"Then, sir," he answered, in a loud tone, "then why "No rudeness, sir," said Lord Wimpole. "Here is my business. I wanted to see the editor. I wanted him to answer

for that paragraph."

And he threw down a paper in which, surrounded by a line of red ink, and sent to Chesterton House-by some goodnatured friend of the family, no doubt-there was a notice to the effect that the "Delectable Dowager of Sark had at last caught a young nobleman. We believe we may tell Mrs Grundy and the public that the name of the rash young man is Lord What will the proud Earl of Ch-t―n say to the heir of his house being united to the daughter of a penniless curate, Miss ? We shall say more about this."

As Mr Rolt gazed in a somewhat dazed fashion at this paragraph-every word of which he well knew-the young gentleman drew himself up and said

"I am Lord Wimpole. I demand that the paragraph be contradicted. What has the world to do with the private concerns of my family?"

"Then the paragraph is not true?" asked Mr Rolt, evasively, to gain time.

"True or not true, it concerns not the public, and is no business of yours."

"But truth, my lord," said his interlocutor, with a greasy smile, "is the especial business of the British press. That palladium of liberty lives but to disseminate the truth. We received that paragraph from a member of one of the first families."

"Give me the name of your informant."

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'Well, not exactly, my lord. We do not do things that way."

"Then apologise and retract."

"Assure us that it is not true, and we will at once do sofor a consideration."

"What consideration can be more weighty with you than your honour-than your desire not to circulate a scandal?" 'Well,” said Mr Rolt, after a pause, in which he measured his opponent a well-built young man, firmly set upon his legs, and an officer-"well"-here his smile became more seductive,

not to say greasy-"well, the British press cannot well live upon honour."

"It cannot exist without it, or will not for any time, sir," said the young lord, fiercely. "But I see you trifle. What consideration do you desire?"

There was a lofty scorn in his tone that irritated Mr Rolt even more than the throbbing headache, which the excitement of the conversation increased. Duelling was not quite out of fashion; and Mr Rolt, who was a gentleman-of a sort --and of the press, did not want courage, and had more than once smelt powder at Chalk Farm; and he was in such a temper that he would have braved another encounter, especially with a lord. But discretion was his best part to play, and so he answered, after a pause

"Well, the paper wants advertising; and if your lordship will take two thousand copies at full price-for we shall have them stamped-and distribute them gratis, all that you complain of shall be unsaid."

"Fifty pounds," said his lordship, in a tone of uncon

cern.

"Yes, fifty pounds," returned Mr Rolt, in a more bland voice. "Very little, very little; and we give you the full value-quite the full value. Copies of the paper, sixpence each, stamped sevenpence. Really, we can hardly do it at that price!"

Mr Rolt put his fingers in the arm-holes of his white waistcoat, and sat down in his chair with the air of one who had conferred a favour on his new acquaintance.

Then it was that the contempt of Lord Wimpole reached its highest point. He drew out his cheque-book, and wrote the order for the money, handed it over to Mr Rolt, and, whirling round his glove, gave him the cheque.

"Now, sir," said he, "as you have shown yourself the responsible person of this atrocious paper, let me tell you what I think of you. You are worse than a highwayman! You a gentleman of the press! You are a common scoundrel that levies black-mail! I give you this money" (here he flung the cheque on the table) "to save a dear young lady, whom I respect, from annoyance; but I tell you that you are a robber

and a tittle-tattle slanderer! And, if you ever come across my path"

"What!" shouted Rolt, in a voice of thunder, getting up from his easy cane chair, which was upon castors, and pushing it behind him. "Do you want to fight, my lord?"

"Oh, no," said Lord Wimpole, with a sneer and a laugh; "by no means. I will not fight you, I will thrash you." And he threw his glove with some force in his face. The newspaper hero, with an oath, struck wildly out; but Lord Wimpole, with a well-planted blow in Mr Rolt's left eye, sent him spinning back upon his easy chair, and the deceptive castors gliding away, Mr Rolt fell heavily as Lord Wimpole left the room. Mr Rolt's account for his black eye, a few days

afterwards-he left for his home at Turnham-Green in ten minutes in a hackney coach, and was tenderly nursed by his wife was that, after that confounded dinner at Thames Ditton, he had knocked his head against a post. But the boy, who had his ears about him, told an exaggerated story of the battle to a select circle of friends. Let it be said, to Mr Rolt's honour, that, while the cheque was duly cashed and the eye was black, the retractation appeared, carefully and even politely worded. But, as the Earl of Chesterton told his son, with whom he remonstrated, "his violent behaviour would only cause the scandal to spread ;" and more people would hear of the matter than he thought, or than would have heard had he been quiet. And surely enough, Lady Sark herself communicated the first news to Mr Horton, and showed him the carefully worded retractation in the Argus.

Mr Horton read the words with a beating heart, and took the paragraph in one of the meanings into which it was capable of construction.

"Lord Wimpole, then," he said, "withdraws from any intention as regards your niece."

"So the paper says," tittered Lady Stark. "I am sure I don't know. These people will write and talk of nous autres.” She was quite proud of the esclandre, and bought some copies of the paper to send to her friends; for she by no means desired that her niece should make a grand match.

"Then I have hopes?" said Mr Horton.

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Hopes! Of course, all you men have! What hopes, you silly creature?"

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Why, Lady Sark, you cannot have been so unobservant as not to see that I love your niece, Miss Winifred Vaughan !" Mr Horton said this so fiercely and earnestly, that Lady Sark was quite startled. She had even thought that Mr Horton's visits were intended for her. How do we know why people come to our houses? Sometimes to see the host, of course-sometimes the hostess. Sometimes the pretty visitor at Smith's house causes so many to call and drink his wine, and send Mrs Smith boxes for the theatre, to which she will carry the pretty visitor. Lady Sark was deeply hurt.

"So you love Winifred Vaughan, do you? Umph! Well, I am sure!" (This was a favourite exclamation of her ladyship's.) "Of course I did not expect her to marry all the Chesterton property and estates; but, Mr Horton, she is my niece, and I think she might look higher than a poor barrister!"

CHAPTER XI.

"SO HATE TREADS CLOSELY ON THE HEELS OF LOVE." LADY SARK was one of those who, having said a very nasty and spiteful thing, suddenly remember that they may find the person insulted of some use, and therefore withdraw, and do what they can to plaster the wound. Mr Horton was useful to her, procured for her boxes for the opera and bouquets of flowers, and she could not, therefore, well afford to quarrel with him.

Seeing his face turn very pale at the insult, the dowager put out her hand, and conceded everything with-

"Well, I'm sure, I ought not to talk of poverty, seeing how poor I am for a peeress. You are a gentleman, and one of ancient blood; so I don't know that it is so very bad. And you lawyers, too, do rise. I recollect that. Lord Bubbington's father was a barber, and he himself an attorney's clerk; but when he became Lord Chancellor, why a duke's daughter

wasn't too high for him. Yes, you have my consent, Mr Horton. You may go and speak to her now; you will find her in the music-room."

The barrister, forgiving all this rude and senseless chatter, which her ladyship took for wit, ran upon the wings of love, as she afterwards said, to the music-room, and there found the room-but it was empty. Two or three airs from a favourite opera were on the piano; on the table, the gloves and collar of Winifred Vaughan. Mr Horton could have taken them up and kissed them; but he never permitted himself scenes, even in private. He stood looking at them, in painful supense, and yet in joyful hope, for his heart dilated and closed again with the frequent recurrence of such feelings; when Winifred entered, in a large flop Leghorn hat, with blue side ribands, and bows large enough to make at least fifty modern bonnets. The young lady wore a muslin dress, with blue sprigs, cut straight to a high waist, where it was fastened by a broad blue silk sash; very pretty shoes and sandals; half-sleeves, puffed; and long, very light blue silk gloves, which came up her arms to the elbow.

Mr Horton thought he had never seen so elegant a dress nor so pretty a girl.

He stood so still, that she hardly noticed him; and taking off the Leghorn hat, swung it in her hands, while a shower of dark brown curls, with a warm tinge of red in them, fell upon her white, full shoulders and neck. Then, turning round, upright and straight as a fawn, she darted upon Mr Horton, and placing both her hands in his, seemed to dance with joy to see him.

"Oh, I am so glad, so very glad! I thought we were going to be quite dull; but now we sha'n't be."

A flush of deep pleasure spread over the barrister's cheek. "So glad are you, Miss Winifred? I am happy that I see you are!"

"Miss Winifred! Call me Winny, or Winifred, not Miss. It does not seem as if we were the dear master and pupil that we are. Why have you come so early? Can't you come as early every day in the week? Did you see aunty?"

"I have something to tell you, Winifred," said the barrister,