advantages and privileges were to be his. the time that he conned them over, the face of Judith Conisbrough seemed to accompany them, and a sense of how unjustly she had been treated, above all others, burnt in his mind. Before he went to Irkford, before he did anything else, this question must be settled. It should be settled to-night, between him and her. He meant first to make her astonished, to see her put on her air of queenly surprise at his unembarrassed requests, and then he meant her to submit, for her mother's and sisters' sake, and, incidentally, for his pleasure. It was an agreeable picture; one, too, of a kind that was new to him. He did not realize its significance for himself. He only knew that the pleasure of conquest was great, when the obstacle to be conquered was strong and beautiful.

He was roused from these schemes and plans by the sound of some chords struck on the piano, and he quickly went into the house. Judith had seated herself at the piano; she had resumed her usual calmness of mien, and turned to him as he entered.

"I thought this would summon you, Mr. Aglionby. You seem fond of music."

"Music has been fond of me, and a kind friend to me, always," said he. "I see you have no lights. Shall I ring for candles ?"

"No, thank you. I have no music with me. All that I sing must be sung from memory, and the fire-light will be enough for that."

She did not at once sing the song he had asked for, but played one or two fragments first; then struck the preluding chords and sang it.

"I like that song better than anything I ever heard," said he emphatically, after she had finished it.

"I like it, too," said Judith. "Mrs. Malleson gave it to me, or I should never have become possessed of such a song. Do you know Mrs. Malleson ?" she added.

"No. Who is she?"

The wife of the vicar of Stanniforth. I hope he will call upon you, but of course he is sure to to do so. And you will meet them out. I advise you to make a friend of Mrs. Malleson, if you can."

"I suppose," observed Bernard, "that most, or all of the people who knew my grandfather, will call upon me, and ask me to their houses ?" "Of course."

"How odd that seems, doesn't it? If I had not, by an accident, become master here—if I had remained in my delightful warehouse at Irkford, none of these people would have known of my existence, or if they had they would have taken no notice of me. Not that I consider it any injustice," he added quickly, "because I hold that unless you prove yourself in some way noticeable, either by being rich, or very clever, or very handsome, or very something, you have no right whatever to complain of neglect one at all. Why should people notice you?"

"Just so; only you know, there is this to be said on the other side. If all these people had known as well as possible who you were, and where you lived, and all about you, they would still have taken no notice of you while you were in that position. I don't want to disparage them. I am sure some of them are very good, kindhearted people. I am only speaking from experience."

"And you are right enough. You are not going?" he added, seeing that she rose. "Supper is not ready yet."

"Thank you. I do not want any supper. And it is not very early."

"Then, if you will go, I must say now what I wanted to say. You need not leave me this instant, need you? I really have something to say to you, if you will listen to me."

Judith paused, looked at him, and sat down again.

"I am in no hurry," said she; "what do you wish to say to me?"

"You said this afternoon that you had gone to say good-bye to Scar Foot, to the lake-to everything; that after you left here to-day you would have done with' Scar Foot. It would no longer be anything to you. You meant, I suppose, that you would never visit it again. Why should that be so ?"

They were seated, Judith on the music-stool, on which she had turned round when they began to talk, and he leaning forward on a chair just opposite to her. Close to them was the broad hearth, with its bright fire and sparkling blazes, lighting up the two faces very distinctly. He was looking very earnestly at her, and he asked the question in a manner which showed that he intended to have an answer. It was not wanting. She replied, almost without a pause:

66

'Well, you see, we cannot possibly come here now, as we were accustomed to do in my uncle's time, just when we chose; to ramble about for an hour or two, take a meal with him, and then go home again, or, if he asked us, to spend a few days here it would not do."

"But you need not be debarred from ever coming to the place, just because you cannot do exactly as you used to do."

She was silent, with a look of some pain and perplexity—not the dignified surprise he had expected to see. But the subject was, or rather it had grown, very near to Bernard's heart. He was determined to argue the question out..

"Is it because Scar Foot has become mine, because I could turn you out if I liked, and because you are too proud to have anything to do with me?" he asked, coolly and deliberately.

Judith looked up, shocked.

"What a horrible idea! What could have put such a thought into your head ?"

"Your elaborate ceremonial of everlasting farewell, this afternoon, I think," he answered, and went on boldly, though he saw her raise her head somewhat indignantly. "Do listen to me, Miss Conisbrough; I know that in your opinion I must be a most unwelcome interloper. But I think you will believe me when I say that I have nothing but kindly feelings toward you—that I would give a good deal-even sacrifice a good deal to be on kindly terms with Mrs. Conisbrough and you, and your family. I wish to be just, to repair my grandfather's injustice. You know, as we discovered the other night, we are relations. What I want to ask is, will you not meet me half-way? You will not hold aloof-I beg you will not! You will help me to conciliate Mrs. Conisbrough, to repair, in some degree, the injustice which has been done her. I am sure you will. I count securely upon you," he added, looking full into her face, "for you are so utterly outside all petty motives of spite or resentment. You could not act upon a feeling of pique or offense, I am sure."

She was breathing quickly; her fingers locked in one another; her face a little averted, and flushed, as he could see, by something more than the fire-light.

"You have far too good an opinion of me," she said, in a low tone; "you are mistaken about I try to forget such considerations, but I

me.

assure you I am not what you take me for. I am soured, I believe, and embittered by many things which have conspired to make my life rather a lonely one."

"How little you know yourself!" said Bernard. "If I had time, I should laugh at you. But I want you to listen to me, and seriously to consider my proposal. Will you not help me in this plan? You said at first, you know, that you would not oppose it. Now I want you to promise your cooperation."

"In other words," said Judith quietly, "you want me to persuade mamma to accept as a gift from you, some of the money which she had expected to have, but which, as is very evident, my uncle was at the last determined she should not have."

Aglionby smiled. He liked the opposition, and had every intention of conquering it.

"That is the way in which you prefer to put it, I suppose," he said. "I do not see why you should, I am sure. You did not use such expres

sions about it the other night, and, at any rate, I have your promise. But I fear you think the suggestion an impertinent one. How am I to convince you that nothing could be further from my thoughts, than impertinence ?"

"I would rather you took it as being simply just. But, at any rate, you will give me your assistance, for I know that without it I shall never succeed in getting Mrs. Conisbrough's consent to my wishes."

He spoke urgently. Judith was moved-distressed-he saw.

"I know I gave you a kind of promise," she began slowly.

"A kind of promise! Your words were, I shall not oppose it.' Can you deny it ?"

"No, those were my words. But I had had no time to think about it then. I have done so since. I have looked at it in every possible light, with the sincere desire to comply with your wish, and all I can say is, that I must ask you to release me from my promise."

"Not unless you tell me why," said he, in a deep tone of something like anger.

"I cannot tell you why," said Judith, her own full tones vibrating and growing somewhat faint. "I can only ask you to believe me when I say that it would indeed be best in every way if, after we leave your house, you cease to take any notice of us. If we meet casually, either in society, or in any other way, there is no reason why we should not be friendly. But it must end there. It is best that it should do so. And do not try to help my mother in the way you proposed. I-I cannot give any assistance in the matter, if you do."

This was not the kind of opposition which Aglionby had bargained for. For a few moments he was silent, a black frown settling on his brow, but far indeed from having given up the game. Nothing had ever before aroused in him such an ardent desire to prevail. He was thinking about his answer; wondering what it would be best for him to say, when Judith, who perhaps had misunderstood his silence, resumed in a low, regretful voice:

She stopped suddenly. "I don't understand you."

"Do not try. Put me down as an ill-disposed virago. I feel like one sometimes. And yet, I would have you believe that I appreciate your motives-it is out of no ill-feeling"

"It is useless to tell me that," he broke in, in uncontrollable agitation. "I see that you have contained your wrath until this evening; you have nourished a bitter grudge against me, and you feel that the time has come for you to discharge your debt. You have succeeded. You wished to humiliate me, and you have done so most thoroughly, and as I was never humiliated before. Understand-if you find any gratification in it, that I am wounded and mortified to the quick. I had hoped that by stooping-by using every means in my power-to please you, I should succeed in conciliating you and yours. I wished to put an end to this horrible discord and division, to do that which was right, and without doing which, I can never enjoy the heritage that has fallen to me. No, never! and you-have led me on-have given me your promise, and now you withdraw it. You know your power, and that it is useless for me to appeal to Mrs. Conisbrough, if you do not allow her to hear me, and

"You have such a loathing for me, you hate me so bitterly and so implacably that you can sit there, and say this to me, with the utmost indifference," with passionate grief in his voice; grief and anger blended in a way that cut her to the quick. And so changed was he, all in a moment, that she was startled, and almost terrified.

"What!" she faltered; "have I said something wrong? I, hate you? Heaven forbid! It would be myself that I should hate, because—” "Because you had touched something that was defiled by coming from me. Because it had been mine !"

"Thank God that it is yours!" said Judith suddenly, and in a stronger tone. "It is the one consolation that I have in the matter. When I think how very near it was to being ours, and that we might have had it and used it, I feel as if I had escaped but little short of a miracle, from-'

"You accuse me strangely," she began, in a

him to look upon her as a virago, and appalled by the storm she had aroused, and yet, feeling a strange, thrilling delight in it, and a kind of reckless desire to abandon herself to its fury. Even while she raised her voice in opposition to it, she hoped it would not instantly be lulled. There was something more attractive in it than in the commonplace civilities of an unbroken and meaningless politeness. She had her half-conscious wish gratified to the utmost, for he went

on:

'Strangely, how strangely? I thought women were by nature fitted to promote peace. I thought that you, of all others, would encourage harmony and kindness. I appealed to you, because I knew your will was stronger than that of your mother. It only needs your counsel and influence to make her see things as I wish her to see them. And you thrust me capriciously aside-your manner, your actions all tell me to retire with the plunder I have got, and to gloat over it alone. You stand aside in scorn. You prefer poverty, and I believe

you would prefer starvation, to extending a hand to one whom you consider a robber and an upstart

"You are wrong, you are wrong!" she exclaimed vehemently and almost wildly, clasping her hands tightly together and looking at him with a pale face and dilated eyes.

"Then, show me that I am wrong!" he said, standing before her, and extending his hands toward her. "Repent what you have said about benefits derived from me scorching you!" (He did not know that the flash from his own eyes was almost enough to produce the same effect). "Recall it, and I will forget all this scene-as soon as I can, that is. Judith" She started, changed color, and he went on in his softest and most persuasive accent. "My cousin Judith, despite all you have just been flinging at me of hard and cruel things, I still cling to the conviction that you are a noble woman, and I ask you once more for your friendship, and your good offices toward your mother. Do not repulse me again."

She looked speechlessly into his face. Where were now the scintillating eyes, the harsh discord of tone, the suppressed rage of manner? Gone; and in their stead there were the most dulcet sounds of a most musical voice; eyes that pleaded humbly and almost tenderly, and a hand held out beseechingly, craving her friendship, her good offices.

A faint shudder ran through Judith's whole frame. His words and the tone of them rang in her ears, and would ring there for many a day, and cause her heart to beat whenever she remembered them. "Judith-my cousin Judith!" His hot earnestness, and the unconscious fascination which he could throw into both looks and tones, had not found her callous and immovable. While she did not understand what the feeling was which overmastered her, she yet felt the pain of having to repulse him amount to actual agony. She felt

like one lost and bewildered. All she knew or realized was, that it would have been delicious to yield unconditionally in this matter of persuading her mother to his will; to hear his wishes and obey them, and that of all things this was the one point on which she must hold out, and resist. Shaken by a wilder emotion than she had ever felt before, she suddenly caught the hands he stretched toward her, and exclaimed, brokenly:

"Ah, forgive me, if you can, but do not be so hard upon me. You do not know what you are saying. I cannot obey you. I wish I could." She covered her face with her hands, with a short sob.

Aglionby could not at first reply. Across the storin of mortification and anger, of good-will repulsed, and reverence momentarily chilled, another feeling was creeping, the feeling that behind all this agitation and refusal on her part, something lay hidden which was not aversion to him; that the victory he had craved for was substantially his: she did not refuse his demand because she had no wish to comply with it. She denied him against her will, not with it. She was not churlish. He might still believe her noble. She was harassed evidently, worn with trouble, and with some secret grief. He forgot for the moment that a confiding heart at Irkford looked to him for support and comfort; indeed, he had a vague idea, which had not yet been distinctly formulated, that there were few troubles which Miss Vane could not drive away, by dint of dress and jewelry and amusement. He felt that so long as he had a full purse he could comfort Lizzie and cherish her. This was a different case; this was a suffering which silk attire and diamonds could not alleviate, a wound not to be stanched for a moment by social distinction and the envy of other women. His heart ached sympathetically. He could comprehend that feeling.

He knew that he could feel likewise. Nay, had he not experienced a foretaste of some such feeling this very night, when she had vowed that she could not aid him in his scheme, and he had felt his newly-acquired riches turn poor and sterile in consequence, and his capacity for enjoying them shrivel up? But there was a ray of joy even amid this pain, in thinking that this hidden obstacle did not imply anything derogatory to her. He might yet believe her noble, and treat her as noble. His was one of the natures which cannot only discern nobility in shabby guise, but which are perhaps almost too prone to seek it there, rather than under purple mantles; being inclined to grudge the wearers of the latter any distinction save that of inherited outside splendor. The fact that Miss Conisbrough was a very obscure character; that she was almost sordidly poor; that the gown she wore was both shabby and old-fashioned, and that whatever secret trou

bles she had, she must necessarily often be roused from them, in order to consider how most advantageously to dispose of the metaphorical sixpence -all this lent to his eyes, and to his way of thinking, a reality to her grief; a concreteness to her distress. He had no love for moonshine and unreality, and though Judith Conisbrough had this night overwhelmed him with contradictions and vague, intangible replies to his questions, yet he was more firmly convinced than ever that all about her was real.

If she had to suffer-and he was sure now that she had—he would be magnanimous, though he did not consciously apply so grand a name to his own conduct. After a pause he said, slowly:

"I must ask your forgiveness. I had no business to get into a passion. It was unmanly, and, I believe, brutal. I can only atone for it in one way, and that is by trying to do what you wish; though I cannot conceal that your decision is a bitter blow to me. I had hoped that everything would be so different. But tell me once again that you do not wish to be at enmity with me; that it is no personal ill-will which

"Oh, Mr. Aglionby !"

"Could you not stretch a point for once?" said Bernard, looking at her with a strangely mingled expression, "as we are soon to be on mere terms of distant civility, and address me like a cousin—just once-it would not be much to do, after what you have refused ?"

There was a momentary pause. Aglionby felt his own heart beat faster as he waited for her answer. At last she began, with flaming cheeks, and eyes fixed steadily upon the ground:

"You mean-Bernard-there is nothing I desire less than to be at enmity with you. Since we have been under your roof here, I have learned that you are at least noble, whatever I may be; and—"

At this point Judith looked up, having overcome, partially at least, her tremulousness, but she found his eyes fixed upon hers, and her own fell again directly. Something seemed to rise in her throat and choke her; at last she faltered out: "Do not imagine that I suffer nothing in refusing your wish.”

"I believe you now, entirely," he said, in a tone almost of satisfaction. "We were talking about creeds the other night, and you said you wanted a strong one. I assure you it will take VOL. XVII.-15

all the staying power of mine to enable me to bear this with any thing like equanimity. And meantime, grant me this favor, let me accompany you home to-morrow, and do me the honor to introduce me to your sisters; I should like to know my cousins by sight, at any rate-if Mrs. Conisbrough will allow it, that is."

"Mamma will allow it-yes."

"And I promise that after that I will not trouble nor molest you any more.

"Don't put it in that way."

"I must, I am afraid. But you have not promised yet."

"Certainly, I promise. And, oh! Mr. Aglionby, I am glad, I am glad you have got all my uncle had to leave," she exclaimed, with passionate emphasis. "The knowledge that you have it will be some comfort to me in my dreary existence, for it is and will be dreary."

She rose now, quite decidedly, and went toward the door. He opened it for her, and they clasped hands silently, till he said, with a half smile which had in it something wistful:

"Goden Abend !"

"Gode Nacht!" responded Judith, but no answering smile came to her lips-only a rush of bitter tears to her eyes. She passed out of the room; he gently closed the door after her, and she was left alone with her burden.

CHAPTER XXI.—AN AFTERNOON EPisode.

"We must not go out this afternoon, because they are coming, you know," observed Rhoda to Delphine.

"I suppose not, and yet, I think it is rather a farce, our staying in to receive them. I cannot think it will give them any joy."

"You are such a tiresome, analytical person, Delphine! Always questioning my statements." "Sometimes you make such queer ones."

"I wish something would happen. I wish a change would come," observed Rhoda, yawning. "Nothing ever does happen here."

"Well, I should have said that a good deal had happened lately. Enough to make us very uncomfortable, at any rate."

"Oh, you mean about Uncle Aglionby and his grandson. Do you know, Del, I have a burning, a consuming curiosity to see that young man. I think it must have been most delightfully romantic for Judith to be staying at Scar Foot all