ject, but changed it, by making inquiries for some of her old friends, whom she had not recognised among the servants in the hall. Most of them, she learned, had married, and settled on the estate; and before nurse left her, she had revived her recollections of all but the most remote portions of the property, and made acquaintance, at least by name, with most of the tenants.

"May the saints be about yer head, my darlin'," said nurse, as she drew her curtains; "will I not bring ye something better than that washy stuff?"

"No, thank you, nurse, I do not want anything to-night; come to me early in the morning."

All was now quiet around; but Dora felt no inclination to sleep. She drew back the curtains which nurse had closely drawn, and from the deep recessed window opposite, gazed upon the paling bonfires, and the dark trees waving in the low night wind. Many thoughts crowded upon her mind--remembrances of her childish days, and her beloved grandmother, whom she almost fancied near, blended with a glow of grateful affection towards the warm-hearted people to whom she had returned. For some time she pleased her fancy, by picturing all the good she would do amongst them. Gradually visions of smiling cottages and happy faces assumed a more dreamlike character, and audible blessings seemed to breathe around her as she fell asleep.

CHAP. III.

At an early hour next morning, Dora was awakened by the bright sunbeams shining into her room. She rose, and, throwing open the window, gazed out, enchanted with the beauty of the scene, and was out on the lawn whilst it was yet wet with the morning dew. She passed through the flower-garden into a path that skirted a wood, and rambled on, gathering wild-flowers as she went, and carolling snatches of her native songs. She was too happy for serious thought of any kind; an exuberant sense of joy overflowed her heart, and life seemed to open before her an unclouded vista of brightness. Yet, in the midst of her wild glee, she longed for something to share it with her. Had a friend been near, or even a dog, from whom she might catch some echo of her gladness. At this moment, she was startled by the sound of an approaching footstep; a quick rustling among the underwood was followed by the appearance of a beautiful spaniel. He stopped short, and, fixing his bright, black eyes for a moment on her, uttered a short bark of joy, and bounded towards her. "Fidèle, my own dog," she exclaimed, clasping her arms round the neck of her favourite, whilst he tried to lick her face and hands, uttering all the while a low whine of delight. As Dora rose from the ground, Lanty, nurse's grandson, emerged from the wood.

"How are you, Lanty?” she said, shaking hands warmly with her old friend.

“I'm well, thanks to yer ladyship; and much the better for seeing ye back, ma'am, as there

"And I'm glad to be amongst you, Lanty. But where has Fidèle come from? My uncle told me he was lost!"

"And so was he, plase yer honourable ladyship; and a weary search

it was that myself and Rory Maccormach had for him, the crathur; for he had been away three days, and we had all as one given him up for dead. And so it was getting purty late on the third day, and we were passing by the Banshee's Crag, that yer ladyship will remember down by the shore. There had been gipsies in it a little afore; but it was quiet enough then. Says I, will ye step in here for a moment, Rory, boy, says I, to shun the shower that's coming over Clack-na-bin just now, for it had been thundering all the afternoon. So we crept into a far corner, and I took out my flask wid a drop of the crathur, for, by your lave, we'd had a long day's thravel, and just then I heard a low moaning in a corner, and I thought I knowed the voice; so, Fiddle says I; and then I heard it again, and when I had moved some straw, there was the poor baist in the corner, and sadly ill-treated he had been. We thought, yer ladyship, the gipsies had stolen him, but how he got hurt as he did, I never could guess. Anyhow, Rory an me wrapped him up, and carried him home, and my gran'mother looked after him, lady, as if he were a Christian. He got well in a few days, wid good tratement, an he's followed me, the crathur, ever since. But, arrah, now, isn't there nathur in the dumb baist? see how he knowed ye'r ladyship at oncet."

"Try if he will follow me, Lanty," said Dora; "call him back."

She walked on without taking any notice of the dog. He look wistfully for a moment, and then bounded after her. Lanty called him, but Fidèle only turned, and, wagging his tail, as if apologising for leaving his kind master, hastened after Dora.

"Good luck to you, thin, my fine fellow," said Lanty. "It's the sowl of an Irishman that's in him. He knows his duty-the baist; bad cess to them that 'ud turn from a lady, let alone her asking thim to follow her."

He made his lowest bow, and departed, while Dora and Fidèle pursued their way together. They were some distance from home, when the gong sounded for breakfast. Dora was returning by what appeared a shorter path, when she found the way closed up. No gate was visible; so, mounting the fence, she leaped easily to the ground on the opposite side, and was suddenly confronted by Mrs Harris.

"Miss Beauford desired me to say she is waiting breakfast for you, ma'am."

Dora hastened on, and in a few moments reached the door of the castle, where Mr Mowbray met her, and, bidding her good morning in his blandest manner, led her into the breakfast-room. Miss Beauford was there, dressed in her stiffest satin, and wearing her stateliest aspect.

"Good morning, Miss Mowbray," she said, in a tone that threw a sudden damp over Dora's gay spirits. "I hope you have had a pleasant ramble? A long one, at least, it has been, as Harris tells me you have been out since daybreak. It was not very customary for young ladies, in my day, to roam over the country alone before breakfast, and be ab sent from morning prayers.'

"Dora did not know the hour of prayers," said Mr Mowbray, mildly. "She will have learnt it by to-morrow."

Dora's look thanked him for this timely interference: "I think I did

hear a bell while I was on the shore," she said. "I will remember the hour in future."

"I am sure you will set an example to your tenants, of that strict observance of God's worship in which you have been educated," said the priest; "but now you must, I am sure, be hungry."

He

Equanimity was restored, but, alas! it was of short duration. Fidèle burst into the room, dripping with a recent plunge in the sea. rushed towards his mistress; but, stopping as he passed Miss Beauford's chair, shook himself so heartily, that a shower of briny drops fell on the satin gown.

"Upon my word, this is too much!" exclaimed the wrathful lady, rising with heightened colour from her chair. "Pray, ring the bell, Mr Mowbray; what insufferable carelessness to suffer the dog to escape from the kennel!"

"No, no!" exclaimed Dora, hastily. "He must not be sent to the kennel. Down, Fidèle-down, sir! I am very sorry, aunt, that he has behaved so ill. He must be taught better manners for the future.” "Oh! he is your dog, Miss Mowbray. I was not aware of that; I think it might be possible to find a more lady-like pet than that great setter." "He is a beautiful dog-a true King Charles," said Dora; but before the question of Fidèle's merits could be further discussed, Mr Mowbray wisely interposed.

"Where did you find him?" he inquired. "Lanty told me he was lost before I left Ireland last autumn."

"I met him with Lanty this morning. He thinks he must have been stolen by the gipsies; but he and Rory Maccormach found him half dead in the old barn on the sea-shore."

Miss Beauford assumed her most dignified demeanour, but, for the present, made no further remark. For some time the conversation was carried on exclusively between Dora and the priest; at last, the good lady condescended to show some interest in the subject, and asked a few questions relating to her convent life.

"The abbess must have been a very sensible person," said she at last, though she allows many indulgences unknown in the convent where I was educated. We were not allowed to speak, except during the hours of recreation; and, in many other ways, a wholesome discipline was maintained, in which the Abbess of St Cloud appears to have been rather deficient."

"The rules for the puns were very strict," said Dora; "but I believe the abbess thought it unnecessary for those whose vocation was the world to observe regulations so rigid."

"None more highly than the young need self-discipline and restraint," said the venerable lady. "Well would it have been, Miss Mowbray, had the holy instructions you have received led to your choice of a religious life; that is the highest distinction to which you could have aspired."

"No, no," said Dora, playfully, as she rose from the table; "I love the free hills too well ever to be shut up like a caged bird." She walked to the window, and sang a few lines of the song, I wont be a nun."" Her aunt appeared greatly shocked by her levity.

"If you must sing such vain songs, Miss Mowbray," she said, "let me beg that it may at least not be in my presence."

Dora looked surprised; a glow of impatient feeling rushed to her fair cheek, but she repressed the passing irritation.

"What can have become of the post-bag," said Mr Mowbray. "Surely the letters are very late."

At this moment the bag was brought in, and the little party were soon busy with its contents.

"May I look at these," said Miss Beauford, taking up one of a packet addressed to Dora.

"I will read part of them to you," she replied; "for the most part they are private."

"I never heard of a young lady having anything private from her natural guardians," said Miss Beauford, drawing herself up in her most stately manner. "I must say I cannot consent to such concealments. All manner of improprieties may be carried on, while no one has power to control them. I am sure Mr Mowbray cannot approve of such proceedings."

"I certainly cannot approve of insubordination towards those who are set over you," replied Mr Mowbray.

"Surely it is no infringement of duty," said Dora, indignantly, "to preserve sacred the confidence of friends. There are some things into which I can never suffer intrusion."

The priest's brow lowered.

"It is well," he said, "for the self-willed spirits that would hasten to their own destruction, that the Church has imposed upon such the duty of confession."

He left the room as he spoke, and Miss Beauford held out her hand as if to receive the letters.

"I have told you already, aunt," said Dora, "the letters are private, and the betrayal of confidence is a sin I shall never have to confess."

She rose, and, hastening to her room, placed the contested letters in her writing desk, and sat down to calm the agitation which the scene that had just passed had aroused. She felt little inclination to return to her aunt's society, and spent some hours alone. The beauty of the day at last tempted her out; and she was sitting on the stone steps of a terrace that descended by flights of steps into a dingle, and forming the plan of a new flower garden on the smooth slope of the velvet turf, when she was summoned to luncheon. Determined not to be too late a second time, she hastily entered the house, and found Miss Beauford alone.

The meal passed almost in silence, notwithstanding Dora's repeated efforts to restore a state of harmony. Anger was with her an evanescent feeling, and the natural sweetness of her disposition disposed her to be on happy terms with those among whom she lived. Her efforts, however, for the present were vain.

"What are your plans for this afternoon?" she said as they rose. "Shall we drive, or would you prefer walking?"

"I do not intend to go out to-day," said her aunt stiffly.
"Do you not? Shall we, then, spend a quiet afternoon?"

"I am occupied in my room to-day; but, if you wish to walk beyond the garden, Mrs Harris will accompany you."

"No, thank you, I will ride," said Dora; and ringing the bell, she ordered her horse, before Miss Beauford had time to interpose.

"I am astonished, Miss Mowbray," she exclaimed, "to hear you make such a proposal, to ride over the country, with only a wild Irish groom to attend you. Really, if such are your ideas of propriety, I think there is much need that your actions be under the control of some one whose judgment is more sound than your own!"

This was going too far. Dora turned, as she was about to leave the room; and, drawing up her slight figure to its full height, she said, with a quiet dignity that would have silenced almost any one,

66

My dear aunt, I am fully sensible of your kindness in coming to live with me, and it is my wish that you should find this a happy home; but to-day, at the beginning of our life together, let us fully understand each other. For the next four days, my actions, by law, must be subject to the will of my guardians, but to no one else. After that time, I shall be uncontrolled mistress of my conduct, and by every one must be treated as such."

She left the room without waiting for a reply.

As she crossed the hall, she heard the sound of retiring carriage wheels, and was met by a servant with cards.

"Why were they not admitted?" she inquired, looking at the names. "Because they are a Protestant family, my lady; and his rivirence tould me only to admit those of the thrue Church."

Let every one be admitted, O'Brien, unless I give orders to the contrary," she said.

"Well, shure this is a bother I'm in," said the man when he was out of hearing. "I would'nt go agin her ladyship at no rate; and shure it's my mistress she is. But thin there's the praste. Oh! well, I'll just be after telling his rivirence I forgot; or maybe sometimes I didn't know whether they were of the thrue faith or not."

Dora mounted the spirited young horse Lanty had been training for her; and, followed by her attendant, cantered over the smooth grassy slopes. She felt as if escaped into new life and liberty, and prolonged her ride till near the dinner hour. Her spirits were invigorated; and she descended to the drawing-room, full of hope that a few days and a little decision would terminate her present annoyances.

FIELDS AND FACTORIES.

Doubtless the de

Ir is difficult to divest the mind of preconceptions. scription which two men, equally honest and equally able, may give of the same thing, will receive distinctive colouring from the minds of the respective writers. For example, the subject indicated by the title of this paper will suggest at once, without any chain of reasoning or examination of facts, two opposite conclusions to two different minds. The man of poetic sympathies, or of retiring habits, the naturalist or the student, will feel himself drawn by gentle yet powerful attractions to the green fields of his native parish, and will, in imagination, revisit the scenes of his boyish sports and his early attachments,-scenes, all the sweeter now