The reader knows it was Harriett Mayne who had trusted to a hope so insecure; who had clung to it, despite its weak foundations, despite the consciousness she had that any day might hurl it into unseen depths of darkness. Harriett trusted to this rash hope because she was young, and therefore, naturally trustful-because her experience of life had been small—her experience of man's character still less. Even her natural insight was blinded by her strong affections.

Harriett had been happy these last few days, comforted by the possession of this diamond ring, bestowed in such a meaning way by Lord Talbot; it was true, she had not seen him since the night of the dinner at his house, nothing had happened to confirm the bold assurance that she was loved. She kept the ring, although not daring to wear it, until some opportunity of private talk with the giver should enable her to return it, or question why it had been be

stowed, to demand some explanation, to hear-she scarce knew what she hoped to hear, but just now nothing seemed too rash, nothing impossible. Harriett did not seek to penetrate too far the possible future, she was content to be ignorant, to be blindly, happily ignorant, waiting for whatever the morrow might produce. To speculate too much about the results of her present course turned her giddy, and she felt it was easier to let things go, to be passive, to trust to the future-to trust to Talbot. He never guessed how much she trusted him, or he might have been surprised. How much this trust was merited, we shall see later.

In the meantime, as we have said, Harriett was happy; so happy that neither Mrs. Mayne's querulousness nor the children's boisterous merriment could give her a moment's annoyance; so happy that she went about the house with a constant smile, and carried with her in her daily rounds among the poor and sick of the neighbour

hood a cheerful sympathy which no ingratitude nor hard-heartedness on the part of those with whom she had to do could dispel. But this cheerfulness, this hope, was not permitted to remain unbroken.

The first doubt that shook the peace of Harriett Mayne's heart had its cause in a casual meeting with St. Clare. He was returning from a sketching expedition with Ethel and her mother, Harriett met them where the path leading to Talbot Hall branched off to the main road. St. Clare had just accepted Mrs. Gresham's offer to dine with them. After Harriett had shaken hands with them, she heard him remark that he should be very happy to accompany them home, as he was quite alone at the hall. Talbot had been away these last two days, staying at the Leslies'; "he was very busy with Sevelli," he added, "building a new Catholic Chapel on Mr. Leslie's property."

This was not pleasant news for Harriett.

These carelessly spoken words robbed her lips suddenly of the smile they had worn for days previously. The society of her friends seemed just now not to her taste; they were so painfully gay, almost frivolous, she thought; so she was glad to continue her own way home alone; she no longer kissed the ring with the murmured. assurance, "He loves me.' No; she hid it away from her sight, half ashamed at her former presumption. Imagination, moreover, depicted with cruel vividness Mrs. Romilly's attractions-her fair face, her elegant figure, her easy manners. Memory

recalled all her words and looks on that evening; Talbot's expression of fear at his cousin's fascination and will. Did she intend to marry him, then? It might be so ; she looked an ambitious woman, and certainly a woman who, having once made up her mind to a certain course, would in all probability have her way. Harriett thought, with a shudder, what opportuni

ties she would have now for the promotion of her plans; the constant intercourse between them, which their relationship would make so easy and permissible; the long drives and rides, the similarity of tastes and position. Perhaps Mrs. Romilly had a knowledge of architecture, and was no very bigoted Protestant.

This news of Henry, Lord Talbot's present interest was not pleasant news for Robert Mayne. He scarcely hoped to reconvert the vacillating peer; still in his sanguine mind a probability sometimes arose of reasserting his ancient influence, and bringing back his old friend and patron at least to the family-pew in Maxwell Church; to an appearance, even if there could not be a reality, of the staunch faith of his fathers.

Robert Mayne measured his chance of success against that of the all-accomplished, sophistical priest; the man who had charmed him, despite his prejudices; the man