had never liked her better than he did now. Jealousy had done him good, and rivalry had heightened Mab's charms. Besides, she now looked very pretty. There was the light in her eyes and the glow on her cheeks, which provoke and attract. She was in a coquettish mood, too, and, laughing in his face, said saucily:

"Talk."

"Yes, Mab, I will talk. We shall soon be married, I hope." "Soon!" cried Mab, frightened.

"Well, in a few years," replied the phlegmatic Robert; "and then," he added, with more ardour, "then, Mab, we shall indeed be happy. In the first place, we must have a villa somewhere, say on the Thames.”

Mab opened her eyes.

"We are both fond of the country, and we shall like that. You will have plenty to see to at home, a garden with roses and swans, Mab, and I shall turn my mind to agricultural pursuits.” "But, old Robert, the money!"

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we

"Never mind about the money," was his calm reply, shall have it. I do not care for a large house-and, indeed, I was wrong to say a villa, I should prefer a farm, a handsome one, of course. It would be pleasant to have the boys down on a Sunday, or during their holidays. It would do them all the good in the world, poor fellows. Besides, we could assist them other ways. We should have Aunt Lavinia, too."

"And uncle?" suggested Mab.

"Of course. Well, what do you say to my plans?”
"How will you carry them out, Robert?"

"Never mind how. What will you say to me if I do carry them out?"

"Say! Robert, I shall adore you."

"I wish you would begin now," he replied, a little impatiently; "you are not as fond of me as you might be, Mab."

Mab replied, "Nonsense;" but not much liking the turn Robert's thoughts and conversation were both taking, she rose and said they must join the party.

Evening was closing in, and all agreed it was time to go. True to his promise of trusting her with a dozen Fredericks, Robert made no effort to be in the same carriage with Mab. The drive home was lovely; Frederick Norton thought it enchanting. The sky was covered with light mists, through which shone the fair moon: William and Edward talked and laughed incessantly. Mab spoke not one word-she was thinking of

what had just passed, and she felt frightened at her own rashness. It was not that Robert was not acceptable to her; from her childhood she had thought, vaguely at first, definitely enough in latter years, that she was to be his wife. She was troubled with no doubts, no fears concerning their mutual affection; of course he loved her, and of course she loved him. No; what frightened her was the marriage, the tie, the new existence that lay before her. Robert, who was practical, had at once placed their wedded life before her view; and even the villa on the Thames could not reconcile Mab to the vision. She remained very quiet, thinking and wondering, and Frederick Norton, sitting by her side, was, in the meanwhile, in the seventh heavens, unconscious that his paradise had already been given away for ever.

As soon as they reached home, Mab ran up to her room, and there, when she joined her later, Miss Lavinia found her sitting with her elbow on the table, and her cheek on her hand.

My dear, what is it?" she asked, kindly.

Mab looked very grave, and replied:

"I am engaged to Robert."

"I am so glad!" cried Miss Lavinia, beaming; "I always knew it would be, but I am so glad. You are worthy of him, and I can say no more."

She could not, indeed, in her creed.
"Robert is very good," said Mab.
"My dear, he is noble, he is great!"
Mab was silent.

"You will be the happiest of women," continued Miss Lavinia.

"Robert cannot marry just yet, can he?" asked Mab.

Well, I am afraid he cannot, my dear; remember, a hundred and fifty pounds a year is but a small income."

"Of course," nodded Mab; "I daresay he cannot marry for five years, aunt."

Well, you are both so young."

"Then it is all right," interrupted Mab; "I got quite frightened coming home at the thought of a wedding."

Her countenance expressed such evident satisfaction, that Miss Lavinia grew uneasy.

"My dear," she exclaimed, anxiously, "do you love Robert enough?"

"Do I love him enough?" cried Mab; "oh, aunt, how can you put the question? Why, I cannot even imagine loving any. one else."

"Then, my dear child," faltered Miss Lavinia, in her emotion, "it is as it should be, and you will be the happiest of wom

en.

"I don't object, aunt," saucily replied Mab; "but not just yet."

But though she looked gay, Mab was troubled at heart, and she thought—" Ah! if uncle were not so far away!"

CHAPTER IX.

MR. FORD was far away, but he was not so far as Mab thought.

The last male representative of the Irish Fords, as they had always been called in the family, had died mad; leaving two twin daughters and a widow, whose second husband was a genuine Celt, named O'Lally. By him Mrs. O'Lally had a son, whose birth she survived but a few weeks; the boy's father died young, and his two sisters, by their mother's first marriage, reared him to man's estate. They were rich and handsome, but they never married; apart from an affection so strong that it made the thought of separation unbearable, Emily and Ellen Ford loved their young brother too fondly to think of depriving him of their inheritance, the only one he had to expect. Was he not an O'Lally, and their brother-the object of all their pride as well as of their deepest love?

Although the days when these ladies visited the Lancashire Fords, and Emily flirted with Mr. Ford, and Ellen was Lavinia's bosom friend, had long been gone, they were remembered on both sides; and every now and then Miss Ellen and Mr Ford's sister exchanged letters, and such tokens of affection as the Balbriggan stockings. After residing many years in Dublin for the education of their brother, the Miss Fords returned to their native place in the south west of Ireland, and there purchased an estate from an old friend of their family, a Mr. Gardiner, which estate they at once christened O'Lally's Town, in anticipation, no doubt, of the flourishing aspect it was to take with time. Now it was a desert, and not a house appeared within view of that in which the Miss Fords and Mr. O'Lally resided. They had not been in their new home much more than a month, when Mr. Ford resolved upon taking that journey to America, of which, after recording the commencement, we may now give the close.

The dwelling at O'Lally's Town was a dilapidated old house,

large enough to be called a mansion, if its extreme plainness had not forbidden the title. It was a low, long, barn-like building, dark and gloomy in aspect, with few windows, and wide, blank spaces of wall between. It stood on a rocky shore close by the Atlantic, surrounded by grand and majestic scenery, with which it had nothing in common; for its utter solitude alone redeemed it from the reproach of commonplace ugliness. Its desolate aspect added to its other drawbacks. O'Lally's Town, as it was now generally called, was anything but a pleasant abode. The rooms were vast and cheerless; what comfort indeed could abide in those immense chambers, which looked as if furniture would never fill them? The Miss Fords, too prudent to make the attempt, left the place pretty much as they found it; they kept the large beds, the massive chairs and tables, which they had purchased with the house and estate from the late owner, and they added little or nothing to these indispensable articles of furniture.

"It will do when our brother marries," observed Miss Emily; and Miss Ellen, who always acquiesced in her sister's decisions, said so too. As " our brother was now twenty-three, the contingency, which was to refurnish O'Lally's Town, did not seem a very remote one.

"I wish he would marry Annie Gardiner," said Miss Emily one evening.

Miss Ellen took off her spectacles and looked at her sister. "Dear me!" she exclaimed, "I never thought of that.”

The two sisters were sitting together in a wide, low room on the ground floor, which was the parlour, sitting-room, and drawing-room, too, of the house. It was meagrely furnished, and felt chill, though there burned a bright turf fire on the hearth; for Miss Emily scorned both coals and grate, and would have none but the national fuel. The light of the candle lamp shed a small bright circle on the table near which the two ladies sat working, but left the rest of the large, dreary room in comparative obscurity.

"Of course," said Miss Ellen, "it would be just the thing if he would marry Annie; but do you think he will, Emily?" Miss Emily gave a little start, and did not answer. The night was stormy and wild, and a great blast of wind now rose moaning around the old house with a dismal lament. And above the wind sounded the fierce roar of the huge sea-waves dashing on the beach.

"It is a dreadful night," said Miss Ellen in a low voice, and,

looking round her with a startled face, she added, "Emily, I fear I shall never get used to this house.

"Yes, you will, my dear Ellen, I know you will.”

"I suppose so-it is getting calm again, thank God! But, Emily, do you think he will marry Annie?"

Her sister did not answer at once. Miss Ellen none the less anxiously expected her reply. She had been used, from infancy to her present age of forty-five, to rely on Emily's superior will and judgment, and it was one of her habits to question her about future events with as much confidence as if they must inevitably lie within Miss Emily's knowledge. In this consisted the only difference between the twin sisters; both had been very pretty girls, and were still pleasing fair-haired women, of delicate and refined aspect, of gentle manners, genial tempers, and kind hearts; both adored the younger brother whom they had reared, and to whom they had sacrificed youth, beauty, and fortune, without a sigh of regret; but, similar as they were, it was Miss Emily who ruled, and Miss Ellen who obeyed: the shadow of a contest for power had never arisen between them, and never would to the end of time.

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"I am sure I don't know," at length reluctantly answered Miss Emily; "but I wish he would-we asked her here for that after her father's death; we thought that seeing her daily he would take a fancy to her, but I am afraid he has not."

"She is very handsome," said Miss Ellen.

"She is, and we thought that might do something."

"We" was a favourite word with Miss Emily. She knew that she did not give her sister Ellen a fair share in the family councils, and she used the plural pronoun as a delicate compensation. It answered as the Co. of their little firm, and quite satisfied good and humble Miss Ellen.

"I am afraid, I am, that he is fond of Mary O'Flaherty," resumed Miss Emily.

"Don't say so, Emily,” cried Ellen with something like energy. "She is a dear, good girl, but she has not got a farthing." "Just so," said Emily, knitting her smooth white forehead into a thoughtful wrinkle; "but depend upon it, Ellen, it is to see her he takes those long journeys every now and then. Depend upon it, he is with her now."

Miss Ellen looked frightened and bewildered.

"Then I suppose he will marry her," she said at length.

A long silence followed this remark. Miss Emily continued hemming a handkerchief, but, with as much bitterness as her