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restlessness through breakfast and after- in something of the same mode as Vil, wards, when I had not the slightest idea whose coats he had worn when he was a what the leaders in the Times, which I lad, and whom he unconsciously copied; attempted to read, were about; but I and though there was a something about made a sort of vague effort to see whether him which indicated his lower position, there was anything in the Post about or rather an absence of something which any one being married. Fuss till dear old externally marks "a gentleman," his Roberts appeared in his brougham, with open countenance and candid straightan orange-blossom as big as a half-crown forward look gave the merest stranger, in the hole of his dear little frock-coat. who looked at him a confidence in Dick, When I was carried off still fussily, and and conferred upon him a distinction of had to wait about half an hour in the his own. Richard Ross, however, did church, with a sort of notion that every not so much as notice the young man as one was looking at me as if I ought to be he drove to the railway. He was not ashamed of myself; and I was ashamed anxious about Val in the sense in which of myself without knowing why. Then a his mother was anxious; but his mind movement, which brought my heart into was strangely disturbed and jumbled my mouth and set me trembling all over,— turned upside down, so to speak. All as I advanced a few steps to meet a tall the common conditions of life had advancing figure clad all in white, and veiled by a fall of lace which but half hid a downcast face, raised but once with a look of love as the quivering fingers closed on mine. A dreamy ceremony, a burst of glorious music, a few happy moments of solitude in the homeward carriage; then an odious assemblage of people whom at any other time both of us would have welcomed heartily, but whose demonstrative kindness we both found wearying. A taste of stodgy cake, and a sip of champagne which might have been seltzer water for all I knew; an idea of some one saying something, and my having to say something else; my servant with a coat and hat, some one with a travelling-bag and shawl which I took from her and all but left behind; and then a whirl away to Euston Square, where my poor old hat-box was impressed by a grinning porter with its last label.

C. B.

From Blackwood's Magazine. THE STORY OF VALENTINE; AND HIS BROTHER.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

RICHARD ROSS left Lasswade as Dick Brown entered, totally unconscious of him or his errand. They passed each other on the bridge, the father in the carriage, with his servant on the box, and a hundred delicate comforts about him; the son trudging along the muddy road, somewhat tired from jolting all night in a third-class carriage, but refreshed by the "good wash" which, almost more than his breakfast, had set him up again to encounter strangers. He was well dressed,

changed for him; - his repose of twenty years was broken, and his thoughts sent back upon the early beginning of his career, when he was so different a man. To be driven back at forty-five to the thoughts and feelings of twenty-five, how strange it is! and stranger to some men than to others. To those who have lived but little in this long stretch of existence the return costs less; but Richard Ross had not changed by the action of years, only - he was another man; everything in him was altered. And yet he was going back, as it were, to twentyfive, to look at the passion and folly and infatuation of that period of his existence; but with the interval so clearly marked, not only in himself, but in all the others concerned. He was not old, nor did he feel old: in himself he was conscious, not of decay, but of progress. He looked back upon himself at that early age, not with envy, as so many men of the world do, but with a wondering contempt. What a fool he had been! Was it possible that he could ever have been such a fool? Or must it not rather have been some brother, some cousin, some other, not himself, who had been such an idiot? -some visionary man, whose faults somehow had fallen upon his shoulders? This was the feeling in his mind, though, of course, he knew very well that it was an absurd feeling. And then, with a curious wonder and bewildering sense of suppressed agitation, he remembered that he was going to see her. Should he know her after three-and-twenty years?he had recognized her picture, which was strange enough; and would she know him? And must they meet, and what would they say to each other? There had

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there," said Richard. Then he suddenly recollected himself. "I had forgotten the boy," he added under his breath. How strange it was! and this was his son too his son as well as Val! But to tell the truth, for the moment he had forgotten the boys, the known and the unknown. He had forgotten that Val was lost, and that he had come here in search of him. He was only conscious, in a strange suppressed haze of excitement, that probably she was within these walls-she the woman of whom he had said maladetta; of whom Val had said that she looked as if she had been a lady. This strange notion made him laugh within himself even now,

never been very much to say, for she was aquatic in his tastes. And there was the incapable of what he called conversation; little house with its narrow strip of garand except words of fondness and at- den towards the river, in which a few tempts at instruction, it had been impos- sickly primroses were trying to flower. sible for him, a cultivated and fastidious No one had thought of the garden since man, to have any real communication with Val's accident, and already it had a negthe wild creature of the woods whom he lected look. "Who lives there?" he never even succeeded in taming. What asked of a bargeman who was lounging should he find to say to her now, or she by. "It's Brown's, as is head man at to him? The inquiry thrilled him Styles's," was the answer. "Head man strangely, giving him that bewildering at Styles's! I thought a woman lived sense of unreality which mixes so deeply in all human emotion. His brain seemed to turn round when he thought of this possible interview. Was she a real being at all, or was he real who was thinking? Had that past ever been? Was it not an imagination, a dream? Ah! it does not even require such a long interval as twenty years to bring this strange giddiness on the soul. That which we have lost, did we ever have it? the happiness, the life, the other who made life and happiness? I know some houses now, occupied by strange people, whose very names I can't tell you, where yet I feel my own old life must be in full possession of the familiar place, while this dim ghost of me outside asks, Did It was about five in the afternoon, still it ever exist at all? Richard felt this all good daylight, though the day was a dim the more strongly that he was not an im- one. The maid, who was but a maid-ofaginative man by nature. He felt his all-work, and no better than her kind, head swim and the world go round with had taken advantage of the entire abhim, and would not believe that the sence of supervision, and was out someyoung fool who had borne his name where, leaving the garden-gate and frontthree-and-twenty years before, was or door both open. Richard went up to the could have been him. But yet he was door with a certain hesitation, almost difgoing to see her, the other dream, in fidence, and knocked softly. He did not whom there was not, nor ever had been, want to have any one come, and it was a any reality. On the whole, instead of relief to him when a sufficient interval had perplexing himself with such thoughts, elapsed without any response, to justify it is better for a man to read in the rail-him, as he thought, in going into the way, if he can manage it, even at the house. Then he stepped across the risk of hurting his eyes, which require to threshold, casting a glance behind to to be ménagés at forty-five; or if that see if any one outside observed him; will not do, to close his eyes and doze, and seeing no one, he went in-first to which is perhaps, where it is practicable, the best way of all.

the little parlour, which had been "cleaned up," fortunately, that morning. He got to Oxford the next day in the It was a strange little room, as I have alafternoon another pale, somewhat ready said, with tokens in it of instinctdreary afternoon of March, typical day ive good taste struggling against circumof a reluctant spring, with dust in the stances. Richard closed the door bestreets, and east winds spreading a uni-hind him, and looked round it with a cuversal grey around, ruffling the river into rious irregularity in his heart's beats. pale lines of livid light and gloomy shade, He sat down, somehow not feeling equal and pinching all the green buds spitefully to anything more, and gazed at those litback to winter again. Heavy clouds were tle familiar evidences of the kind of berolling over the heavens when he made ing who had been living here. It was, his way down to the wharf. His old Ox- in reality, Dick who had left his traces ford recollections and Val's indications all about, but Richard Ross knew nothguided him. He knew the boating-wharf of old, though he had never himself been

ing about Dick, and had at the present moment very little curiosity as to that

unknown and unrealized person. He thought only of her: somehow Val's description, at which he had laughed within himself so often, and at which still he tried to laugh feebly, seemed less impossible here. A lady might have lived within these four walls, at the little window which looked out upon the river. The arrangements of the room-its books (which no one read), its pretty carvings and nicknacks (for which Dick alone was responsible) fitted into the conventional idea of a poor gentleman's tastes, which even Richard, though he ought to have known better, had received into his mind. The embroidered shawl which covered the little table caught his eye as it had caught his mother's he, too, remembered it; and that undoubted sign of her made his heart beat loudly

once more.

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her figure. Her eyes were closed, but the intent look in her face which gave it an interest even to the mere passer-by, was there in a softened form, giving a pure and still gravity, almost noble, to its fine lines; the hair was smoothed off her forehead; the white kerchief, which was her usual head-dress, tied loosely about her head; her hands, glimmering white in the partial darkness, crossed upon her lap. Richard stood still, not daring to breathe, yet catching his breath and hearing his heart beat in spite of himself, afraid to disturb her, yet wondering what she would say to him, how she would look at him when she was roused, as she must be. He was much and strangely agitated, but the reader must not suppose that it was any wild renewal of old love, any passion, or even the agitation of longing and tenderness, which so moved him. He was curious beyond anything he could say - troubled by the sight of her, strangely eager to know what kind of being this was. She was another from the girl he had known, though the same. She of time past had been a wild thing out of the woods, not much above birds or other woodland creatures. All her humanity, all her development of mind and heart, had come

He seemed to be all alone in the solitary house there was not a sound: he had come in and taken possession, and nobody offered to interfere with him. After a little time, however, he began to realize that the position was rather a strange one; and recovering himself from the curious spell under which he had fallen, he opened the door softly and listened. Then it seemed to him that he heard some faint stir up-stairs. Accord-since then; and of this human soul, this ingly he went up the narrow winding stair- developed being, he knew nothing, absocase, feeling somehow that in this place lutely nothing; and a thirst came upon he could go where he would, that it was not him to find out, the intensest curiosity the house of a stranger. He went up, to know, what manner of woman she was. wondering at himself, half bold, half hes- All at once she opened her eyes and itating, and opened the first door he saw him; but did not start or cry, for, came to. It was the room in which Val-waking or sleeping, Valentine was her entine lay sick-his boy whom he sought. Richard opened the door softly. Everything was very still in it. The patient slept; the watcher, poor soul, in her exhaustion, perhaps was dozing by him, lulled by the profound quiet; or else her brain was confused by the long nursing, and was not easily roused except by the patient, whose lightest movement always awakened her attention. And the light was dim, the blind drawn down, and every possibility of disturbance shut out. Richard stood like one spellbound, and looked at them. His heart gave a wild leap, and then, he thought, stood still. He recognized Val in a moment, and so perhaps had some anxiety set at rest; but indeed I doubt whether, in the strange excitement in which he found himself, anxiety for Val told for much. She sat by the bedside in a large old-fashioned chair, high-backed and square-elbowed, which made a frame to

first object, and she would not have disturbed him had all heaven and earth melted and given way round about her. She opened her eyes, and saw a man looking at her. She raised her head, and knew who it was. The blood rushed back to her heart in a sudden flood, making it beat hard and loud against her side, taking away her breath; but she did nothing more than rise softly to her feet and look at him. Yes, it was he. She knew him, as he had known her, at once. She had expected him. Without any knowledge where he was, or how he could hear, she had yet felt sure that he must come. And therefore she was scarcely surprised; she had the advantage of him so far. She knew him, though to him she was an unknown creature-knew him ignorantly, not having been able to form any judgment of his character; yet had as much acquaintance with him as her mind was

"Ten days," she answered, briefly. She did not hesitate, nor cast down her eyes. She answered with a kind of despairing calm; for to be sure it was certain he would take the boy away, and she had nothing else in her mind. Her own standing in respect to him the attitude of his mind towards her her position in the world as it depended on him all these were nothing to her. She was thinking of the boy, of nothing else.

capable of; while he had no acquaintance say? Faltering, his lips scarcely able to with her. She rose up to meet him, and form the confused words, he asked faintstood wistful, humble, yet with something ly, "How long has he been ill? how long which looked like pride in her erect has he been here?" figure, and that face which had changed so strangely since he knew it. They stood on either side of the bed upon which their son was lying, scrutinizing each other in that strange pathetic gaze. Were there things to be repented of, even in her dim soul?--I cannot tell. She did not think of judging herself. What she felt was that he was here, that she was in his power, and all that was hers; that she was not strong enough to resist him, whatever he might do; that the known and actual had come to an "He has been very ill; what is it? end for her, and all the future was dark Have you a doctor for him?" said Richin his hands. A dim anguish of fear and ard, getting used to the suppressed impotence came over her. He might sound of his own voice. He was speaksend her away from the boy; he might ing like a man in a dream, struggling change her life all at once as by the against some necessity which forced him waving of a wand. She looked at him to say this. It was not what he wanted piteously, putting her hands together un- to say. Had he been able to manage awares ; but while she was thus startled himself, to do as he wished, he would into painful life, plunged into the anx- have said something to her very different ious inquietude of ignorance, roused something kind-something to show to fear and uncertainty, not knowing her that he was not sorry he had seen what was to be done with her, she her again that he was not angry, but was at the same time incapacitated from came to her with friendly feelings. But any evidence of emotion, silenced, kept he could not. The only words he could still, though her heart beat so; speech- manage to get out were these bare busiless, though the helpless cry of appeal nesslike questions, which he might have was on her lips because she would not put to a nurse-only that if she had been wake Val who was sleeping, and, what- a mere nurse, a stranger who had been ever she might be capable of otherwise, kind to his boy, Richard would have been could not, would not, disturb the weary full of gratitude and thanks. He felt all rest of the boy. this, but he could not help it; and the more he wished to say, the less he said.

At length he waved his hand to her impatiently, calling her to follow him out of the room. He did not know what to say to her. Words had gone from him too, though from other reasons; but he could not stand there, however bewildering were his feelings, looking at this woman who was so familiar to him and so unknown. She followed him noiselessly, not resisting, and they stood together on the narrow landing outside, close to each other, her dress almost touching him, her quick breath crossing his. What were they to say to each other? She was not capable of embarrassment in the simplicity of her emotions. But Richard standing by her, man of the world as he was, was totally helpless in this emergency. His gaze faltered; he turned his eyes from her; he trembled, though only he himself was conscious of it. To be so close to her affected him with a hundred complicated feelings. What could he

He felt this to the bottom of his heart; but she did not feel it at all. She took the questions quite naturally, and answered them with calm simplicity. "The doctor comes twice a day. He'll be here soon. I cannot keep the name of it in my mind. Sitting up of nights makes me stupid like; but when he comes, you'll hear."

Then there was a pause. She stood before him, with her hands clasped, waiting for what he was going to say. She had no thought of resisting or standing on her rights, for had she not given up the boy long ago? —and waited with keen but secret anguish for the sentence which she believed he must be about to pronounce. The door was open behind her. While she stood waiting for Richard's words, her ear was intent upon Val, ready to hear if he made the slightest movement. Between these two things

which absorbed her, she was completely generosity, her absolute detachment from occupied. She had no leisure to think of all emotion except in connection with her herself. children, worked upon Richard in the

emotion. "Is this all you think of?" he said, with, in his turn, a strange tone of reproach in his voice-"only of the children! when we meet like this after so many — so many years!"

But he who was alive to all the strange strongest way. They moved him as he troubles of the position, at what a disad- had never thought to be moved. His vantage he was! His embarrassment heart swelled, and filled with a novel and overwhelming self-consciousness were painful beyond description, while she was free from self altogether, and suffered nothing in comparison. While she stood so steadily, a tremulous quiver ran through his every limb. He was as superior to her as it is possible to conceive, and yet he was helpless and speechless before her. At last he made out, faltering, the confused words, "Do you know who he is?"

She raised her eyes to him, wondering. I think she scarcely understood what he could mean. Her mind was so deeply occupied with other thoughts, that the tide of feeling which encountered hers was driven back by the meeting. "I'm "Yes, I know," she said, with a pant-not clever," she said, in a very low voice. ing breath. A gleam of light came over “I'm ignorant - not fit to talk to you.” her face. "I have known him ever since "But you know me?" he said, driven he was a boy. He's been Dick's friend. No lad had ever a better friend. They took a fancy to each other the first day. I heard his name it's seven years since and knew

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"And you told - Val

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She gave a slight start, and looked at him reproachfully, appealingly, but made no other reply. This look disturbed Richard more and more. There was in it a higher meaning than any he seemed capable of. He felt that, from some simple eminence of virtue, impossible to him to conceive, she looked down upon him, quietly indignant of, yet half pitying, his suspicions of her. And, in fact, though she was not capable of any sentiments so articulate, these, in a rudimentary confusion, were the feelings in her mind. "I beg your pardon," he said, humbly. "Then he knows nothing? And the other, the younger - he who is with you

to his wits' end. She looked up at him quickly, with a strange suffusion in her eyes, a momentary dilation. She did not mean it to be reproachful this time. Then she said quickly "We'll trouble no one, Dick and me. He's well off, and doing well. If you will let the other stay till he's better who could nurse him as I would? — and leave Dick alone. I'll trouble nobody, nobody!"

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Myra," said Richard, more moved than he could say. It was not love so much as a strange reluctance to be so powerless-a curious longing to get some sign of feeling from her. He could not bear the composure in her eyes.

She gave a low cry, and made a step backwards, withdrawing from him; and at that moment a faint sound from within the sick-room caught her ear. Her expression, which had changed for the moment, came back again to that of the patient sick-nurse, the anxious watcher. How he faltered! man of the world, He's stirring," she said. "He wants and high-bred gentleman as he was; heme. I mustn't leave him. I've been too did not know how to put the inquiry into long away.” words.

To describe the feelings of Richard "Oh," she said, roused from her still-Ross when she left him outside the door ness of expectation, "don't meddle with Dick! Oh, sir, leave my boy alone! You don't know no one knows but me -how good he is. He's put up with all my wild ways. He's been willing to give up all he likes best for me; but God's given me strength, and I've mastered myself. I've stayed quiet, though it went near to kill me," she said, clasping her hands tightly; "I wouldn't shame him, and take his home from him. Oh, don't meddle with Dick! He's happy

now."

Her entreating look, her appeal to his

of the room in which his son lay ill is more than I am able for. Not since she had fled from him at first, three-andtwenty years ago, had there been such a tumult in his mind; - not the sharp tumult of passion and grief, but the strangest maze of embarrassment, pain, defeat, surprise- and yet for the moment relief. Passion was altogether out of his way nowadays I don't know that he was capable of the feeling; but all the secondary emotions were warm in him. He had been playing with the thought of this woman for a long time, saying maladetta,

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