tion to that energetic woman. Miss Beres- trim her dress with; and, instead of comford was the richest member of the mon portières, they had two pieces of old family, and her nephew had expectations tapestry from an Italian convent which devfrom her; and Charity was the favourite otees went down on their knees before. female name of this branch of the race. But I have not space to tell you how many But the idea of calling her child Charity pretty things they had. It was one of the did not at all smile upon young Mrs. pleasures of their life whenever they saw Beresford when her baby was born. She anything that pleased them to bring it was beguiled, however, by the unusual home for the decoration of that pretty look of it, which charmed her into calling drawing-room, or the library, which Mr. the little girl by the more melodious name Beresford had filled with old vellum-bound of Carità, contracted prettily into Cara volumes of curious editions, and pretty in the drawing room, and Carry in the books in Russia leather which kept the nursery. Aunt Charity growled when she room always fragrant. What was wanting heard of it, but did not otherwise com- to this pleasant, warm, full, delightful liv plain, and gentle Aunt Cherry declared ing? Nothing but continuance; and it herself unfeignedly glad that her little had not struck either of them that there niece had thus escaped the worst conse- was any doubt of this for long, long years quences of a symbolical name. When the at least. What a long way off threescore young couple went away pleasuring, little years and ten look when you are not yet Cara very often would be sent to Sunning- forty! and death looked further off still. hill, to pass the quiet days there under the No one thought of dying. Why should charge of the aunts; and so all responsi- they? For, to be sure, though we know bility was removed from the minds of the very well that must happen to us someparents. They had a letter sent to them times, in our hearts we are incredulous, every day to assure them of her welfare, and do not believe that we ever can die. however far off they might go-an ex- The Beresfords never dreamt of anytravagance which Aunt Charity condemned thing so frightful. They were well, they loudly, but which Aunt Cherry was proud were happy, they were young; and as it of, as showing the devotion of the parents had been, so it would be; and a world so to little Cara. The child herself was very bright they felt must mean to go on forhappy at Sunninghill, and was a much ever. more prominent person there than at home, where very often she was in the way, and interrupted conversation. For a father and mother who are very fond of each other, and have a great deal to talk of, often, it must be allowed, are hampered by the presence of one curious child, with quick ears and an inconveniently good memory. In this particular the half-dozen would have been more easily managed than the one. When Cara was about ten, however, the mother began to feel less well than usual. There was nothing much the matter with her, it was thought want of “tone" a little irritability of disposition — a nervous temperament. What she wanted was change of air and scene. And she got that, and got better, as was thought; but then became ill again. No, not illunwell, indisposed, mal à son aise, nothing more. There was nothing the matter Thus the Beresfords led a very pleasant with her really, the doctors thought. Her life. They had the prettiest house; nat-lungs and heart, and all vital organs, were urally, travelling so much as they did, perfectly sound; but there was a little local they had been able to "pick up a great irritation which, acting upon a nervous many charming things. You could scarce- temperament The nervous temperly see their walls for pictures; some very ament was perpetually kept in the front, good, one or two wonderful windfalls, and and all sorts of evils imputed to its agency. the rest pretty enough; nothing strikingly At Sunninghill, it must be confessed, bad, or next to nothing. Where other they did not believe in the illness at all. people had ordinary china, they had genuine old faïence, and one or two plaques which Raphael himself might have seen perhaps Urbino ware, with Messer Giorgio's name upon it. Not to speak of the Venice point which Mrs. Beresford wore, there were brackets in the drawingroom hung with scraps of old point coupé which many a lady would have been glad to “Fudge,” said Aunt Charity, who had always been strong, and had no faith in nerves, "don't talk to me of your nervous temperaments. I know what it means. It means that Annie has fallen sick of always having her own way. She has everything she can desire, and she is ill of having nothing more to wish for. A case of Alexander over again in a Lon don drawing-room- that's what it is, and | of himself; "but she not at all. I could nothing else, my word upon it; and I think when I look at her that I was still, know my niece." as I say, a young fellow beginning practice. "Yes, Mr. Maxwell, perhaps there is some truth in what Aunt Charity says," said Miss Cherry. "I think you know I don't judge harshly "That means that I judge harshly," said Miss Charity, bursting in; "thank you, my dear. Well, you may call me uncharitable if you please; but there's where it is; let James lose the half of his fortune, or all his china get broken, and she'd come round in no time - that's what ails Annie. But as she belongs to a very refined society, and has a silly husband, it's called nerves. Bless me, Cherry, I hope I knew what nerves were, and all about it, before you were born." "You could not know Annie before I was born," said Miss Cherry, who was devoid of imagination. "I hope you will give her your best attention, Mr. Maxwell. My brother James is a very fond husband, poor fellow! If anything happened to Annie, he would never get the better of it. As for marrying again, or anything of that I "Good heavens," said the doctor; hope there is no need to take such an idea into consideration. We must not go so fast." Miss Charity laughed. She was a great deal older than her niece, but much more sensible. "There's the seventh commandment to be thought of," she said; for her remarks were sometimes more free than they ought to be, and put Miss Cherry to the blush: and this was all the worse because she immediately walked out into the garden through the open window and left the younger lady alone with the doctor, who was an old friend of the family, and contemporary of the second Charity Beresford. Very old friends they were; even it was supposed that in their youth there had been or might have been passages of sentiment between these two now sitting so calmly opposite each other. Dr. Maxwell, however, by this time was a widower, and not at all sentimental. He laughed too as Miss Beresford made her exit by the window. He was very well used to the family and all its ways. "She wears very well," he said reflectively. "I don't think she has aged to speak of for these twenty years. When I used to be coming here in my early days, when I was beginning practice "The rest of us have changed very much since then." "Yes," said Dr. Maxwell, thinking most Miss Cherry sighed - very softly, but still she did sigh: over forty, but still in the position and with many of the sentiments of a girl. People laugh at the combination, but it is a touching one on the whole. What ages of lingering monotonous life had passed over her since her present companion began his practice, since her Aunt Charity had begun to be an old woman! Dr. Maxwell had married, had lost his wife, had gone through perhaps sharper troubles than Miss Cherry had known. He was now middle-aged and stoutish and weather-beaten-weather-beaten in aspect and in soul - while she was slim and soft and maidenly still. The sigh was half for those uneventful years, and half for the undevelopment which she was conscious of - the unchangedness of herself, underneath the outer guise, which was changed; but this was not safe ground, nor could it be talked of. So she brushed away the sigh with a little cough, and added quickly, - "I know perhaps what nerves are better than my aunt does, and I know Annie better. Tell me seriously, Mr. Maxwell, now we are alone. You don't apprehend anything serious? Should she go on trav elling and running about as they do, if there is really anything the matter? No one can be so much interested as I am. You would be quite frank with me?" "It is the best thing for her," said the doctor. "You now I should not say the same for you. You are a tranquil person and patient; but for her, the more she runs about the better. It distracts her and keeps her from thinking. If she worries, it's all over with a woman like that." -- "She has so little to worry about." "Just so; and the less one has to bear the less one is fit for; that is to say," said the doctor, getting up and going to the window, "the less some people are fit for. There's that old aunt of yours to prove me a fool. She has never had anything to bear, that I know of; and she is strong enough to bear anything. Sixty-eight, and just look at her. There's a physique for you that is the kind of woman," Mr. Maxwell said, with a little outburst of professional enthusiasm, "that I admireas straight as a rod still, and every faculty in good order. That a woman like that should never have married is a loss to the world." Miss Cherry, who had gone to the win dow too, and stood by his side, looked out somewhat wistfully at her old aunt. Cherry was not like her, but took after the other side of the family, her own mother, who had died young, and had not possessed any physique to speak of. "It is very sweet to-day in the garden," she said, inconsequently, and stepped out into the world of flowers and sunshine. Sunninghill was an ideal house for two ladies, a place which people who were shut out from such delights considered quite enough for happiness. Indeed, Miss Cherry Beresford's friends in general resented deeply the little plaintive air she some times took upon her. "What could she wish for more?" they said, indignantly; "a place that was just too good to be wasted on two single women. There should be a family in it." This was especially the sentiment of the rector's wife, who was a friend of Cherry's, and who felt it a personal slight to herself, who had a large family and many cares, when Cherry Beresford, with not a thing in the world to trouble her, presumed to look as if she was not quite happy. The house stood upon a hill, fringed round with small but delightful woods. These woods were on a level with the highest turrets of the great beautiful royal Castle of St. George, which lay within full sight in the afternoon sunshine. So you may imagine what a view it was which was visible from the old smooth velvet lawn round the house, which formed the apex to these woods. The quiet plain all around lay basking in the light underneath, and the castle upon its hill dominated, with a broad and placid grandeur, that majestic sweep of country, with all its lights and shadows. The royal flag fluttered on the breeze, the great tower rose grey and solid against the sky. Green branches framed in this picture on every side; the cuttings in the trees made a picture-gallery indeed of different views for different hours, according to the lights. "What a lovely place it is "Mr. Maxwell said, with sudden enthusiasm; "I always forget how lovely it is till I come back." 66 Yes, it is beautiful," said Cherry, who was used to it. "If you are going to send them away, I suppose Cara may come to us for the summer?that makes such a difference." Cherry was very well used to the different lights. She acknowledged the beauty of her home, and yet I can fancy circumstances under which she would have liked a pretty little house in a street better. Man nor woman either cannot live by beauty alone any more than by bread. "Here's a pretty business," said Miss Beresford briskly; "half of my roses, I believe, spoiled for this year; no second show this time. Jones is the greatest idiot; he pretends to know everything, and he knows nothing. Your protégé, Cherry, of course. All the incapables hang on by you." "I can't see any signs of deficiency," said the doctor, looking round. "Not at this moment; if there were, he should go on the spot. If those two go off again, as you are always sending them off, tell James I insist on the child's coming here. Ah, that's what your women of nervous temperament do- leave their children at home in a poky London square, while they go wandering over the world. Tell them I wish it," said Miss Beresford, with a laugh; "they never go against me.' "They know how kind you always are." "They know I'm old and will have something to leave behind me, that's the plain English - as if I was going to accept poor Cherry's subjection, poor soul, without rewarding her for it. It is she who will have everything when I'm gone. I've told them that, but still they think there's a chance that Cara might cut her old aunt out. I can see through them. I see through most people," she added, with a laugh, looking at him full. How could she know the thought passing through his mind at the moment, which was the abrupt reflection, uncalled for perhaps, that for a professional man, who had made no extraordinary name in his profession, Cherry Beresford, though an old maiden, would make not such a bad wife? Could the old witch see through broadcloth, and the comfortable coating of middle-aged flesh and blood, straight into a man's heart? He grew red foolishly, as if that were possible, and stammered a little in his reply. “I can believe everything that is clever of you as well as everything that is kind; though why you ladies should make such a point of having a little chit like that, who can only disturb your quiet in this paradise of a place "Oh, how can you say so!" said Cherry. "The child's voice and the child's face make all the difference - they are better than sunshine. They make the place beautiful. I would give it all, twenty times over, to have the child.” "Whom her mother is very glad to leave behind her." "Hold your tongue, Cherry," said the elder lady; "you mild little old maids, you are always in a way about children. I say you had some reason to be offended. One knows what you doctors mean when you tell a patient to do whatever she likes best." never took up that line. A child in the | Annie. They know there's nothing the abstract is a nuisance. Now, a man — matter with you. If I was not much there are advantages about a man. Some- obliged to them for thinking so, I should times he's a nuisance too, but sometimes he's a help. Believe them, and they'll tell you that marriage was always far from their thoughts, but that children are their delight. That's not my way of thinking. But I happen to like little Cara because she is Cara, not because she is a child. So she may come and take her chance with the rest." "It means one of two things," said Mrs. Beresford; "either that it is nothing, or that it is hopeless Her husband burst into a soft laugh. "Well!" he said, "it is very evident it cannot be the last so it must be as I say. It is injurious to our pride, my darling; for I allow that it is pleasant to possess either in your own person or your wife's a delicate and mysterious malady, of which it can be said that it baffles the doctors, without very much hurting the patient; but never mind. If you can bear this disrespectful verdict that you have nothing the matter with you, I assure you it makes me quite happy." Cherry had turned away along the garden path, and was looking through one of the openings at one of the views. She knew it by heart-exactly how the light fell, and where were the shadows, and the name of every tower, and almost the shape of every cloud. Was it wonderful that this was not so delightful to her as to the strangers who could not see that view every day in their lives? To some people, indeed. the atmospheric changes, the effects of wind and colour, the warnings and dispersions of those clouds, would have made poetry enough to fill up all that was wanting; but poor Miss Cherry was not poetical in this big way, though she was very fond of pretty verses, and even wrote some occasionally; but how she longed for the child's innocent looks the child's ceaseless prattle! Her gentle delicacy was hurt at that unnecessary gibe about the old-maidishness, and her "I don't mean to be disrespectful," he supposed sham rejection of the husband said; "there is a little disturbance of the who had never come that way. "Why system, that is sometimes as serious as should she talk of men-especially be- you could desire, and takes away the comfore him? What do I want with men?" fort of life perhaps more completely than said poor Miss Cherry to herself; "but a regular disease; but I hope that is not my own niece - my brother's child-likely to happen here.” Mrs. Beresford looked at the doctor with very keen, eager eyes eyes which had grown bigger and keener of late, perhaps from the failing of the round, smooth outlines of the face. She noticed that, though Maxwell saw very well that she was looking at him, he did not reply to those looks, but rather turned to her husband and answered him, as if he had not noticed her. 66 surely I may wish for her." And surely No; I don't think it," said the easy there could not have been a more inno- man. "We shall try Baden, which is the cent wish. CHAPTER II. A FRIGHT. "WHICH you please; you are not gouty or rheumatical, or anything of that sort," said Mr. Maxwell, almost gaily. "Homburg, for instance-- Homburg would do -or Baden, if you prefer that. I incline to the one you prefer; and enjoy yourself as much as you can that is my prescription. Open air, novelty, change; and if you find you don't relish one place, go to another. The sea, if you take a fancy for the sea; and Sir William is of my opinion exactly. Choose the place which amuses you most." prettiest unless you prefer some other place; in short, we shall go off without guide or compass, and do exactly what pleases ourselves. We have done so, it must be allowed, pretty often beforebut to do it with the sanction of the faculty "And the child as usual will go to Sunninghill?" "Why should you say as usual, Mr. Maxwell?" said Mrs. Beresford, with a suspicion of offence. "Do you think I should take her with me? Do you suppose, perhaps, that I might not come back again — that I might never — see — "This is so unnecessary," said the doctor, remonstrating. What must I say? I wish I was as certain of a thousand a "It seems to me," said Mr. Beresford, year. You will come back quite well, I "that these wise men are laughing at you, | hope." "When people are very ill don't you say much the same things to them? There was poor Susan Maitland, whom you banished to Italy to die. People talked of her coming back again. Oh, no! I am not thinking of myself, but of the subject in general. One needed only to look in her face to see that she would never come back." friendship, Mr. Maxwell! Then I should not be afraid. I should feel that you two stood between me and anguish, between me and agony · Both the men rose to their feet as if to restrain her vehemence, with one impulse. "My darling, my darling!" said James Beresford, in dismay, "what are you thinking of?" As for Mr. Maxwell, he walked "People have different ideas of their to the window and looked out, his features duty," said Maxwell. "Some think it working painfully. There was a moment best not to frighten a patient with thoughts in which the husband and wife clung toof death. I don't know that one can lay gether, he consoling her with every assurdown any rule, one is guided by circum-ing word he could think of, she clinging stances. To some nervous people it is to him with long hysterical sobs. My best not to say anything. Some are more love, what has put this into your head? frightened than others-just as some he said, half sobbing too, yet pretending people are more susceptible to pain than to laugh. "My Annie, what fancy is this? others." Have you lost your wits, my darling? "Now I am going to ask you another Why this is all folly; it is a dream; it is a question,” said Mrs. Beresford. "Sup-craze you have taken into your head. pose you had a patient very ill-I mean Here is Maxwell will tell you hopelessly ill, beyond all cure - do you think it is right to keep them alive as you do now, struggling to the last, staving off every new attack that might carry them off in quiet, fighting on and on to the last moment, and even prolonging that, when it comes so far, with cordials and stimulants? Keeping their breath in their poor, suffering bodies till you get to the end of your resources - - your dreadful cruel resources, that is what I call them. Do you think this is right? I had an aunt who died dreadfully of cancer." "Ah! An aunt? You did not tell me this," said the doctor, off his guard; then, recovering himself, with something that looked like alarm, he said, hurriedly, "What would you have us do-kill the poor creatures? neglect them? refuse what aid, what alleviation we can — "I'll tell you what I should like you to do if it were me," she said, eagerly. "When it was all over, when you were sure I could not get better, when there was nothing more in life but to suffer suffer; then I should like you to make a strong, sweet dose for me to put me out of my trouble. I should like James to give it me. Do you remember what was said that time in India, in the mutiny? I don't know if it was true, but people said it. That the husbands of some of the poor ladies kissed them and shot them, to save them; don't you remember? That is what I should like you to do — a sweet, strong dose; and James would bring it to me and kiss me, and put it to my lips. That would be true love!" she said, grow ing excited, the pale roses in her cheeks becoming hectic red; "that would be true Here Maxwell made him a sign over his wife's head so impassioned and imperative that the man was struck dumb for the moment. He gazed blankly at the doctor, then stooped down to murmur fond words less distinct and articulate in her ear. Fortunately, she was too much excited, too much disturbed, to notice this sudden pause, or that the doctor said nothing in response to her husband's appeal. She held fast by his arm and sobbed, but gradually grew calmer, soothed by his tenderness, and after a while made a half-smiling, tearful apology for her weakness. It was after dinner on a lovely summer evening, not more than twilight, though it was late. The two gentlemen had been lingering over their claret, while she lay on the sofa waiting for them, for she did not choose to be shut up up-stairs all by herself, she said. After she had recovered they went to the drawing-room, where the windows were all open, and a couple of softly-burning lamps lit up the twilight with two halfveiled moons of light. There was not a lovely prospect as at Sunninghill, nothing, indeed, but the London square, where a few trees vegetated, just room enough for the dews to fall, and for "the little span of sky and little lot of stars" to unfold themselves. But even London air grows soft with that musical effect of summer, and the sound of passing voices and footsteps broke in with a faint, far-off sound as in dreams. The country itself could not have been more peaceful. Mrs. Beresford, half ashamed of herself, sat down at the little bright tea-table just within the circle of one of the lamps, and made tea, talking with a little attempt at gaiety, in |