever see her, Mr. Stackpole, except at our house?" said Constance.

"At Mrs. Decatur's-I have had that pleasure-and once at her uncle's." "I didn't know you ever noticed ladies' faces, Mr. Stackpole,” said Florence.

"How Mrs. Thorn does look at her !" said Constance, under her breath. "It is too much!"

It was almost too much for Fleda's equanimity, for the colour began to

come.

"And there goes Mr. Carleton !" said Constance. "I expect momentarily to hear the company strike up 'Sparkling and bright.'

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They should have done that some time ago, Miss Constance," said the gentleman.

Which compliment, however, Constance received with hardly disguised scorn, and turned her attention again to Mr. Carleton.

"I trust I do not need presentation," said his voice and his smile at once, as he presented himself to Fleda.

How little he needed it the flash of feeling that met his eyes said sufficiently well. But apparently the feeling was a little too deep, for the colour mounted and the eyes fell, and the smile suddenly died on the lips. Mr. Thorn came up to them, and releasing her hand Mr. Carleton stepped back and permitted him to lead her away.

"What do think of that face?" said Constance, finding herself a few

moments after at his side.

"That' must define itself," said he, "or I can hardly give a safe

answer.

"What face? Why I mean of course the one Mr. Thorn carried off just now.

"You are her friend, Miss Constance," he said coolly. your judgment upon it before I give mine?"

"May I ask for

"Mine? why I expected every minute that Mr. Thorn would make the musicians play 'Sparkling and bright,' and tell Miss Ringgan that to save trouble he had directed them to express what he was sure were the sentiments of the whole company in one burst."

He smiled a little, but in a way that Constance could not understand and did not like.

"Those are common epithets," he said.

"Must I use uncommon?" said Constance significantly.

"No-but these may say one thing or another."

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I have said one thing," said Constance; "and now you may say the other."

"Pardon me-you have said nothing. These epithets are deserved by a great many faces, but on very different grounds; and the praise is a different thing accordingly.

"Well what is the difference?" said Constance.

"On what do you think this lady's title to it rests?"

"On what? why on that bewitching little air of the eyes and mouth, I suppose."

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Bewitching is a very vague term," said he, smiling again more quietly. "But you have had an opportunity of knowing it much better of late than I-to which class of bright faces would you refer this one? Where does the light come from?"

"I never studied faces in a class," said Constance a little scornfully. "Come from? a region of mist and cloud, I should say, for it is sometimes pretty well covered up.'

"There are some eyes whose sparkling is nothing more than the play of light upon a bright bead of glass.

"It is not that," said Constance, answering in spite of herself after delaying as long as she dared.

"There is the brightness that is only the reflection of outward circumstances, and passes away with them.

"It isn't that in Fleda Ringgan," said Constance, "for her outward circumstances have no brightness, I should think, that reflection would not utterly absorb."

She would fain have turned the conversation, but the questions were put so lightly and quietly that it could not be gracefully done. She longed to cut it short, but her hand was upon Mr. Carleton's arm and they were slowly sauntering down the room,-too pleasant a state of things to be relinquished for a trifle.

"There is the broad daylight of mere animal spirits," he went on, seeming rather to be suggesting these things for her consideration than eager to set forth any opinions of his own; "there is the sparkling of mischief, and the fire of hidden passions, there is the passing brilliance of wit, as satisfactory and resting as these gas-lights, and there is now and then the light of refined affections out of a heart unspotted from the world, as pure and abiding as the stars, and like them throwing its soft ray especially upon the shadows of life."

"I have always understood," said Constance, "that cat's eyes are brightest in the dark."

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They do not love the light, I believe," said Mr. Carleton calmly. "Well," said Constance, not relishing the expression of her companion's eye, which from glowing had suddenly become cool and bright, "where

would you put me, Mr. Carleton, among all these illuminators of the social vstem?"

"You may put yourself-where you please, Miss Constance," he said, in turning upon her an eye so deep and full in its meaning that her own and her humour fell before it; for a moment she looked most unlike the gay scene around her.

"Is not that the best brightness," he said speaking low, "that will last for ever? and is not that lightness of heart best worth having which does not depend on circumstances, and will find its perfection just when all other kinds of happiness fail utterly?”

"I can't conceive," said Constance presently, rallying or trying to rally herself, "what you and I have to do in a place where people are enjoying themselves at this moment, Mr. Carleton !

He smiled at that and led her out of it into the conservatory, close to which they found themselves. It was a large and fine one, terminating the suite of rooms in this direction. Few people were there; but at the far end stood a group among whom Fleda and Mr. Thorn were conspicuous. He was busying himself in putting together a quantity of flowers for her; and Mrs. Evelyn and old Mr. Thorn stood looking on; with Mr. Stackpole. Mr. Stackpole was an Englishman, of certainly not very prepossessing exterior, but somewhat noted as an author and a good deal sought after in consequence. At present he was engaged by Mrs. Evelyn. Mr. Carleton and Constance sauntered up towards them and paused at a little distance to look at some curious plants.

"Don't try for that, Mr. Thorn,” said Fleda, as the gentleman was making rather ticklish efforts to reach a superb Fuchsia that hung high. "You are endangering sundry things besides yourself."

"I have learned, Miss Fleda," said Thorn, as with much ado he grasped the beautiful cluster, "that what we take the most pains for is apt to be reckoned the best prize, a truth I should never think of putting into a lady's head if I believed it possible that a single one of them was ignorant of its practical value."

"I have this same rose in my garden at home," said Fleda.

"You are a great gardener, Miss Fleda, I hear," said the old gentleman. "My son says you are an adept in it."

"I am very fond of it, sir," said Fleda, answering him with an entirely different face.

"I thought the delicacy of American ladies was beyond such a masculine employment as gardening," said Mr. Stackpole, edging away from Mrs. Evelyn.

"I guess this young lady is an exception to the rule," said old Mr.

Thorn.

"I guess she is an exception to most rules that you have got in your note-book, Mr. Stackpole," said the younger man. "But there is no guessing about the garden, for I have with my own eyes seen these gentle hands at one end of a spade and her foot at the other; a sight that-I declare I don't know whether I was most filled with astonishment or admiration !"

"Yes," said Fleda half laughing and colouring, "and he ingenuously confessed in his surprise that he didn't know whether politeness ought to oblige him to stop and shake hands or to pass by without seeing me; evidently shewing that he thought I was about something equivocal.'

The laugh was now turned against Mr. Thorn, but he went on cutting his geraniums with a grave face.