Irene, too, gets little rest that night. There is nothing like a sore heart or an anxious mind for keeping one awake. It beats green tea hollow. She had sat up till a late hour the evening before, looking over and arranging Tommy's wardrobe, and dropping hot tears upon each little article which she had ordered and planned, if not made with her own hands, before she laid it in the box which is to accompany him upon his journey. And when everything was ready for his departure she crept into bed and took the rosy child into her arms, and watched until dawn, by the flickering night-light, the dark curly head of hair that rose and fell with the heaving of her bosom, only using her free hand every now and then to wipe away the tears that coursed down her face. Her restlessness, perhaps, or the instinctive knowledge that he is watched, makes Tommy wake early. She is generally the one to be roused by his imperative demands for stories or breakfast, and the first thing he does now, as consciousness returns to him, is to pat her cheek with his little hand.

'Mamma, Mamma! wake up and tell Tommy-boy about Elisha and the big bears.'

But he is surprised to find on this occasion that his mamma does not require to have her eyes violently picked open before she complies with his request, but commences at once, in an unusually low and subdued voice, to relate all his favourite tales, and does not discontinue until the dark January morning has resolved itself into something like daylight, and the child becomes eager to get up and be dressed.

Irene would like to postpone the moment of rising; she feels, with a shudder, that this may be

the last time she shall ever hold her adopted darling in her arms, but the young tyrant's orders are imperative, in fact, he won't lie still any longer.

6

There are beautiful little ice trees all over the windows, mamma, and I made a nice warm house for three of my snails under a cabbage-leaf yesterday, and I want to see if they're happy and comfortable. Dress me quick, mamma, and let me go into the garden and look for my snails, and if they feel cold I shall bring them all in and warm them by the fire.'

She rises languidly and puts a match to her fire, and washes and dresses Muiraven's child as if she had been his nursemaid. She, who was the belle of the London season, who has been the envied mistress of Fen Court, kneels, shivering in her dressing-gown on that winter's morning, and waits as humbly as a hireling, as lovingly as a mother, on her lover's heir. She buttons up his boots, still muddy from the dirt of yesterday, and carefully wraps over the great-coat and the comforter upon his little chest. And then she takes his chubby cheeks between her hands and kisses them fervently over and over again, and lets him out of the sitting-room door with a caution to Mrs. Wells to see him safe into the garden, and goes back to her bedroom, and cries quietly to herself with her face buried in the pillow.

it is that reason, perhaps, that makes maternal love so generous and expansive that, where it is true, it can afford to extend itself even to those whom its child holds dear. It is the only unselfish love the world can boast of. It is, therefore, the only passion that can claim a title to divinity.

Irene feels all this, even as she cries. She is miserable at the thought of parting with the child, but she would not advance one argument in her own favour that should deprive his father or himself of the enjoyment of their natural rights. She only hopes that, as it must be, it will be soon over, and herself put out of the misery of anticipation. She lies on her bed for some time, lost in thought, and then, hearing the clatter of cups and saucers in the adjoining room, starts up to find that it is nine o'clock, and she has not yet commenced to dress.

There is no particular hurry, however, and she makes a dawdling, untidy sort of toilette (women never care about their appearance when they are miserable), wondering the while how soon Muiraven's messenger will return with the answer to her letter. When she enters the sitting-room the breakfast has been laid and the little black kettle is boiling over on the fire. She makes the tea, and glances indifferently at the time. A quarter to ten! She had no idea it was so late. How cold and hungry

her child will be!

She throws open the door at once, and advancing to the head of the stairs, calls

'Tommy!-Tommy!' in a loud voice; but no one answers her.

'Tommy, darling!' she repeats; 'breakfast is ready. Make haste, and come in.' Still there is no

Ain't

'Bless you, no, ma'am. he a-gambolling at the back?' 'I can't see him anywhere.' 'I'm sure he was there half an hour ago.'

He must have run down the road. How naughty of him! What shall I do?'

'I'll send my Charlie after him, ma'am. He'll bring him 'ome in no time. Here, Charlie, jest you get up, and go after the young gentleman, and bring him back to his brekkast. Now, look sharp, will you?'

'All right! Which way be I to go?'

6

I

Why, both ways, in course. Go down to the village first. dare say he's run off to the sweetshop. He said he'd a mind to yesterday.'

How tiresome of him!' says Irene, but without any alarm. (What harm could come to a sturdy fellow like Tommy on a broad country road?) I'm sorry to give you the trouble, Mrs. Wells; but he really is such a child!'

'You'll have your two hands full with him before another twelvemonth's over, ma'am; and that's the truth,' replies the woman, good-temperedly; and Irene's face blanches as she walks back to the sitting-room and remembers that before twelve hours are over she

will probably have nothing more to do with her troublesome little darling.

Lord Muiraven finds the walk to Cocklebury pleasanter than he anticipated. There is something so exhilarating in the air of a keen frosty morning that our troubles are apt to appear smaller or more bearable beneath its influence; and as he traverses the short distance that lies between him and Irene the probability of seeing her again is of itself sufficient to make the world look brighter to him. He recalls their early affection, and the interviews they had at Fen Court, and being gifted with as much capability of self-appreciation as the generality of his sex, feels almost confident of his power to overcome, by argument or persuasion, whatever scruples may have dictated her last letter to him. The leafless hedges on either side the road are garnished with hoar frost, the ground beneath his feet springs crisp and cheerily; and as Muiraven, with his hands in his pockets and a cigar between his teeth, strides quickly along, he is in Cocklebury before he knows it. On the outskirts of the village lie several farmhouses, with their surrounding meadows-in one of which, close to the road, is a large pond, just frozen over with a two days' frost.

Halloa!' he thinks, as his eye. falls upon it; 'that looks well. Another couple such nights as the last, and it will bear. By Jove, though, that won't do;'and coming suddenly to a standstill, he regards something over the hedge. The object that has attracted his attention is the figure of a child, none other, indeed, than the recreant Tommy, who, having escaped from the cabbage-garden and the snails, has bethought him

of revisiting the pond which excited his envy so much the day before. On he plods sturdily through the wet grass, with footsteps evidently bent on trying the treacherous ice. Muiraven for the first moment sees only a child in danger of a ducking, and calls out a loud warning from where he stands; and his voice, although unheeded, has the effect of making Tommy raise his head before he steps upon the ice. As he does so he is recognised.

But

The fearless, saucy little face, the wide-open eyes, the curling hair, no less than the high-bred air of the child, and the manner in which he is attired, all combine to make Muiraven recognise his son, and as he does so, and realises his probable danger, an anxious dread which has never had covert there before rises up in his heart and makes him feel that he is a father. Without a moment's hesitation, he leaps over the field gate, and runs through the grass to save the child. Tommy is not to be outdone. He sees that he is pursued, guesses his sport is to be spoilt, and with all the energy that has characterised the Norham blood for so many generations past, determines that he will not be punished for nothing. One slide he will have first-one delicious, dangerous slide, as he has seen the boys of the village take down the frozen gutters; so, running defiantly on to the forbidden playground, he sets his daring little legs as wide apart as possible, and goes gallantly down the pond. Only for about a hundred yards, however, when, meeting with some obstacle, his equilibrium is disturbed, he tumbles head over heels, and in another moment is floundering amongst the broken ice. Muiraven, arrived at the brink of the pond, with all the

haste he can, walks straight in after him, crushing and dispersing the ice right and left as

he goes.

The water is not deep, and the child is easily recovered, but as Muiraven brings him to the bank he is frightened to perceive he does not stir.

His eyes are closed, his mouth is half open, and from a cut across his forehead the blood is trickling down his face in a thin red stream.

The father's heart stands still. What is the matter? What on earth should have occasioned this? Can he be dead?

He folds the boy closer in his arms as the horrible thought strikes him, and hurries onwards to the village. The dripping state of Tommy's clothes and his own nether garments, wet up to the waistband, excite the curiosity of the Cockleburians, and he is soon surrounded by a little crowd of men and women all ready and anxious to direct him to Irene's lodgings.

'Is there a doctor here?' he demands hurriedly.

'Bless you, no, sir. We've no parish doctor nearer than the town; and he only comes over Mondays and Thursdays.'

'Run on, then-any of you-as quick as you can to Mrs. Mordaunt, and tell her to have hot water and blankets ready for the child.'

In his anxiety for Tommy's welldoing, Muiraven does not consider the agony with which his intelligence will be received by Irene, and half a dozen villagers, eager for a reward, tear helter-skelter into Mrs. Wells's presence, to tell her the young gentleman's been drownded, and she's to get a hot bath ready to put him in.'

Irene, who is getting fidgety about the child's continued absence, is standing in the staircase

when the message is delivered. It strikes upon her heart like a bolt of ice.

'What!' she says in a voice of horror. 'What?'

'Oh, my dear lady, don't take on!' exclaims Mrs. Wells, wringing her hands and taking on' herself as much as is possible on so short a notice; but the poor dear child has got hisself in the pond, and they're a-bringing him 'ome to you. Lord a' mercy! but here they are!'

Irene does not scream-she does not even speak; but all the colour forsakes her face as she stands there for a moment, with her hand pressed on her heart, as though, till that chooses to go on again, she could neither think nor act. Then she makes one or two feeble steps forwards to meet Muiraven, who comes quickly up the narrow, creaking staircase with the boy in his arms.

'Give-give-' she says faintly, as she encounters him, and, without a word of explanation, she presses his unconscious burden to her breast.

She carries it, slowly but firmly, to the light, and then sinks down upon the floor in a kneeling posture, with the child stretched across her knees.

'Oh, my lamb!-my own lamb!' she cries, in a voice of anguish that might pierce the heavens, no one has the power to take you from me now!'

And Muiraven, standing by her, hears the words.

'Mamma,' says Tommy languidly, as though in answer to her appeal-don't cry, mamma.'

Irene stares at the child. His eyes are open-a faint colour is returning to his lips-he is once more conscious. She screams with joy.

'He is not dead!' with rapid utterance. 'Who said that he was

drowned? Look!-he smiles-he speaks to me. Oh! my child— my baby-my own darling! God could not have had the heart to take you away.'

And thereupon she rocks him backwards and forwards violently in her arms, and cries a plentiful shower of tears above him that relieve her excited brain.

'Lor' bless you, my dear lady,' says the sympathising Mrs. Wells, 'the dear young gentleman's no more drowned than I am! See how he's a-trying to raise hisself, the pretty dear. Let me take him from you, ma'am. He must be a deal too heavy for your arms.'

'Let me place him in the bed,' says Muiraven gently.

'No! no! I am quite able to carry him,' she answers, staggering to her feet. 'Mrs. Wells, let me have the hot bath at once, or he may take a chill. Make up the fire, Susan, and boil his bread and milk. And mamma will undress you, Tommy,' she continues, in soft, cooing accents to the child. 'Mamma will take all these wet clothes off her little Tommy-boy, and put him in a nice warm bed, and tell him stories all day long. Oh, my love! my baby!-what should I have done if I had lost you!'

And so murmuring, she passes with her burden from Muiraven's view into the adjoining apartment, whence he is made cognizant, without partaking of the nursery mysteries that ensue, and result in Master Tommy being tucked up very dry and warm and comfortable in bed, and apparently without any more injury than is conveyed by a strip of diachylon plaster across his forehead.

It is nearly an hour before Irene appears again, and Muiraven cannot help thinking she has made her absence longer than was necessary. As she enters the sitting

room she looks pale, harassed, and weary. All her fire has departed, to be replaced by a nervous tremor that will hardly permit her to look him in the face.

He meets her, holding out his hand.

'At last, I suppose I may say, Mrs. Mordaunt, that I hope I see you well.'

'I am afraid I must have appeared very rude,' she stammers; 'but the shock-the fright of this accident

'Pray don't think it necessary to apologize. I can make every allowance for your forgetfulness. It is fortunate I was on the spot.'

'Then it was you! I have heard nothing, remember. I have had no time even to inquire.'

'Oh, it was undoubtedly me. I was taking a constitutional along the Cocklebury high road this morning, when I came upon the young rebel about to make an experiment in sliding. I shouted to him to stop; but it was no use. He would have his own way, so I had to go after him. It's lucky the water was not very deep nor the ice very strong, or I might not have fished him out in time. it was, breaking the ice head foremost stunned him; and had there not been help at hand, I don't suppose you would have seen the young gentleman again.'

As

He speaks indifferently, as though the matter were not of much consequence to either of them; but she is trembling all over with gratitude.

'Oh how can I thank you sufficiently!-how can I say all I feel at the child's recovery! I shall never forget it as long as I live.' Then she remembers that the boy is his, and not hers, and blushes at what may seem presumption.

You must be very thankful too,' she adds timidly.