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Zaidee.

"I dared not trust any one, Mary," said | Powisland, and her father was with Grandfather Vivian. Did they put it back in the Grange "And to think how slow Percy was," con- library, Sophy? it had the same binding as all tinued Mary, who had by no means exhausted the other books. Did you see it, that strange her own self-congratulations, "and how ready legacy? I thought Grandfather Vivian was to believe that I myself, and only me, was anx-leading me then; and when I found the book, I ious to see Philip on his way home. He said I was very ill, and had a fever. I thought at first had a right to my whim-simple Percy!-and I would have come home, but it was not enough after all, the dog was a greater assistance to him for Philip, and I never knew he had gone to than I was in finding you out; for he had found India: I thought he was at the Grange, and you out before you discovered yourself. Poor you were all happy at home." Sylvo, Lizzy, what will become of him? He will go away to the delights of savagery; he will shoot elephants, or be an Abyssinian dandy, and Sylvo's place will go to waste, and all the while your cousin Philip and you will look at each other. What do I mean? I do not mean anything, my princess- but there is Mrs. Burlington coming to rejoice over you, and I will go sway."

CHAPTER XXXIII. - SOPHY. "MRS. BURLINGTON !"

"Yes, indeed, it is so, Zay," said Sophy, shaking her pretty head with mock melancholy as she came in; "everybody must be Mrs. something, you know, and we are all very happy. But Zay, Zay! I want you to tell me from the very beginning. And are you glad to be home? And you were nearly breaking your heart when mamma was ill, Miss Cumberland says? Do you think Philip is changed? did you not wonder to hear that Margaret was married to a Powis, after all? and do you know Elizabeth's little girl, the dearest of all the children, is called Zaidee? Dear Zay, you are our own now, you are no one else's. Begin at the beginning, where you went as a governess - Mrs. Disbrowe's. What in the world did you teach the children, Zaidee?-did you tell them stories? for you know you never would learn anything else yourself." "I could not teach them at all," said Zaidee, "and they would not have me. I thought they were very right at the time; but they were cruel -children are very cruel sometimes and I wished for nothing but to die."

"And then?" cried Sophy. Sophy was very curious to hear the whole.

"And then I went to Mrs. Lancaster's, and met Aunt Burtonshaw; good Aunt Burtonshaw! I should have died, and never seen this day, if it had not been for her," said Zaidee; "and I went to Ulm with her, to be a companion to Mary."

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"To Ulm!-where is that?" said Sophy. "Mamma heard you had gone abroad, and they went everywhere seeking you, and every one of them saw you somewhere, Zaidee. It had never been you at all! for I am sure they did not go to Ulm."

"It is on the Danube. We were there a great many years," said Zaidee, “and then when grew up, Mrs. Cumberland said I should be called by their name, and be her adopted daughter. They have been very kind to me, Sophy-as kind as they were to Mary. But first I found that book-an old woman had itan old Welsh servant, who was a servant at

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"Happy at home, when we had lost you, Zay!" cried Sophy; "the Grange was never like its own self again. We will keep Philip's birthday at home this year we will keep it at Briar ford- - you shall ask every one of us to come to the Grange. But after your fever, Zaideę, what happened then?"

"We travelled a great deal, and then we came back to England. I was afraid to come to England," said Zaidee; "and so indeed we had not been very long settled here when Mary met Percy. I went one evening in the carriage to bring her home, and then I saw him. I could not tell who he was, Sophy, and yet I knew him; and then I heard it was Mr. Vivian, the great author! and then he came to Twickenham, and I read his books, and I was very proud, you may be sure. But to hear of you all as if I was a stranger, and to hear Elizabeth's little girl called Zaidee, and to hear that Aunt Vivian was ill, and Philip coming home-O, Sophy, I had nearly broken my heart!"

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"But it is all over now, dear Zay,-dear Zay!" cried Sophy, with her arms round her recovered companion. "And you were grieved to hear that Philip had gone to India; and you ventured to write and send the deed. Do you know, we began to be so eager every post-time after your first letter came. Mamma said you would be sure to write again, and at first she was quite confident of finding you. But never mind all that you are found now, Zaidee, and you will never be lost again. Come down stairs, where they are all waiting for us. Where did you get the grayhound, Zay? was it only one of Sir David's hounds? for poor Sermo is not living now, to stalk after you. I think I should not have known you so soon but for the dog. Poor Sermo pined and died when you were gone. I have so much to tell you, and so much to ask you. Do you think Philip is changed? But come, they are waiting for us down stairs."

"Here is Sophy, with Miss Vivian; and here is the whole breakfast-table in alarm, lest our heroine should have disappeared again, "said the stately Sir David Powis, as Zaidee followed her cousin into the well-filled breakfast-room.

"Miss Vivian!" said Sophy; "only think, mamma, what a devastation when Zaidee comes to be Miss Vivian? Elizabeth was Miss Vivian when Zaidee went away. Then it was Margaret's turn and mine, and now there is only the youngest. There is no Miss Vivian in the world but Zay!"

"Zaidee, come to me," said Margaret, with a little authority; "mamma had you all last night, and Sophy has had you this morning, and

"But, Mr. Cumberland, only think how cold!" cried Sophy, whose apprehension was as practical and matter-of-fact as ever; they could never stand a gale at Briarford; and then

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Elizabeth will have you at all times. What | faults of your peasantry as to build them palaces beautiful hair she has got, and how she has of glass." grown, and how much she is like Elizabeth! "It certainly would be an effectual lesson Don't you think so, mamma? There is a picture against throwing stones," said Sir David Powis, in the gallery that might have been done for with well-bred gravity. Zaidee. It is quite the family face. My little Herbert has a little of it. Did you see my boy, Zaidee? And you saw all Elizabeth's children? Why have you stayed so long away from home, you foolish child? You don't know how we have - why, it would quite be living in public; wished for you, and searched for you. Sophy everybody would see everything they did." sobbed herself to sleep I cannot tell how many "So much the better for their transparency nights after you were lost, and we did nothing and purity of character," said Mr. Cumberland; but dream of you night and day. I never hear "so much the better, my dear madam -- and an the winter wind even at Powisland but I listen immediate cure to the dangerous propensity of for footsteps; and you have been Miss Cumber- the poorer classes for throwing stones, as Sir land all the while. How very strange that your David very justly says-but perfectly capable adopted sister should be Percy's betrothed!- of a high rate of temperature, as our conserhow very strange! When we heard of Miss vatories show. I should not be at all surprised Cumberland, and of Miss Cumberland's sister, if the old proverb of those who live in glass who was like our Elizabeth, how little we dreamt houses' had a prophetic reference to this beauthat she was our own Zaidee! You must bring tiful suggestion. We do our ancestors very poor Zay to Powisland, mamma. And Zay, Sir justice, Sir David. I am convinced they perDavid wants to know about the old woman who ceived the capacity of a great many things that was a servant to his family. Everything is so we, with all our boasts, are only beginning to wonderful about this child-Grandfather Viv-put into use. I consider this an admirable opian's book, and the person who served the portunity for a great moral reformation— to a Powises-she must have been quite surrounded man who considers the welfare of his country a with things belonging to the family. You must perfectly sufficient reason for acquiring land." have remembered us as well, Zaidee, as we remembered you."

When Lady Powis paused to take breath, Mrs. Burtonshaw eagerly took the opportunity. "My dear child," said Mrs. Burtonshaw, "I am sure I shall never be able to call you anything but Elizabeth, or to think you belong to another family. Indeed, I am sure I never shall; and to think we should have had her so long, and never found this out. Maria Anna!- and Mary to discover it all! But my dear Mary always was so sensible a child. We will all find it very dull going back to Twickenham, and leaving you behind, my dear love; and Sylvo will never believe it, I am sure. It will be very dreary for me, Elizabeth, and Maria Anna will feel it a great deal, and so will Mr. Cumberland. I think we will never be able to stay in that house when we lose both Mary and you."

"The house is necessarily imperfect, sister Burtonshaw," said Mr. Cumberland. "Improvements are never so satisfactory as a place well planned from the beginning. I have a great mind to begin anew — the Elizabethan style has its advantages; and I hear a great deal of the adaptability of glass. What do you think of glass and iron as materials for your cottages, Sir David?-a beautiful material, brilliant and inexpensive, and capable of very rapid erection. By the way, I know of nothing better adapted to promote the artistic education of the people. Those light iron shafts take the most beautiful forms; and as for color, nothing can excel glass. Suppose a row of cottages now, instead of the ordinary affairs, with low walls and thatched roof, springing up to the light with these glittering arches. Depend upon it, sir, a very great moral influence is in the nature of our houses. You could not do anything so sure to correct the

And Mr. Cumberland turned immediately to the Times Supplement of yesterday, and began to turn over its advertisements with an interested eye. Mr. Cumberland already felt a disinterested necessity for becoming a landed proprietor, and in imagination saw his glittering line of novel cottages, the inhabitants of which should be effectually convinced of the damage of throwing stones, shining under the sun, with a sheen of reflection against which the homely thatched roof had no chance. Sir David Powis, who was a satirist, and loved "a character" with his whole heart, drew near Mr. Cumberland with the most benevolent eagerness to ascertain the particulars of his scheme; and Philip was being questioned at one end of the table, Zaidee at the other. The family party abounded in conversation, every one had so much to ask, and so much Ito tell; and though Zaidee was the greater wonder of the two, and somewhat eclipsed Philip, Philip had been absent equally long, and had a larger stock of adventures. The very servants moved about in quickened time in that buzz of happy commotion -the wide family circle was so full of life.

CHAPTER XXXIV. — THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE.

To the much amazement of all the family, it appeared that Philip was anxious to go to London before proceeding to the Grange, which was still "home" to all these Vivians. Grandfather Vivian's will had to be proved and established, and Zaidee formally invested with her property, and Philip had business of his own in town. Philip proposed a family migration thither; he was very sympathetic of the loss which Zaidee's kind friends must feel in losing her so suddenly. "I do not care to part with you, mother, even

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for a day," said Philip; "and it is hard to sep-| Cumberland. Silver spoons were continually slidarate my cousin from her old life so hurriedly." ing out by the buttery-hatch, which was intendBut, Philip it is no worse, at the very worst, ed for nothing less innocent than broken meats than if she had been married," said Sophy; or bread; and the benevolent dolphin of the foun"when she married, of course, she must have tain was long since robbed of his enamelled cup. left Mrs. Cumberland. Miss Cumberland her- But, last and worst, the unkindest cut of all, self must leave home when she is married. It those urchins, for whose benefit Mr. Cumberland may be very hard, you know, but we all have to besought his wealthy brethren to decorate with do it, and this is no worse than Zaidee's mar- monograms the front of their houses, took into riage would be." But to the surprise of Sophy, their independent British minds to pelt Mr. CumPhilip regarded with considerable haughtiness berland's own monogram with clay, and, findthe prospect of Zaidee's marriage. It did not ing it an admirable butt, persevered till the phiseem at all an agreeable object of contemplation lanthropist found only bits of the dragon's tail to the head of the house. He withdrew from and morsels of the gilding peering out, unfortuthe question with great gravity and stateliness, nate memorials of the cannonade. "If these and with considerable embarrassment mingling little vagabonds had been bred in houses of crysin his usual deference, turned to Zaidee herself. tal, it would have fared better with this ornamen"If it is only a whim, will you humor it?" tation, for which they do not yet show themselves said Philip, bending over Zaidee's hand. "I sufficiently educated," said Mr. Cumberland, would rather have a little time elapse before we undismayed. Sir David Powis is a very senall go back to the Grange; our old home is very sible man, sister Burtonshaw. The next gener dear to us all, but I ask for a few weeks', a very ation will be better taught. You shall see no few weeks', delay." missiles either of stone or clay in the hands of the boys of my cottages. We will refine these uncultivated natures, sister Burtonshaw-never fear!" and Mr. Cumberland retired to perfect his plan for the construction of cottages of iron and glass.

Zaidee became embarrassed, too, in sight of Philip's embarrassment; she withdrew from him a little, and her eyes fell under his glance with an uncomfortable consciousness. Wondering, as she did, what Philip could mean, Zaidee did not inquire into it; she consented to his wish readily, but with considerable confusion. "If Zaidee will invite us, let us all keep Philip's birthday at home in the Grange," cried Sophy; and to this there was a universal assent. But when Mary and Zaidee, with Percy for their squire, and Mrs. Burlington for their chaperone, set out on a day's visit to the old family dwelling-place, Philip evaded all invitations to accompany them. He preferred not to see the Grange till his business was done, and all his plans concluded. Nobody could understand Philip, and mysterious whispers of wonder stole through the family, and Sophy and Margaret held synods upon him. Could Philip be in love," that mysterious condition which these old married ladies were amused at, yet interested in? Elizabeth, for her part, only smiled when she was introduced to these discussions. Nobody was jealous of Elizabeth -yet Lady Powis did grudge a little that the newly-returned and well-beloved brother should not give his confidence equally to all.

But, as it happened, Philip had not given his confidence to any one, if he had a confidence to give. The family assembly dispersed from Castle Vivian to gather again at the Grange; and Philip and Percy and Aunt Vivian accompanied the Cumberland family to London. Zaidee was still Elizabeth, their adopted daughter, to these kind people; she was still Aunt Burtonshaw's dear child, though Aunt Burtonshaw's hopes for Sylvo grew fainter and fainter; and the house at Twickenham was honored to receive Mrs. Vivian, who would not again lose sight of the long-lost child. To the kind but somewhat imperious mistress of the Grange, Mr. Cumberland's porch was an intolerable nuisance; she had much ado restraining herself from sweeping forth its inappropriate inmates, who, indeed, made themselves somewhat embarrassing neighbors even to Mrs.

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"Sylvo is coming here for a week or two, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Burtonshaw. "Poor Sylvo, I am sure you will be kind to him, my darling, and not send the poor boy away. He is a very different man from Mr. Vivian, my love. I do not deny that Mr. Vivian is handsome, Elizabeth, and a very fine young man; but I am afraid he always takes his own way. Now Sylvo, though he is so manly, is so easy and so good, that any one he loves can make him do anything, my dear child."

"Sylvo is very good and very kind. I know he is, Aunt Burtonshaw," said Zaidee.

"Yes, indeed, my love, though I am his mother, Sylvo is very good, Elizabeth. Now, I am sure there is something very grand about Mr. Vivian; but, for my part, I always feel I would rather do his way than make him do mine, and that makes a great difference in married life, my dear child. All the ladies wanted to go to the Grange, that place of yours, my dear; but Mr. Vivian wanted to come to London, and therefore we came; and all your trouble and your running away was because Mr. Vivian would not hear reason. I like him very well; he is a very handsome young man, and I do not wonder his family are proud of him; but I do not think I should like to marry Mr. Vivian, Elizabeth; he is a great deal different from my Sylvo. I am afraid he always takes his own way."

Žaidee did not dispute the fact, for in her secret heart she was greatly disturbed about Philip. What Philip was doing was not at present very well known to any of them. He lived in London with Percy, but came faithfully with Percy every night to visit the family at Twickenham. Percy had made the boldest dash into the business of his legitimate profession. Some one who knew the family, and admired the genius of it, had

retained him to advocate his cause in a plea very shortly to be tried; and Percy laughed his gay, scornful laugh when remonstrances were made against his daily visits to his betrothed, and when his time of preparation was spoken of. "I am quite prepared," said Percy, and there was no farther room to say a word. But one evening, while they sat in expectation of the brothers, Mr. Steele came to pay one of his visits. "Have you heard what happened to young Vivian?" said Mr. Steele. "The case came on before it was expected, and he got up immediately, and made the most brilliant speech that has been heard for years; but when the young gentleman sat down, what do you think he had done, Mrs. Burtonshaw? Instead of pleading his client's case, he had been pleading the opposition and gained his plea !"

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It was but too true. Percy came out very rueful, very comical-varying between great discomfiture and despondency, and fits of overpowering laughter. "It was not my side, to be sure, but it was the right of the question," said Percy. "They could never have gained it with their blundering fellow of a leading counsel, who could make nothing of it, right or wrong. I can't help it; and now I suppose I am done; they may call me 'Single-speech Vivian.' Alas for the evanescent glory of fees! I will never get one again."

them after an antique fashion, which, in Philip's fancy, adds the last aggravation of which it is capable to Zaidee's singular beauty. This lovely lady of romance is that same Zaidee who, with a child's love and unthinking generosity, sacrificed all her world of comfort and security for the sake of Philip. This is the Zaidee who once made a certain proposal to Philip, which roused his boyish manhood only to annoyance and embarrassment; but the Philip of the present time has learned an infinite deal of humility from those eyes which once appealed to him as the highest judge. As he steps back, he makes a beseeching sign to his mother, of which Mrs. Vivian, who is not in the habit of hiding her son's candle under a measure, takes no notice as she proceeds.

"What do you think Philip has been doing, Zaidee? Your cousins' portions were suddenly brought to nothing by that unfortunate will. The children were all penniless: Margaret had nothing when she married, and neither had Sophy, poor child, who had more need for it; and Percy has got embarrassed, you know. Well, here is Philip, who, after all, did not get Castle Vivian as an inheritance so much as a purchase-what do you think he says he has been doing? He has been settling the portions of the younger children upon them-more than they could have had, had we kept the Grangevery considerable fortunes, indeed, Zaidee. He has made himself quite a poor man. Philip ought not to have done it; what do you say, child?":

"I only remember what Philip said to me, Aunt Vivian, when I found the will," said Zaidee.

"And what was that?" said Mrs. Vivian eagerly. Philip made a pretence of drawing still farther back, but, like a hypocrite, while he pretended to turn away, only came the nearer.

"He said it was the office of the head of the house to see that the children of the house had all their rights," said Zaidee; and she raised to Philip those glistening beautiful eyes which struck Philip with such profound humility. He turned away on the instant, afraid to trust him self, but he could not help hearing the end of Zaidee's sentence. "This is Philip's inheritance, Aunt Vivian. I understand it- he is the head of the house!”

It happened, fortunately, that Mr. Cumberland was greatly tickled with this misadventure of his son-in-law elect. It struck the philosopher's peculiar sense of humor; and nobody had a word of blame to say to the gay Percy, who was already casting about in his fertile brains for some other expedient, which might be more successful, to disembarrass him. Philip was standing by the window with his mother. The mirror gave a pretty reflection of these two figures-the little lady in her widow's dress, with a rich India shawl which Philip had brought, replacing the Shetland wool one which has been worn out before now; but her rich, dim, black silk gown, and her widow's cap the same as of old, her waist as slender, her foot in its high-heeled shoe, as rapid and as peremptoryher whole person as completely realizing the fairy godmother of Zaidee's fancy as it had ever done; while Philip stood beside her in the easy, unelaborate dress of an English gentleman, with his close curls clustering about his manly head, his cheek bronzed, his hand laid playfully upon his mother's shoulder: he has been making a report to her, laughing at some objections she "My dear love, Sylvo is coming to-morrow," urges, and explaining rapidly and clearly some- said Mrs. Burtonshaw. Mrs. Burtonshaw was thing which his mother only receives with diffi- nervous about Sylvo's coming, and told every culty, shaking her head. While they stand individual in the house, though every one althus, Mrs. Vivian suddenly calls Zaidee to her; ready knew. Sylvo came from London, and on the instant Philip Vivian relapses into a brought with him, instead of the peaceful portstately and deferential paladin—the most chiv-manteau which might have been expected, the alrous knight who ever worshipped his lady most marvellous stock of baggage traps, from afar-and withdraws a step back as his as Sylvo was pleased to entitle them. Among beautiful cousin comes forward to answer his these were two fowling-pieces, a magnificently mother's summons. Mrs. Vivian has put away mounted dirk, and some murderous revolvers, Zaidee's simple muslin gowns, and has dressed with one or two extraordinary plaids or blanher richly as it suits her fair form to be dressed; kets, the use of all which to a quiet country and the maker of these rustling silks has made gentleman in Essex, Mrs. Burtonshaw could not

CHAPTER XXXV.

CONCLUSION.

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divine. Sylvo was much disposed to silence for the first day of his visit; and though the leaves were thin, and the grass no longer desirable as a couch, Sylvo still frequented the group of trees among which he had been wont to enjoy his cigar. On the second day, Sylvo's mouth was opened; he had been discovered seated among the trees, polishing with his own hand the silver mounting of his favorite revolver. "Mansfield is just about setting out; he's a famous fellow," said Sylvo. This oracular speech was enough to fill his mother with alarm and trembling. "Mr. Mansfield is quite a savage," said Mrs. Burtonshaw, with dignity; "I do not wonder he should be glad to go back again. He may be quite a fine gentleman among those poor creatures, Sylvo, but he is not very much at home." Sylvo's "ha, ha" came with considerable embarrassment from behind his mustache. "Fact is, I thought of taking a turn myself, to see the world," said Sylvo, "A man can't be shut up in a house like a girl. Mansfield's the best company going-better than a score of your grand men; never have such another chance."

"To see the world?" said Mrs. Burtonshaw. "What do you call seeing the world, you poor simple boy? And there is my dear darling child, Elizabeth, you will leave her pining, you unfeeling great fellow, and never say a word?" "Much she cares!" said Sylvo, getting up very hastily. "If she is a beauty, what have I got to do with it, when she won't have me? I'll be off, mother; you can keep the place, and see things all right. Mansfield's a long way better than Elizabeth for me." 29

"My dear boy, she would have you. Do not go and leave us, Sylvo; she will break her heart," said simple Mrs. Burtonshaw.

Mary will be a bride so soon, there is little time to think of anything else for Percy, with his younger brother's fortune, can be content with that other profession of literature, in which he cannot have the same brilliant misadventures as in the learned mysteries of law-and there is to be a marriage here at Twickenham. But all this while the great mirror over the wall, when it holds up its picture of Zaidee's beautiful face, chronicles a constant shade of perplexityan anxious cloud upon this fair brow of hers, which is like the brow of a queen. There is no understanding Philip - he is a perpetual mystery with his reserve and courtly politeness; and now his birthday is approaching very closely, and they all prepare to go home to the Grange.

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It is wild October weather on the hill of Briarford. Over that great waste of sky the clouds are hurrying in the wildest flight, and this bold gale has pleasure in tossing them close upon each other in black, tumultuous masses, and scattering them abroad anon with a shout of triumph. There is no change upon the wet, green carpet of these Cheshire fields, and there are still the old gables and haystacks of Briarford, the square tower of the church among these little plumes of blue smoke, and the dwarf oaks in the hedge-rows shaking their knotted branches and remainder leaves in the face of the strong blast. Above here, on the lawn of the Grange, the winds are rushing together, as the strangers think, from every quarter under heaven; but even the strangers feel the wild exhilaration of the sweeping gale, which raises their voices into gay shouts of half-heard words ánd laughter, and keeps up a perpetual riot round this exposed and far-seeing dwellingplace. The sea is roaring with an angry curl upon yonder line of sand-banks far awaylingering line of red among yonder storm-clouds tells of the sunset, as it yields unwillingly tonight—and all these solitary lines of road trace And thus was the exit of Sylvester Burton- out the silent country, travelling towards the shaw. Sylvo may write a book when he comes sky; but there is no Mariana now at the window nome, for anything that can be predicted to the of the Grange, looking for the wayfarer who contrary. Sylvo, at the present moment, lives never comes. The red and genial fire-light a life which the vagrants in Mrs. Cumberland's gleams between the heavy mullions of the great porch would sink under in a week. Sylvo tramps window; there is light in the library, light in barefoot over burning deserts, hews his way the young ladies' room -the bright cross light through unimaginable jungle, fights wild beasts, of old. The modern windows at the other end and has a very hard struggle for his savage ex- of the drawing-room are draped once more to istence; all for no reason in the world, but their feet with crimson curtains, but no veil because he happened to be born to wealth and shuts out that glimpse of wild sky, with its tuleisure, and found it a very slow thing to be an mult of cloud and wind, across which these English country gentleman. No wonder the great mullions of stone print themselves like savages whom Sylvo emulates open their heathen bars. There is Mrs. Vivian's easy-chair and her eyes in the utmost wonder; he does it for pleas- high footstool; there is Percy's writing-table, ure, this extraordinary Englishman, and roars his "ha, ha," out of his forest of beard, over all his voluntary hardship. Savage life has no such phenomenon; and, for the good of society, when he comes home, Sylvo will write a book.

But Sylvo only whistled a long, shrill “whew!" of undutiful scepticism. "I know better," said Sylvo; and he went off to his cigar.

"Sylvo will be quite happy-it will do him good, Aunt Burtonshaw," said Mary Cumberland; "and you have still two children-you have Elizabeth and me."

Whereupon Aunt Burtonshaw wipes her kind eyes, and is comforted.

where Percy has been writing; there is the hereditary newspaper, at which Philip no longer "pshaws," but sometimes laughs outright. But in all this familiar room there is no living object familiar; there is only a group of beautiful children playing in the light of the fire.

Lady Powis is making a grand toilette. Sophy is wasting her dressing-hour talking to Mary Cumberland, but there are still two beautiful faces reflected dimly in the little mirror over the bright fireplace of the young ladies'

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