not, she could not tell, but she watched him go in search of Lady Redenham, and presently saw them waltzing together in the next room.

"Captain Vyvian," Ethelind said, as they stood together waiting for the music to commence, "I never properly thanked you for your rescue of Margaret and myself in our dilemma at the Opera the other night."

"Pray, don't thank me, Lady Redenham. If I had not stood hesitating about what I ought to do, I should have been of more service. Has Miss Atherton been long with you?"

"Only a week. Don't you think her looking remarkably well?” "Older than when I knew her; but that is so long ago.

"To be sure she does! Who would not, after all the care and anxiety she has gone through since papa's death?"

"Is Chudleigh engaged to your sister, Lady Redenham ?" Guy asked, in a voice studiously unconcerned and careless.

"To Margaret, do you mean? Oh, no, Captain Vyvian," Ethel replied as carelessly. "At least, not yet," she added, with a malicious pleasure in teasing which seemed to have suddenly seized her. "He is very much taken with her; and she is so great a favourite with his family, such an event would be most popular amongst them, I suspect. But Margaret has refused so many good offers, I should tremble for even Mr. Chudleigh's chance."

"But he is a clever fellow, and a rising one, too, and your sister seems on such easy terms with him, I thought there must be an engagement."

"His uncle, you know, is the Rector of Deignton, and one of Margaret's greatest friends. She never saw the nephew till she came to us. Of course they have long known each other through friends. I am sure I only wish it may turn out so," she added, her companion's indifferent tone piquing her into being vindictive. "Margaret deserves a good husband, if any one does, and you know she is no longer a young girl."

Again they joined in the giddy dance, and when the music ceased they were standing near Ann's sofa.

"Captain Vyvian," Ethel began, with a little blush on her cheek at her temerity," Redenham told me you would remain our guest until after my pic-nic next week. Of course you did not then know who were our guests. If you prefer breaking your engagement, pray, don't scruple to do so; I shall quite understand, and will make all proper excuses for you."

Guy gave a quick glance into Ethel's grave, demure face. "If my presence is an annoyance, Lady Redenham; if you think I had better go, advise it," he said.

"Not the slightest, I assure you," she replied with one of her bright merry laughs. "It was entirely on your own account I mentioned it, because, you see, I can by no means guarantee you against being a witness to Mr. Chudleigh's surrender to Margaret's attractions."

"If my feelings only are to be consulted, pray, dismiss all fear," Guy said, with a cold disdainful toss of his chin, and a little attempt at a laugh, which, however, never even moved the muscles of his resolute mouth. "No, Lady Redenham, thank you; I really feel very much obliged to you and your husband for your hospitable invitation. Will you tell me one thing," he added, as she was moving away,-"does Redenham, Chudleigh, any body, in fact, but you, know that that Margaret and I were once friends?" For a moment the resolute tones faltered, and the name brought up a colour on his bronzed face as he spoke it.

"Not a soul!" Ethelind replied promptly. "Margaret would die rather than breathe a syllable to her dearest friend. Indeed, so careful has she ever been of your feelings, she has borne the blame which she really never deserved. And so entirely has it all died out of memory, even I had almost forgotten it, until your appearance at the Opera the other night, and Margaret's agitation when she recognised you, brought it to my remembrance."

"Then my presence did agitate your sister-did annoy her-did put her out? But how could I stand by, and not help you? I blamed myself afterwards for having hesitated so long."

"Oh, dear, no. We were both very much obliged to you-at least, I was, for I thought once we had lost Margaret. Of course, coming suddenly on an old friend, from whom you had parted in anger, would naturally startle and surprise you."

"God bless you, Lady Redenham, you have removed a great load from me," Guy exclaimed.

"Not to save your conscience, though, remember," she replied promptly, the spirit of malice still working in her grave face. "Any one who could act as you acted towards Margaret, deserves no mercy. Remember, it is to torment you,-by showing you what you once possessed, recklessly threw away, would not have, and now never can,— that I let you remain here.”

"Lady

She moved to go away; he put his hand on her arm. Redenham, say what you will, be as bitter and hard-hearted as you like; I deserve it all, and ten thousand times more besides. And I will show you my contrition by not even attempting to vindicate myself from the charges you bring against me." He let her pass on.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

WHEN Margaret followed her sister's guests into the drawing-room after dinner the next day, little Leigh and Beatrice seized on her for the conclusion of a fairy-story she had been interrupted in the night before, and they drew her away into a distant corner, where, seated on a low ottoman, they hung round her in breathless expectation.

"Miss Atherton's story-telling powers are proverbial," Horace Chudleigh said, as he and Ethelind stole quietly up to them. "My uncle could repeat scores; I believe he used to listen as greedily as the children."

In his excitement over the finale, Leigh, who had been playing with Margaret's ring, dropped it on the carpet.

"It must be found, Leigh," Margaret said nervously.

The finding it, however, on a dark soft carpet by lamp-light was no easy task. Both children were on their knees looking for it. Mr. Chudleigh now came and joined in the search.

"I am very sorry to give so much trouble," Margaret said, annoyed beyond measure at the commotion.

Guy Vyvian was behind them, resting against the mantel-shelf. He dared not offer his aid.

"It must be found, Leigh," Ethelind said, coming up to Margaret. "Your aunt values it very much."

He stooped

At that moment a sparkle caught Guy's quick eye. down; the ring had rolled away almost to his foot. His first impulse was to carry it straight to Miss Atherton, who had not observed his movements; but as it laid in his hand, it suddenly struck him—he recognised it, that it had once been his own. He turned to Lady Redenham.

"Here it is," he said, "or part of it. Its pendant, I fear, is still on the floor." He held it out to her.

Ethel seized the ring. "No," she said; "it is all right, thank you. It had a little heart once suspended from this hook;" and she held it up to the light; "but Margaret told me a few days back she lost her heart a long time ago, and has never found it again."

Lady Redenham said this in the most innocent, careless way imaginable; but she knew quite well Guy understood her; for he gave a quick sharp glance at Margaret as she spoke, and she saw the blood rush violently into her cheeks, even to her very forehead, and then as suddenly go back, leaving her face paler even than she usually looked.

"A rascal who could steal Miss Atherton's heart and keep it, without giving her his own in its place, ought to be scouted," Horace Chudleigh exclaimed. "But come, Vyvian, we shall begin to suspect you of an inclination for theft if you don't soon restore Miss Atherton's property," he added, rather enjoying the joke.

Guy dropped the ring on the mantel-piece, as if its touch had burnt his fingers, and fell back quietly.

He did not look again towards Margaret, or he would have seen the distress visible on her countenance, caused by the careless banter of her friends. She took her ring from Ethel, and slipped it quietly into her pocket, drew on her gloves, and walked away to the other side of the

room.

Margaret sat down quietly to her work. Ethel had taken the children to bed. She tried to recover herself.

"Why should I be so disquieted about the ring?" she thought. "If he comes voluntarily where I am, I cannot help it. It was, I believe, his mother's. Perhaps he regrets its loss."

The thought flashed on her suddenly, and made her cheeks tingle.

It was her only relic of their old love; every thing else her father had returned. Her resolve was soon taken. She rose up, went to her room, drew out her writing materials, and wrote hastily on a strip of paper—

"Miss Atherton exceedingly regrets the enclosed ring had not been earlier returned, and more so, that the little pendant has been irretrievably lost. She now takes the earliest opportunity of returning it to its rightful owner.

Saturday Evening, 10 o'clock."

She slipped the ring and note into an envelope, directed it, and rang for Valerie.

"Will you give this to Captain Vyvian's servant," she said; "and beg him to deliver it to-night?" And again she descended to the drawing-room.

Horace Chudleigh came to her. "You look quite pale, Miss Atherton," he said. "Late hours are telling on you; I thought so last night. You are doing too much; you will be ill."

Margaret tried to laugh off his fears. "You are as fidgety about me as your uncle used to be. He was always afraid I should overwork myself; as if, in spite of my pale face, I was not really very strong," she said.

Guy Vyvian was in the breakfast-room alone, when the sisters entered it. He began talking to Lady Redenham about the heat and dust. Margaret shrunk from looking in his face. She thought the fact of her returning the ring would satisfy him. She fully comprehended the footing on which they were to stand towards each other, and she did not like her pale face and haggard eyes should betray what the struggle cost her.

"Margaret, you are looking ghastly!" Ethel exclaimed suddenly, as the light from the window fell on her sister's face. "Aunt Sarah said yesterday you were not improved by London smoke and dust. I must take more care of you to-day; I shall not let you go to church."

Margaret felt that there were tears in her eyes. She could not recover her self-possession. She knew Guy's eyes were bent on her. She saw Ethel's fright, and she tried to pass it off with a faint attempt at a laugh, which made matters worse. Guy poured out a cup of tea, and placed it before her. Her hand shook so, she feared to raise it to her lips. She said something to Ethelind about heat, and want of rest; and then Ethel drew her away, to avoid meeting any of those who had not yet joined the breakfast-table.

Margaret did not make her appearance again until dinner-time. Ethel said she had a headache; and as she wished her to be looking her best at her fête, she was carefully nursing her for that occasion. Captain Vyvian was not at dinner. There were only their own party, and she could sit quietly between Ann Leigh and Lord Redenham in the drawing-room, and enjoy the luxury of listening to discussions, in which she only joined occasionally.

The next day, Ethelind, with Margaret beside her, and little Lord

Leigh in great excitement between them, drove down to Twickenham in her pony-carriage, leaving the rest to follow as they pleased.

It was a lovely day: the heat of a bright June sun, tempered by cool refreshing breezes, which just rippled the water on the bosom of old Father Thames, and made a stir among the fluttering leaves of the aspens that bordered its banks. The house, intended merely as a summer's retreat for the children, was too small to admit half the guests who thronged up the avenue to the hall-door. But preparations had been made on the most ample scale, in the way of marquees, tents, and temporary ball-rooms on the spacious velvety lawn, which swept down from the terraced front to the river-side. Bands of music, wherries gay with flags, archery, cricket, ices, champagne,—every thing, in fact, which could amuse or refresh her visitors was liberally provided; and Ethelind moved about from one group to another, encouraging every one to enjoy to the utmost this bit of rural life in the heart of a London season.

Even Margaret's spirits improved as the morning wore on ; and though she kept almost entirely with the little children, who had been invited as Leigh's guests, she entered heartily into the spirit of the thing, and strolled about near the river, under shadow of the broad elms and chesnuts, and, after much persuasion, was at last tempted by Horace Chudleigh to trust herself in a wherry, and be rowed by him across the river to the opposite ait, whose reedy, tangled surface had been cleared away, and a little seat erected under the shade of some aspens. Margaret had brought her sketch-book with her. She thought the gay throng on the opposite lawn would make a pretty picture, and she sat down on the seat to try what she could do.

Horace Chudleigh moored his skiff to the stump of a tree, and then he threw himself down beside her. He watched her for some time, and made his remarks on the different groups of figures collected about under the trees and marquees. Presently he said all at once,

"I am sorry I did not see you yesterday. When I called in Belgrave Square, Miss Atherton, I wanted particularly to speak to you; but it is kind of you to give me the opportunity now, especially when so many want you. But, dear Miss Atherton, may I presume to ask a question-make a request?" He was growing so excited and hot, his eloquence, almost indeed his power of speech, seemed deserting him.

Margaret raised her eyes from her paper. Something in his manner and the tone of his voice very much startled her. She began suddenly gathering up her drawing implements.

"Mr. Chudleigh," she said, "I will trouble you to row me back, if you please. We have been here long enough;" and she rose up to go. "Stop, I pray you, one moment," Horace exclaimed desperately; "for my uncle's sake, listen to me. I will not detain you many minutes." Mr. Weldon's name was a talisman she never could resist. "You are no stranger to my uncle's earnest wishes. You know that though we never met, my uncle would have given all he possessed if, through me,