Frank Capel were one day to become man and wife. Of this said Uncle Hardinge, little was known by Mr Cheyne or Dorothy; he resided in the metropolis, principally at his club, was a ci-devant beau, entirely given up to selfish pursuits, and caring for nothing beyond the narrow circle which formed his little world. In youth he had been a traveller, residing much on the continent, from which he had imported many foreign habits and tastes. These were so uncongenial to Mr Cheyne, that the brothers-in-law seldom cared to meet, and slender intercourse was kept up between them during later years-Mr Cheyne abominating the town as Mr Hardinge did the country. Nevertheless, as all Mr Hardinge's fortune would descend to Dorothy, in the event of his dying without legitimate issue, and as he was a reputed bachelor, not in the least likely to enter the matrimonial state now, it may readily be surmised that he was a personage of vast importance to the country relatives, who regarded him as the beau-ideal of a finished courtier. Annual presents of bijoutry arrived at Deepdean for Dorothy, evidencing the fine taste of her uncle; and annual presents of gastronomic delicacies were despatched to the exquisite gourmand, who valued no gift equal to one that would excite his worn-out palate. The Deepdean hams, the Deepdean fowls, the Deepdean conserves, and the Deepdean herbal recipes, were all pronounced invaluable by the town gentleman; and this interchange of good things being regularly kept up without personal contact, an excellent understanding was the result. Now, although Dorothy heartily desired long life for Uncle Hardinge, yet was she fully sensible of the benefits which would accrue from her accession of fortune on his demise; and in the golden day-dreams to which this idea gave rise, there ever mingled, in association with her beloved father, another individual-need he be named?-the lover of her youth, the dark-eyed Francis Capel.

Dorothy well knew her poor father's embarrassments-his frequent want of ready means-and she looked forward with yearning hope to the period when she might pour forth her golden treasures to neutralise all his anxieties and privations-to ward off every blast from his revered head, silvered with the snow of many a wintry storm. Dorothy was as shy and retiring as a timid fawn, but playful withal in the precincts of her own home, among those who knew and loved her; but when, at intervals, she went forth to mix with her equals-particularly at Capel Housea proud reserved bearing, quiet and self-possessed, took the place of girlish diffidence. Intuitively, Dorothy knew that at Capel House she was valued for the sake of Uncle Hardinge-by all save one: as the daughter of poor Mr Cheyne of Deepdean, she was nobody, despite ancient lineage and an untainted name; but as the heiress of Mr Hardinge, the worn-out roué of fashion, she was fêted, caressed, and received as a future daughter of the Capels. But, ah! how the aspect of all things changed when she wandered with her father and Frank in the old garden; how

happy might they three be there, just as they were-comparatively poor,

"The world forgetting, by the world forgot.'

This was what Frank said, and Frank was sincerity itself. To do the youth justice, he never thought of Dorothy's heirship, save in connection with his own family: for him she would have been best and dearest, had such a personage as Mr Hardinge never existed. But Frank well knew his father's way of thinking, and that Sir John Capel was a worshipper of Mammon; not that Sir John was particularly hard-hearted or intolerant, but, like most fathers, he considered the prudent side when the settlement of his children was concerned. And who can blame him for parental vigilance and forethought, when not carried to an unfeeling extent?

6

'I have just received a letter, which I fear may summon me to the great Babel, Dolly, my dear,' said Mr Cheyne to his daughter one morning, in a state of evident excitement, which he vainly strove to check or conceal. It is from Doctor Emslie, a friend of your uncle's, who writes to say that Mr Hardinge is labouring under a severe and sudden attack of stomachic gout, which causes much alarm and anxiety as to its ultimate termination. Doctor Emslie adds, that he thinks I ought to be present; and he throws out a mysterious hint that my presence is absolutely necessary, in the event of my poor brother-in-law's decease, as there are family matters which require "explanation and arrangement." What can he mean, Dorothy, my dear? Don't you remember the name of Emslie, and hearing your uncle once speak of him as a learned and excellent physician, who had retired from active life, and resided somewhere in the lake-country? Ah! Emslie, Emslie,' continued Mr Cheyne hesitatingly; 'your dear departed mother, Dorothy, my dear, knew Mrs Emslie very well, if I recollect rightly; and Doctor Emslie and your uncle Hardinge were friends from youth, the latter having had it in his power to forward the doctor's views of advancement in his professional career and no doubt Doctor Emslie has always felt under an obligation to him. But there is a sort of mystery in this letter which I don't comprehend, coming, as it does, from so honesthearted an individual. I think, Dorothy, my dear, I had better attend to it immediately, and make the necessary preparations for a journey to the metropolis. It strikes me as being rather odd, that Doctor Emslie was sent for before me,' added Mr Cheyne, again hesitating and speaking slowly, as if trying to recollect past events, and string them together, for a link in the chain was broken, and the old man's memory was sometimes treacherous.

Perhaps, dear father,' replied Dorothy cheerfully, 'poor Uncle Hardinge wished to see him professionally, and has high confidence in his skill: let us earnestly hope he may yet recover and be spared for years to come.'

'Nay, my dear,' replied her father, shaking his head, 'that in the course of nature is scarcely possible: your uncle and I were born in the same year.'

Here Dolly threw her arms round the speaker's neck, chiding him fondly for being 'so unkind as to speak so,' and hiding her tears on his shoulder.

'Well, well, my darling, for your sake I trust to be spared yet awhile,' said Mr Cheyne, caressing the fair head which rested beside him; but as for the circumstance you alluded to, of Mr Hardinge sending for Doctor Emslie professionally, that I do not believe to be the case, seeing that your uncle has for many years been under the care of a celebrated metropolitan practitioner, in whom he places implicit faith. No, no; it is not for any such medical consultation your Uncle Hardinge needs the presence of Doctor Emslie. But I will set off for the scene myself, and have all mystery, which I abominate, cleared up. I cannot think what oppresses me, Dorothy, my dear, but, in connection with this Doctor Emslie and his mission, something weighs heavily at my heart, which I cannot shake off. It is as if coming events cast their shadows before, and a great calamity were about to befall us.' "Ah! dear father, you are merely disconcerted by the prospect of this journey to town, and leaving Deepdean for awhile; and, then, anxiety for poor uncle is so natural, that I can account for these passing shadows.' And Dorothy tried to smile brightly, but the smile faded away into a tear, for she, too, was infected with a strange sadness; and it seemed as if Dr Emslie's name had cast a spell over them both.

Days of suspense passed away after Mr Cheyne's departure to attend the sick-bed of his suffering relative, for writing was his aversion, and the short bulletins, containing daily hopes and fears, touched on no other topic than the sufferer's amendment or relapse. Dorothy was forced to content herself with these scraps; and, fully prepared by the last accounts for those which were to follow, she at length, without surprise or violent emotion, received the notification of her uncle's death. This notification, however, spoke of feelings less equable: it was in Dr Emslie's handwriting, who, while assuring her of her father's perfect health, added that recent events had agitated him greatly, and rendered him incapable of exertion for the present. Dorothy, on the receipt of the letter, would have instantly set out to join her beloved parent, to ascertain with her own eyes that he was well; but Dr Emslie added in a postscript, that Mr Cheyne proposed returning to Deepdean immediately after the funeral, and wished to defer the communication of important tidings until then. What could these tidings be? Dorothy asked herself again and again. What had happened to agitate her father so keenly, and to prevent his writing to her in person? Conjecture was vain; but, restless and uneasy, haunted by vague apprehensions of sorrow in store for her, Dorothy eagerly counted the days until Mr Cheyne returned,

when, clasped to the parental bosom once more, she almost forgot the anxiety in delight, until the change in her father's aspect caught her observation, and the shock occasioned a sudden revulsion of feeling.

'Father, dearest father!' she exclaimed in dismay, how haggard and wretched you look! What is the matter? There is something even beyond the natural grief for poor Uncle Hardinge here! Tell me, dear father, what has happened to bow you down thus. You are ill-worn-the journey has been too much for you.'

'My poor girl!' sighed Mr Cheyne, it has been too much for me; but not in the way you imagine. I am wearied, but not in body: it is the mental powers which have been strained and overtaxed. I have ill news for you, my poor girl-a surprise—a painful one, Dorothy, my dear. Can you guess it?'

Dorothy trembled, and gazed into the old man's clear blue eyes. She read their tidings at a glance, for they were speaking eyes to Dorothy: she was so accustomed to watch her father's every look, to anticipate his every wish. 'Father!' she exclaimed in a low trembling voice, I am not the heiress: say, am I

mistaken?'

6

'You are not mistaken, my poor girl-my poor, poor girl! The blow fell heavily, heavily on me at first; but I am sustained, as you will be, my noble girl, by the knowledge that tardy justice is at length done to the innocent, the unoffending. Your uncle, Dorothy, my dear, has left two children to bear his name and to inherit his property. It is a bitter and a cruel disappointment for you, my darling; but God grant you strength to bear up, and conquer all selfish repining, when you hear the tale.'

Pale, speechless, tearless, Dorothy clung to her father, stupified and stunned by what she had heard. Like lightning her thoughts flew to Capel House. How would they receive her now? What would Francis do? What would she do if they were separated? All her air-built castles-all her plans for helping and comforting her father vanished away-all the charming dreams of the future dispelled! It was a bitter cup: she could not dash it aside-it was to be drained to the dregs; and silently poor Dorothy listened to the history her father proceeded cautiously to unfold; and though most cautiously he proceeded, yet his fears were seriously aroused for the beloved child who, in mute attention, hung on his words: she seemed so frail a creature to battle with so chilling a disappointment. Mr Cheyne thought, too, of Francis Capel, and his heart bled for the young pair. He knew Frank's worth, but he also knew Sir John's mammon-worship; and the idea of Dorothy marrying into a family who did not wish to receive her, never for an instant entered the head of the worthy squire. This sweet first love-passage must end; but Mr Cheyne grieved more like a young than an old man. Áge does not often sympathise thus with youth; and this bond of sympathy it was which had so

firmly knit the affection of father and daughter. Together they had deplored the loss of the beloved wife and mother: their joys and sorrows were all shared in common; and never since her birth had Dorothy concealed a thought from her fond parent. Though Mr Cheyne mourned the ending of this early love, yet he had looked forward so confidently to his child's future aggrandisement, that to give up all hope that it might still be accomplished was beyond his strength. He therefore proceeded to unfold the new page whereon the future was traced in dim perspective, and he did so with some trepidation as well as caution, for the future was very different from that which Dorothy had permitted herself to anticipate. Poor girl! she did not exclaim: It is very hard,' or 'Very unjust;' but her silent anguish pierced the father's heart. She felt for his disappointment even more than for her own. But was it not still in her power to make amends for fortune's unkindness, and to restore peace and prosperity? Might not the lost fortune still be hers on one condition? Ah, that condition! There was the trial of her faith and submission!

During his travels abroad, it appeared that Mr Hardinge had been captivated by a beautiful foreigner, she being an orphan, the daughter of an artisan. No one imagined that the marriageceremony hallowed their affection, for it was kept a profound secret a fact which doubtless originated in Mr Hardinge being rather ashamed of his wife's inferiority in point of rank; a false shame, indeed, which imputed no shame to supposed guilt. After the birth of two children, a girl and a boy, continued bickerings began to imbitter his domestic peace; and this, added to disgraceful conduct on the part of his wife, led him to return to England in company with his two children, leaving Mrs Hardinge to pursue her career of dissipation in her own land. Fortunately perhaps for them both, this evil career soon terminated, the unhappy and misguided woman being carried off suddenly by infectious fever. Mr Hardinge determined never to acknowledge his miserable marriage, but to place his offspring where they would live unknown, and never to remove the stigma which rested upon their birth. It was Dr and Mrs Emslie who undertook the charge of the motherless children. The doctor was under obligations to Mr Hardinge, who had been to him a firm disinterested friend; and gladly he repaid the debt of gratitude by fostering the children, whose very first entrance on the stage of life had been under false colours. Neither Dr nor Mrs Emslie was acquainted with the truth: they regarded Mathilde and her brother Gervase as the offspring of shame, and always considered Mr Hardinge's conduct most generous towards beings so unhappily circumstanced. Having no family of their own, the poor children became to them objects of the most tender interest and solicitude. Lavish means were provided by Mr Hardinge, who, however, never openly came forward to acknowledge them, and Mathilde and Gervase were brought up in the belief that they