was with them. The Heathcote girls were-by right of education-not of position-something better than the commonplace young ladies of the quiet market town. They saw little of them, and made few friends. Moreover, they were five miles away from Market Basing, so that they were practically thrown upon their own resources. That meant that they talked, and made each other unhappy. This, I believe, is not uncommon in English households-that sweet domesticity on which we pride ourselves covering an infinite amount of petty miseries, tiny bullyings, naggings, and prickings with tongues as sharp as needles. Sister against sister-mother against daughter. They love each other fondly, of course, because they are always supposed to love each other: domestic affection being as necessary in modern life as a shirt to one's back. Unfortunately, the love which reigns in the dear home life does not always bring with it that tenderness for each other's sensitive points which keeps out of the house ill-humours and sour tempers. The lower classes of England -I do not mean the very lowest-are much superior to the middle classes in this respect. I have found out the reason why. They don't sit at home so much. In London, they are always going to the theatre, which is almost the only amusement for the class who frequent the pit, and are not above the gallery. In the country, they go out and about as much as they can.

Now, Grace Heathcote had a large share not only of fidelity, but of obstinacy, which she inherited from her father A woman's fidelity is very often like one of those plants which flourish best covered up and hidden. Grace's prospered best openly-in the sunshine-and was able to grow and flourish even against the east winds of her mother's opposition. To her, Frank was a hero. It seemed noble in him to go away into a sort of hiding-working, as she imagined, to pay off his father's liabilities, and hoping to come back after many months to claim her promised hand. This she thought, and this she said when, as happened not infrequently, her mother turned the talk upon Frank.

To Lydia Heathcote, Frank seemed as a fool. And she said so. For she was determined on one thing: her daughter should marry Dick Mortiboy. She saw that Grace attracted him. She was sure-for she meant well by her daughterthat he would make a good husband. She wanted to secure all that money of his for her own children. She was wise as

well as determined. She knew that as the constant dropping of water wears away the hardest rock, so the constant insinuations of distrust and suspicion wear away the fondest woman's trust. Therefore she talked a good deal about Frank; repeated and reiterated her grief that he was doing so badly, as she assumed; pointed out how foolish it was to go away from his friends, and those who would help him to a decent position; hinted that it would be so much better if he were to emigrate, and follow the example of his cousin Dick; never failed to shed tears over the enumeration of dear Dick's many virtues, as contrasted with the failings and weaknesses of Frank; and always ended by reproachfully sighing over her daughter, as over one who trifles with a good man's love.

"But, mamma, Frank will get on, I'm sure. Kate said in her letter she knew he was doing well. He is very clever. He can paint beautifully; and it was only the other evening, at the rectory, that Mr. Nelson said artists were just as well off as any other professional men, and as well thought of. If he likes painting better than anything else, and sees his way to get on, why should he not be an artist ?"

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Nonsense, child," was her mother's answer to Grace's special pleading. And then Mrs. Heathcote explained, for the hundredth time, the reasons why Frank could never, by any possibility, be in a position to marry. "Besides, if Kate knows he is doing very well in London, it is a strange thing they don't know where he lives. You know, your father would write to him if he knew where to find him. But we couldn't even give Dick his address before he went to town. Such a want of respectability about having no address! It's no use, Grace; I know perfectly well that the boy is doing no good for himself, else why not let his friends know his address ?"

"I am not going to listen," said Grace, indignantly, "to things like that. You have no right to say such things of Frank."

"There—there, Grace, do be reasonable. It is all for your own good that I speak. If your own mother does not know the world, who should? Why, before I married your father, there were two or three people I fancied. Young Spriggs, the brewer, who failed for thirty thousand pounds, and cut his throat-I might have had him. Mr. Potterton, of Wyncote-he's got an asthma now: you can hear him a mile off, poor man. And old Mr. Humbledum, who died of drink last

week—why, people used to talk about us. That was before I met your father. And look at Dick-poor Dick!-head over ears in love with you."

"To begin with, he is nothing of the sort. And if he were, it would be nothing to me."

"I can see it, girl," said Mrs. Heathcote, wisely nodding her head. "I've seen it for months now. I think it is-I suppose it doesn't matter what I think-cruel of you never to give him the slightest civility. Poor fellow, you might be. even polite to him when he comes."

Grace beat a tattoo on the carpet with her foot, but said nothing.

"I only hope he does not notice it so much as I do. I've no patience with your father; he's as easy as an old shoe about things. If he'd told you to give Frank up when they left—” "Mamma!" cried Grace, her cheek reddening and her eye flashing brightly. Mrs. Heathcote was a little afraid of her daughter when she looked like that. She saw she had gone a little too far-not for the first time. Mamma, how dare you'

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The door opened and Mr. Heathcote came into the room. Grace fell into his arms, and with her head on his shoulder, sobbed like a child. She would not have broken out if they had remained alone.

"Lydia," said Mr. Heathcote angrily, "what have you been saying to Grace? Never mind, my child-never mind."

"Really, John," said his wife, "you and Grace together are enough to wear out the patience of Job," and she swept out of the room.

And so on. Scenes that happened not once, but often. And with each one Grace became obstinate, and her mother more irritating. Lucy was made unhappy. The farmer was made unhappy: that was nothing. Civil war raged in Parkside Farm, and the contest was maintained on terms of perfect equality, in which Grace, shielded by a stubborn resolution, received all her mother's blows, and only occasionally retaliated with words which had more of sharpness than of filial piety. Dick brought peace for the time, and there was renewed war when he was gone.

A truce was held on a tacit understanding, while Mrs. Heathcote tried to play off Lucy on Dick. This was, however, quite hopeless. First, Dick did not like women to be gentle and soft. He liked a girl with a fine high temper of her

11, and a will, like Gras; and, secondly. Lacy Ed not Alta Cick o nich is once tid. Fram er gansant sits to ald Ready money, the hund me at man's wIS vien Sick came a sa um. dat diere vis simering le ind dane. Of course, she chew acting stave: ut me had #ring suspicions at all was 1ct me gut herveen the Baner and the vin. Herrien ausences in Lemgate Made naam even worse for Grace..

As for moving Farmer John cun af is jog-mat ways, noming cand do man. He vis prize ready to help Frank wah money or erase--for the Heathenes were very well-to dog ans de vas act gring to pus himself or at the way, and kuns aim 13. Les Frank some am. Funk did not go to

Aim ? made no sign; and Gner's heart began to fail her Wage alive lost their interest The rheumanies of the aid women kovd her calous: their complains fell on cold She went through the daily one of her small dates When her mother, the day's business Anikdot, soort tex or eieren-they breakfasted an eight-tock her sean for the day, she tried to escape to her owL POOLE, OF to the garten. Mie oxid sometimes when Sully Billy could be spaced to blow the organ-take refuge in the church. Her montar disikod music in the morning, so she could not play. Her pony was lame, and she could not ride. Mrs. Hearbooke Lever drove ost, except to town: like most country ladies, thinking very lissle of the lovely foliage and shady lanes of her own shire.

Sometimes one of the Battiscombe girls stayed with them then they played croquet in the afternoon; Lord Launton very often finding something to say to Mr. Heathcote, which made it quite natural for him to stop and play with them till the dressing-bell rang at the Towers. It was curious that he found business which brought him to Parkside three or four times a week. He came in on any pretext, always about the same time-croquet time; stayed as long as he could, and almost forgot his shyness. Dick Mortiboy at first made him shrink into his shell; but he managed to creep out again gradually, and came to like him. Dick took a fancy to the shy young fellow: talked to him; told him stories-Dick always had the readiest perception of what kind of story would suit his listener: this was one great secret of his popularity and pleased the viscount by not deferring to him in the slightest degree because he was a Lord.

So life went on;-Grace sad and unhappy; her mother angry and disappointed; all playing at cross-purposes-as we always do; all acting a part to the world-as we always do; all putting a good face on things-as of course we must. And do not quarrel with Grace when you read her letters to Kate, because they seem bright and happy. I knew a man once who wrote the brightest, gayest, happiest letter-full of mirth and fun, and good spirits-a quarter of an hour before he blew out his brains. Letters mean nothing, except that they are sometimes a natural relief to the heart, and the effort of pleasing a friend gives you good spirits in spite of yourself.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.

MUST send you a piece of news, dearest Kate," wrote Grace, "before coming to what I have really to say; that is, my letter is to be a woman's letter, with all the important part at the end. The news is, that Dick met Frank last week in London. The account of him is pretty good-for Dick, that is, who is a better story-teller than historian. That sounds like nonsense; but what I mean is, that he tells capital stories so long as he is allowed to draw upon the boundless fields of his own imagination, and keep to Texas; but when one wants exact descriptions of what really took place, one finds him sometimes a careless observer. This is a fault, perhaps, common with your great geniuses. For my own part, I never invented anything in all my life-and how people can write novels, goodness only knows!-but I can always manage to tell exactly what I saw. The feminine eye, my dear, has a remarkable power of taking in everything at a glance. I am sure you will own that no man ever yet was born-not even Robert Houdin-who could pass a woman in the street and be able to tell afterwards everything she had on, from top to toe, and what it cost. You and I can do it, easily. That was just what I wanted to know about Frank. "Tell me,' I said, 'what he looked like, and how he was dressed.'