is the voice of a young, high-bred, light-hearted woman. She is Mrs. Ponsonby, the wife of Frederick Ponsonby, Esq., the rich, young, happy, beautiful, and admired mistress of Kempstowe, which is not called Kempstowe Hall, or Manor, or Grange, or anything but simply Kempstowe,' the seat of the Ponsonbys.

The Fred' who has just been thanked' must be the next in order of description; not alone because he is lord of the soil for many an acre round, Master of the best pack in the county, and owner of fair Kempstowe, but because he has been found worthy of obtaining the hand of that peerless equestrian on the bay mare. Many other ladies are going out for a ride on this fine September afternoon- Mrs. Ponsonby is the cynosure of a large party-but Mr. Ponsonby draws on his glove now, and prepares to mount his own big, brown, handsome roadster, Erin.' He does not offer to play lackey to any other lady. He is a young man of seven or eight and twenty, tall, and slight, with strongly-marked features; an aquiline nose, and clearly cut mouth; large, cool, blue eyes; a pale face; and blond hair, whiskers, and moustache. He is unmistakably thorough-bred. And, see! there must be something good indeed concealed under the cool exterior to call forth that sudden, momentary flash of love and pride on the check of his wife when their eyes meet as she bends forward 'quieting' the restive bay with hand and voice; and he turns round to watch the rest of their party' to saddle.'

There are no lack of cavaliers, therefore Mr. Ponsonby does not leave his fair guests to the mercies of the grooms by refraining from the part of a lackey on their behalf. Captain Forrester-familiarly 'Charlie Forrester '-the dean's son, who is here nominally to look after his sister (the latter being dreadfully addicted to winning the hearts of the wrong men), is arranging the reins in the hand and the stirrup to the foot of that pretty girl on the chesnut with a tenderness and care that would cause the heart of his affectionate mother to quail with mighty anger and fear could she

behold it. Mrs. Forrester is happily spared the sight through an opportune indulgence of her afterluncheon nap. She is also spared another sight that might wring her maternal heart even more sorely, and that is. But the picture deserves a fresh paragraph,

Standing some little way apart from the group at the flight of steps -a short way down the drive, in fact, as if she had walked that far to meet the horses-is a young lady of about nineteen or twenty. She is a gloriously handsome girl: faircomplexioned, blue-eyed, golden locked; her figure is full, magnificently developed, and fraught with active grace of movement. There

is not much repose about her; her face, lovely as it is in shape and feature, is more lovely from its everchanging, animated expression. She is now standing, with her habit thrown up over her left arm, talking to Mr. Greville, a dark man with penetrating dark eyes, and one of the purest outlines of face it is possible to behold. His manner and appearance are polished in the extreme; usually there is a dash of superciliousness over all, but he has laid that aside as he stands speaking to Flora Forrester. For the lady is Miss Forrester, the dean's daughter; and the reason why it was well for Mrs. Forrester's peace of mind that her nap prevented her viewing this colloquy was, that Mr. Greville had the name of a clever fellow who lived well, did the thing in style upon nothing,' and the reputation of not caring much what became of the hearts he won, despite of his character, with little seeming difficulty,

'It's a shame to take that horse along the hard roads at the pace Mrs. Ponsonby is sure to set us the example of going, Miss Forrester; so for Firefly's sake, if nothing else, let us take a quiet canter through some of these exceedingly rural and turfy lanes.'

No; it can't be done, Mr. Greville. You heard Charlie tell me I was to ride with him. When my brother issues his orders I must obey, you know, especially when he sacrifices Kate Elton for me.'

'Take my horse back, then,' said

Mr. Greville to the groom, who had, curiously enough, led up the horses of these two together. Take my horse back when Miss Forrester has mounted. I dislike these huge riding parties,' he continued, turning gravely to Flora, so I shall stay at home this afternoon, and test the resources of Fred Ponsonby's library. I must say, though, I should have enjoyed a canter over the turf.'

Flora filliped the gravel with her whip, and, I am afraid, thought Charlie a nuisance. Before she could answer, however, Captain Forrester himself came up to them hastily.

'I say, Flora,' he began, deprecatingly, 'you won't mind, will you? I shall not be able to look after Firefly and you after all, for that chesnut of Kate Elton's is almost more than she can manage, and I am going to keep by her side, and alter the curb if she can't hold him. You won't mind, eh?'

Not at all, Charlie,' answered Flora, candidly; and as her brother ran back to I see to the chesnut's curb,' and Mr. Greville gave her a hand up, she added, 'I don't care much for the ride they are going to-day, Mr. Greville; we will go through some of these pretty lanes, if you please.'

And apparently Mr. Greville did please, for his horse was not led back to the stable; and that was the way Charlie Forrester 'looked after' his beautiful sister Flora, of whom her family expected great things in the matrimonial way.

Those two young ladies around whose horses so many men have congregated are the Misses Gambier. Caroline Gambier, the elder, is too clever, too'sharp,' to be altogether pleasing at all times, but she is very pretty and attractive, nevertheless. She has a determined face and manner, speaks emphatically, and is very daring. By some she is regarded as a dangerous visitor in a country house where idle young men abound, for she has the trick of appropriating them to herself in a way that causes their fathers and mothers (the latter especially) to tremble for their future safety. But the keen, bright blue eyes had not done any

serious damage during the four years she had been out. This campaign at Kempstowe was an opportune thing, therefore, for she was one-and-twenty, and had begun to think that it would not answer to be witty and amusing, and to indulge in cynical flirtations and rivalries much longer without any good arising. It must be confessed that the three days she had spent at Kempstowe had been far livelier than the ones preceding her arrival; she was invaluable in originating ways and means of passing the hours pleasantly. She was a capital actress herself, and therefore was eager to get up private theatricals. As yet she had only succeeded in moving them to try charades, but these had been such brilliant successes that the theatricals were decided upon; and it now only remained to have one of the large rooms fitted up with a stage, to select a play, and to cast the characters so that as many heartburnings as possible should be avoided.

Agnes Gambier, a year or two younger than her sister, less shrewd, and decidedly prettier, had reined up close to Caroline on this occasion with the kindly motive of preventing her sister's enjoying the undivided attention of Philip Morton, a man who, from having recently become possessed of what sounded like fabulous wealth, was, deservedly, an object of the greatest interest. He had made his first appearance in the London world during the previous season; and as he possessed, in addition to his wealth, a great and undefinable charm of manner and an uncommonly handsome person, it was no sooner known that he was to be the Ponsonbys' guest during the early part of the shooting season, than everybody else was fired with the desire of being invited to Kempstowe.

The rest of the group around the Gambiers was composed of Mr. Fitzgerald, a young Irishman, who, from being very good-looking and universally agreeable, was popularly supposed by the anxious mothers of heiresses to be a mercenary fortunehunter; Sir Ulric Lyster, a baronet,

who was not quite so happy or amiable as he would have been had not Philip Morton divided attention with him; the Hon. George Berners, a man who for years had not enjoyed an individuality of his own, but who was simply known as Sir Ulric's friend,' and who was, in truth, as mean a hanger-on and eater of the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table as ever existed, yet looked a well-born gentleman, and was, to those beneath him, an undeviatingly haughty one. His mind was harassed, also, on this occasion, for he could not make it up on a certain point: doubts had arisen as to whether it would not be well to attach himself to the new comer, Philip Morton, who appeared to be of a most luxuriantly free and generous disposition, and quit the firm but not brilliantly remunerative hold he had upon Sir Ulric Lyster.

Young, lovely, coquettish Lady St. Clair was also quietly defeating any small plans Miss Gambier might have formed as to undivided intercourse with Philip Morton during this ride. The sharp, vivacious Caroline was no match for fairy-like Lady St. Clair, whose blue eyes always looked unutterable things, and whose dulcet tones always rang in the most bewilderingly sympathetic way in the ears of the most distinguished man of the season. Even now, though she only arrived yesterday, and brought in her train her pet saddle-horse, she is mounted on one of Philip Morton's. Lord St. Clair from the window of the library sees this lovely lady, whom he has taken to be the pride, torment, and continual agitation of his declining years, smiling down into the face of the handsome owner of the steed whose neck she is patting so fondly; and he growls out a deeper oath of impatience at the gout, which prevents his accompanying her. 'What she would ride that half-foreign fellow's horse for I can't imagine,' he mutters; and in the evening she will be singing with him, I suppose, some of those wretched things about his "sunny Spain." Hang the fellow, I wish he had stayed there.' And Lord St. Clair hates Philip Morton for a minute or two, as he thinks of

what a sweet, innocent, easily-led Ichild she was when he married her two years ago, and of how she has altered. And while he still stands there gazing, the party who are to occupy the britzka take their seats and drive off; Sir Ulric Lyster gets up into his dog-cart, in which he has put a pair of horses tandem, and the equestrians disappear one by one.

An elderly man in a jealous rage not being a pleasant companion, I shall follow them; but first I will present Philip Morton a little more fully to the reader.

It has been said that Lord St. Clair spoke of him as a half-foreign fellow,' and this phrase, with his lordship, meant great disparagement. Truly, as he sat on the back of a wicked-looking horse of some breed evidently as pure as our own racers, but of a different build, his appearance did not belie the term. His dark, glossy, wavy hair was brushed back off an olive-tinted face, whose hue had never been gained under an English sun; he was tall, lithely rather than strongly made, and his grace of gesture and rapid ease of motion marked him out distinctly, even in a crowd. He had an animation of speech and a publicly displayed chivalrous bearing towards women, and an eager, unconventional warmth of manner, that gave strong evidence of either foreign blood or foreign culture. It was the latter. English on the father's side, he had spent the greater part of his life in Spain, in the land of that mother whom he had never known, but from whom he had inherited the glowing, passionate appearance and manner which caused him (now he had come into great and unexpected property through the opportune demise of one of his father's relatives) to seem like an embodiment of the Cid' to the English ladies, who were only accustomed to their cooler and less demonstrative countrymen. Those years of his life which had not been spent in the-house the office-of one of his maternal uncles, a merchant in Madrid, had been passed in Mexico, whither he had gone nominally to further the interests of the firm, but in reality to taste the delights of that wild, sporting, adven

turous life for which he had sighed so ardently that his presence in the office was almost useless. Rumours of all these doings had heralded his advent in the fashionable English world, and tinged his past with romance, and thrown such a halo of interest around him as made him the lion of the day. What with his handsome face, and chivalrous manners, and long purse, and that strong dash of the foreign element in him, his popularity was such that he seemed in a fair way of being spoiled and made conceited. He was the cause, though he did not suspect it yet, of more than one of the fair stars I have mentioned shining at Kempstowe at present. Mrs. Forrester had quitted her home in the Cathedral Close, deserted her husband, whose duties confined him pretty strictly at the time, and gone to great expense as regarded millinery, for the sake of Philip Morton. Yes, this handsome, young, half-foreign fellow' had been the means of rendering desolate the dean's hearth, and badly served the dean's dinner, for a time; for Mrs. Forrester would have considered that she was neglecting her duty as a Christian mother had she not brought her beautiful daughter Flora, and flashed her before the eyes of this 'poor friendless young man, who would surely fall a victim ere long to some such designing girl' (I am not sure that she did not say minx) 'as Carry Gambier.' Carry Gambier herself had come down-throwing over, to do so, a most promising invitation to the Earl of Wilton's Irish castle-on the strength of Philip Morton's liking for the guitar, upon which instrument she performed. Rather to her astonishment, she had found her strains had failed of their power to please last night, when Lady St. Clair had established a rival guitar movement. Agnes Gambier neither played at him nor sang at him, nor did she profess a delighted readiness to ride one of his rampant Andalusian steeds, as did Lady St. Clair; but no one listened more attentively than she did to his tales of Mexican adventure and Spanish romance; to stories of how he had figured in that buffalo hunt or this bolero; to his rapturous

recollections of the old life under the warm, impassioned sun of glowing Spain.

But as they ride away out into the open country, it is not with Caroline that he interchanges sentences of half mock, half real sentiment; it is not to Agnes' languid eyes that his own deep, passionate ones are turned. It is not by the side of beautiful, golden-haired Flora Forrester that he rides. Lady St. Clair, the loveliest fairy queen he had even dreamed of, has summoned him to her bridle-rein with one of her halfimperious, half-childish petulant glances, and after having given him her right hand to button her gauntlet, because she can't let go, his dreadful horse pulls at her so,' she has given him to understand that it is her will and pleasure that he shall remain by her during the rest of the afternoon; and Philip Morton, as he bows low on receipt of these orders, looks far from ill-pleased at the arrangement.

CHAPTER II.

FIREFLY'S LEGS versus MISS FOR

RESTER'S FEELINGS.

'Poor old St. Clair!' said Mr. Ponsonby to his wife, when, after having placed some miles between themselves and Kempstowe, he looked round and saw the undiminished assiduity of Lady St. Clair's cavalier. 'What a little blue-eyed fiend she is. How is it you are such friends?' 'I won't have you call Ida names, Fred, even in joke. I cannot bear it. She is foolish sometimes-at least I have been afraid so of latebut she is such an old friend of mine that I don't, if I can possibly help it, want to think of her as a married flirt.'

a cross between a brigand and one of Vandyke's portraits, with him a flirtation will be dangerous.'

To whom, Fred?' asked Mrs. Ponsonby, eagerly.

To both, probably,' replied her husband; to your friend Ida decidedly.'

'Fred, I don't think it; I will not believe it,' said the lady, earnestly.

'Well, I only know this,' said Mr. Ponsonby, good-humouredly, 'that I should be exceedingly sorry, were I old and gouty, to see my wife risk her neck by getting on the horse of the hero of the day, and electing him to button her gloves. Come, Mrs. Ponsonby, take Sibyl on the curb. Hallo! stop a moment, though; I don't see Flora Forrester.'

No; Flora was not of the party. At the very moment at which they missed her she was with Mr. Greville, riding slowly through a narrow lane, the hedges of which rose high on either side.

'Ah!' began Mr. Greville, after a long pause, during which he had been, unobserved by her, intently marking the expressive face of the lady, who rode by his side. "Ah!' (making this preliminary note half a sigh and half a long, deep breath of intense satisfaction), 'I have but one drawback to perfect happiness at present, Miss Forrester. I have been riding on in a state of almost ideal enjoyment; in fact, I have been selfishly happy.'

'How so; and what is the drawback? Happy man, to have only one barrier between yourself and felicity! I have so many.'

Flora,' replied Greville, bending down to pat his horse's neck-a position which enabled him to look up' into her eyes-and throwing a mournful cadence into his tones, "I mean the "felicity" I am enjoying this afternoon. Heaven knows after this I shall taste little enough.' He paused; but as Flora would not ask him 'Why?' he presently continued: The drawback alluded to was the thought that I had inveigled you into taking a solitary ride with a dull companion, "out of your great charity," when a far pleasanter one was open to you.'

I

Why do you say "selfishly" and dangerously?" for I, too, have been happy.' And having made her confession, she turned her crimsoning face away from him rapidly.

'But I cannot ask you to be my wife, Flora,' he said, speaking with a cruel tenderness that he well knew how to employ; and as he said it he gazed with even more earnestness into the now paling face of the girl from whom he had won the halfconfession-of the woman, who was beginning to feel tricked and wounded.

She gave him neither word nor look now. She rode on erect, outwardly calm, but inwardly feeling considerably more agitation than she cared this gentleman should see who 'could not ask her to be his wife.'

Flora,' he said presently, determining to soothe her wounded pride now, as he might want her co-operation hereafter in a scheme that had as yet only faintly developed itself in his brain, Flora, though you cannot return my love, I know you too well not to feel assured that you will forgive the presumption which has led me to tell you that my heart is yours, solely yours, even though, at the same time, honour compels me to add that I must not attempt to win your hand in return. Say, Flora, though you cannot love me you will be my friend??

He

She felt wronged, injured. had led her on to this, and now he