equals, there can be little doubt; but when a man goes about with such a conviction for ever in his mind, he had better be the dupe he fears to be. Edith was comparatively free from this defect, but it was a continual misery to her to see him so much the prey of it. Her own manner was as graceful and fascinating as ever-her smile as radiant, when it was seen; but the life she led was, in many respects, wearisome and unsatisfactory to her. She moped during Lord Henry's frequent absences; she was apt to feel fatigued with the exertion of entertaining the large parties they thought themselves obliged to receive, and she constantly pined for the society of her husband, as she had formerly enjoyed it; and above all, for the exquisite, confiding, perfect love that had blessed the first years of their happy union.

Again twins had made their appearance -twin daughters; and though on this occasion, there was no difficulty in providing baby-clothes of a texture fine enough to satisfy even Mrs. Gormandyce herself; still there were annoyances connected with the little strangers, not wholly without reference to money, even now. Purposely, perhaps, and

to insure a certain degree of prudence in the management of so immense a property, Mr. Somerset had entailed everything upon the heirs male after the death of the parents; no provision, therefore could be made for the daughters, excepting what might be yearly put by for them, and though to most people it would seem no hard matter to save a very sufficient sum out of so princely an income, yet even this necessity was felt, at last, as a hardship, and was made the excuse for occasional fits of economy, which the meddling world presumed not a little to wonder at, and condemn. That world indeed, was beginning to think that in spite of his riches, its former petted favourite Lord Henry, was not quite so good a fellow as it had always hitherto considered him—and to moralize very pathetically over the fact, that wealth, especially when suddenly acquired, is rarely improving to a man's character.

Our old friend, Lady Frant, was but slightly altered. She had grown somewhat more wrinkled, and more imposing in what she called her 'presence,' during the last three years— stricter, too, in those exquisitely delicate no

tions of female decorum, for which, we remember, she was always admirable-rather longer in her periods, and considerably more solicitous about a certain debt, of which she was herself the esteemed, but rather exacting creditor. It was astonishing what she owed to herself and her position now—there really seemed no chance of her ever getting paid anything like the amount. And with this debt, Edith was much and mysteriously connected; for there was no duty Lady Frant owed to herself, more urgent and imperative, than that of giving Edith every kind of possible hint respecting the management of her establishments, and every comforting and motherly assurance that her method was not only radically wrong in itself, but fearfully unfortunate in its results. What servants she engaged, what unheard-of monstrosities they committed in and out of doors-what entertainments she gave-what company she invited -what dress she wore herself, and what she chose her children to wear all these, and a hundred other similar particulars were, somehow or other, inseparably mixed up with Lady Frant's debt to herself. It must be confessed that Edith had grown considerably more

independent of her mother-in-law than for merly; still she could not, even now, divest herself of a certain feeling of nervous apprehension during one of her visits of inspection.

Lady Elizabeth Curran was Lady Elizabeth Curran still; and if, in any one respect she had changed, it was certainly not for the better

a more ungenial, and a more unhappy being could not be seen. Since the sudden death of poor Lord Foyle, her last hope seemed to have vanished-her last sympathy to have been extinguished. He had been with her two days before he died, sitting as usual, with his hands on his knees, and his eyes helplessly riveted on the work-frame-beyond which her red knobby nose might occasionally be seen protruding. What had passed between them previously, will probably never be known to the world; but, certain it is, that during that memorable visit, she took courage to express to him her conviction that he stood greatly in need of a helpmate, and her readiness to undertake that office at the shortest possible notice. His silence on this announcement had, at first, given some encouragement to her fond hopes; but these had been again dashed by perceiving that he was tremblingly searching

for his gloves, which, in his agitation, he had dropped, and was utterly unable to recover. She picked them up, and in handing them to him, took occasion to bestow the most meaning of squeezes upon the purple fumbling fingers, which rather unwillingly submitted to the pressure. Then she helped him on with his great-coat, dexterously-as only she could do, and handed him his hat-enjoining him, with a gentle, lingering touch on the arm, to think over what she had said-and finally saw him depart without a word. She hoped something from the expression of his eye-she hoped still more from his reflections at home. Perhaps, she had her own reasons for being more sanguine this time, than she had ever been before.

Poor Lord Foyle! he did as she had desired he obeyed her injunctions to the letter -he thought, and thought, and thought, the whole of that weary night; and the following morning found him thinking and thinking still. The morning, too, brought with it the usual accompaniment to thoughts like thesea desperate fit of the gout-by far the worst he had ever had in his life. Still he continued to think, as she had desired him to do-he