poor old Adolphe Dido, the ballet-master of the Theatre Royal, and floats on.

"And bonnets are worn small, after all," says Emma. "And what a different shape to ours!"

"My dear Emma," returns Mrs. Crosbie, "our bonnets were the fashion six weeks ago. Miss Fletcher assured me so, and I have never had cause to doubt Fletcher's integrity. But in the position, with the wealth of the Princess, every new caprice from head-quarters can be adopted, as a matter of course."

"And she wears shoes! and buckles! I wish I had a foot that looked well in shoes."

"She is an uncommonly pretty woman," says Mr. Crosbie, in his admiration of Jane, actually forgetting to go back to his paper. "Looks remarkably young, too; and yet the Princess Czartoriskawhy, if it's the same woman who was over in London in '65, she must be forty if she's a day!"

"I wonder if it is the Princess at all?" suggests Rawdon. "Before we go into any more raptures, let us be sure the lovely being is not her Highness's lady's-maid."

But neither Mrs. Crosbie nor Emma will entertain a doubt on this point. Especially is Mrs. Crosbie sure that they have received a friendly bow and smile from son Altesse, and no other. The grace, the distinction, the mien! Mrs. Crosbie might mistake in some things; she is not likely-the instincts of a Hervey are not likely to err as regards these attributes of breeding and high birth!

"Then, suppose, Emmy, you and I go after her Highness in the hope of getting another bow?" says Rawdon, jumping up, and with his eyes still following Jane. "We'll come back for you by-and-by, mother; and, mind, if we get acquainted with the wrong person, if our gracious friend turns out to be the lady's-maid, not the mistress, you will be to blame."

And, so speaking, away Master Rawdon strolls from the courtyard into the street, Emma Marsland trotting, obedient as a little spaniel, at his heels.

"How well everything has turned out!" Mrs. Crosbie remarks, in a thanksgiving tone, as she looks after them.

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Who did you say had turned out well?"

"The plans, the hopes of my life, Mr. Crosbie. Emma is twentyone, her own mistress, to-day, and see-see the terms on which she and our Rawdon stand!"

A motion of Mrs. Crosbie's hand points in the direction which the two young people have taken. A moment ago they were side by side, but, exactly as she speaks, the airy blue-and-white figure of "the Princess," who has been stopping behind to look into a shop-window,

chances to divide them-an omen Mrs. Crosbie may, perhaps, remember later on. "I do hope, Charles, we shall make that sweet Princess's acquaintance," she remarks, almost with fervour.

"I hope it will profit us if we do make it, Juliana. A foreign princess reminds me more than I like of a foreign archduke, and the only time I ever knew an archduke was at Boulogne

"And he borrowed twenty pounds of us, and turned out not to be an archduke at all," interrupts Mrs. Crosbie, reddening. "I pretend to no superhuman sagacity, Mr. Crosbie. I confess that I have been deceived by an impostor once in my life. What has that got to do with the Princess Czartoriska ?"

"Nothing, nothing, my love. I was foolish to mention it, perhaps ; only, as you seemed so squeamish about taking Francis Theobald's wife on trust, I thought you might like to make a few inquiries as to this Russian woman's antecedents too.”

"The Princess Czartoriska is received by every crowned head in Europe, Charles. I have seen her name repeatedly among the distinguished guests at different foreign courts, and she has been presented in London. Would any reasonable being talk about antecedents after that ?"

Mr. Crosbie goes on with his leading article.

CHAPTER III.

ONLY DONKEYS.

THE lovers that are to be saunter slowly meanwhile along the High Street of Spa, Emma's heart as full of sunshine as the sky above her head, Rawdon in as little lover-like a frame of mind as can well be imagined. He knows perfectly well that before the day is over it is incumbent upon him to make a proposal of marriage to poor expectant Emma. He hopes that, somehow or another, he will be able to pull through it. But he is not elated. Of course he will get accustomed in time to being engaged, and even married. But the proposal— what is he to say, what can he say that Emmy does not very well know already? Why is it not the custom for people to become engaged off-hand without going through any ridiculous preliminary form of proposal and acceptance at all?

When Emma Marsland, an orphan at seven years of age, was first left to Mr. Crosbie's guardianship, nothing could be more admirable, more disinterested, than the sentiments given forth to the world by Mrs. Crosbie. She might, indeed, have wished that this additional responsibility, this sacred charge, had been spared her. She might have wished, for her Rawdon's sake, that the unexpected addition to her cares had been a boy, in which case the children could have pur

sued their studies together. Still, a trust was a trust-a duty a duty. Under heaven's blessing, Mrs. Crosbie would bring up poor little Emmy with as much care, as much love, as though she were indeed her Rawdon's sister. And faithfully, it must be added, was the promise carried out. Few girls in Chalkshire had had a better education than Emma Marsland. None had been more diligently counselled by maternal wisdom as to the paths wherein they should tread.

That the auburn-haired heiress and her thirty thousand pounds were destined, in Mrs. Crosbie's mind, for Rawdon from the earliest days when the children lived together under the same roof, is, perhaps, only to say that Mrs. Crosbie was mortal. But on this point, as on all others, she behaved in strictest accordance with the ruling principles of her life. "I do not say that you will never make Emma your wife," she used to tell young Rawdon, while he was still at school. "If, when the tastes of both are matured, your boy-and-girl attachment should remain unchanged, I do not even deny that my fondest hopes would be realized by such a union. Meanwhile, never forget that you must act with the utmost delicacy in the matter. To extract, nay, to permit, a promise from a young girl placed as our dear Emma is placed, would expose you and all of us to an imputation of mercenary motive in the eyes of the world. On the day when Emma is twenty-one, and if she has made no other choice in the meantime, you may speak. Until then, remember she is not only our daughter, that she will always be, whatever happens, but your sister."

And Rawdon, rigidly virtuous, poor fellow, in the absence of temptation, had obeyed his mother's injunctions to the letter. He had never hinted, had never wished to hint, one word of love to Emma Marsland. Love! why even the boy-and-girl attachment at which Mrs. Crosbie hinted was, Rawdon knew in his heart, a myth. He liked her, of course, poor little patient jog-trot Emma, as he must have liked any young creature that had lived under the same roof with him, and made itself his slave. She was invincibly stupid with her fingers; could never learn to splice a line, or make a fly, as some girls could; was a muff at everything to do with horses; too stout of limb and short of breath to fag out even, as some fellows' sisters could, at cricket. Still, she was so perseveringly affectionate, so implacably sweet-tempered under bullying or neglect, that Rawdon could not but like her. "Who in the world could dislike Emma?" he would say, as the strongest encomium that could be passed upon her. And probably in his own words could be found the most exact exposition of his feelings. He found it impossible to dislike her.

Not a very near approach this to the sentiment of love. But Rawdon, up to the hour of which I write, knew no more than the majority of lads of his age of sentiment of any kind. A pair of keen

VOL. XXXI.

C

young eyes were in his head; young blood was in his veins; every pretty girl he met—yes, if he met a dozen in the same walk, occasioned him a quickening of the pulse very pleasant to experience. This was all. He was rather shy with ladies if the truth must be told; held aloof in ball rooms-although he loved dancing with passion-had never, as far as Chalkshire knew, had an affair of the heart in his life. And, then, on the day on which she was twenty-one he was to propose to Emma Marsland! Every one, Emma included, knew this perfectly, and the result was, that Rawdon, like all men engaged or married too young, was just a little crushed.

He had young eyes in his head, young blood in his veins; and there were plenty of pretty women, there was plenty of pleasure, of lovemaking, of delight in the world. And he stood apart from it all. He was to marry Emma Marsland. The uncertainty, the aroma, the sparkling taste of life were wanting to the lad before he, in reality, knew what life was. His household duties were set and sealed for him as are those of royalty. Romance, the possibility of romance as connected with himself, existed not. He was to marry Emma Marsland.

Such had been Rawdon Crosbie's frame of mind for the last two years. It was his frame of mind on this, Emma's twenty-first birthday-the day on which they were to become formally betrothed lovers -the day on which fate had appointed him to make the acquaintance of Jane Theobald.

They walk side by side along the street, the blue and white draperies of "the Princess" fluttering about three yards ahead of them.

"Her dress is stylishly made, but cheap, very cheap, when one comes to look at it near," thinks Emma.

"She has a perfect figure," thinks Rawdon. "And her ankleBy Jove, if that woman is forty, or within fifteen years of forty,

His meditations are cut short by Emma's voice, a high-pitched piping voice, such as not unfrequently belongs to people of her complexion. "What a dear little path up to the right, Rawdon! I should like so much to go up that little path to the right!"

"Why not go then ?" is Rawdon's inevitable answer.

And in another minute he and Emma, out of sight of man, are climbing up one of those steep over-arched pathways by which, at every turn, you can escape out of the village of Spa, into the cool, still greenness of the wooded hillside.

Of Rawdon, as of Malcolm Græme, a poet might sing:

But mountaineering is not an exercise for which nature has fitted

Emma Marsland. Before they have scrambled a hundred yards, the poor little thing is breathless, panting, clutching at her companion's stout arm, and warmer-oh, warmer, far, than any heroine of a love scene should ever be!

Things being so, Rawdon considerately suggests that they shall rest awhile, and down on the mossy sward Emma sinks, recovering her breath and her complexion as best she can.

Rawdon sits down too.

The birds are singing among the boughs, the spot is lonely; the sweet wild scent of lusty woodland spring is in the air.

Now, thinks Rawdon, is the time to propose.

He gazes steadfastly away down a sun-tinted vista among the trees, listens to the birds, listens to the far-off music in the avenue, drinks in the June air, a love-philter of itself, and the thing seems easy to do. He turns, full of courage, looks straight into Emma's face-and begins to whistle.

"How funny it seems to be so far from home on my birthday," she remarks, placidly. "I hope the school children are enjoying their treat. I hope the buns aren't as heavy as they were last year."

The Sunday school at Lidlington is, next to Rawdon, Emma's object in existence, and always on her birthday, a great affair of buncake, prizes, and tea goes on in the village. Rawdon, poor fellow! entertains towards tea-feasts and Sunday-schools generally the natural instincts of his sex and age, but the speech reminds him of Emmy's kind heart, charitable dispositions, admirable suitability to the country and domestic life. And with a kind of rush he comes to the point thus:

"I hope you don't wish yourself back in Lidlington already, Emma?"

"Not for good. I wouldn't miss Brussels for anything. Mamma and I are going to get a dress each, and a bonnet (I shall get a blue one like the Princess's) in Brussels. But I should like to be back just for ten minutes to give the prizes, and see the children properly set to their tea. Miss Finch is all very well in school-time, but I don't know how she'll get on alone at a treat; beside, I should like to be sure that the buns aren't heavy."

"Emma"- but his voice trembles-oh, it is, it is difficult-"I think sometimes your whole heart and soul are centred in Lidlington!"

She looks at him, she knows what is coming, and turns crimson from forehead to chin. An emotion she cannot master holds her dumb. It is the supreme, enraptured moment of her life-this terribly difficult, emotionless moment to Rawdon Crosbie.