anything with them; and even that delicate operation of making a perfect tie she this evening achieved, not only to her own, but to her son's satisfaction; and she did not say a word when, seizing the candle, he unintentionally flared it in her eyes, as he carried it to the lookingglass to closely examine her work.

'It is perfect, Mother; thank you extremely. And I do hope you will be all right by the morning, and that the row down-stairs won't keep you awake.'

'Good-night; and I hope you are going to enjoy yourself intensely.' 'Good-night. Thank you, Mamma.'

Now Mrs. Russel knew all would be quiet, so she again dipped the handkerchief in the cold vinegar and water, which was beside her, and spread it on her forehead, and then lay flat and motionless for a long time. The sounds from below reached her in a subdued not unpleasant way, and she fancied the party going on, and everything looking bright, amiable, hospitable, and pretty. Presently the sounds of music reached her. It was a quadrille; and then the measured movement of dancing made itself felt.

'How curious the changes of this life!' thought she. "They are all dancing. Philip too, no doubt, with some girl or other-most likely some dear good girl like Mary, who has been all day visiting among the poor. What changes! In Papa's day dancing was wicked: what would he have thought! And now, Philip comes home faint with parish work, and finishes off with a quadrille. How curiously changed!'

Here Mrs. Russel heaved a great sigh, and with a despairing motion threw off the now warm handkerchief, and wiped her forehead. After a while she again fell into thought. But thought is so rapid as compared with speech-and how much more with writing-that what follows occupied but a short time compared to what it will take me to write and it may seem strange that with a splitting head-ache Mrs. Russel's thoughts flowed on so evenly; still they did, and since they did, here they are:

'Poor old Cousin Priscilla ! what made me think of her? Ah, I remember; it was the emerald brooch which I gave Rachel on her last birth-day. Yes, it is mine no longer; it is Rachel's. Poor old Cousin Priscilla! I wonder when she wore it last! Is it possible that withered old woman ever was young? And what a slow dying! nine years of softening of the brain. Oh! does it perhaps begin with head-aches like these!

'How well I remember Ann coming to my door in the middle of the night; and as she stood there, she read out a note from the doctor, saying Cousin Priscilla was dying. Then up we got, Frederick and I, and we all went down together to Copfield under the stars. Lonely, lonely night! how solemn, how pathetic, how beautiful it was! And there she lay, poor Cousin Priscilla! and the old servant crying over her. And at four o'clock she died, and left no sign, no return of

VOL. 9.

39

PART 54.

consciousness, no last ray. Affecting, because not affecting. None to care very much for the end of a slow living death, except the poor old maid. She cried. How I do remember Philip's prayer before and after !

'And then we all wondered how her little property would be divided between the sixteen next of kin. And on the day of the funeral Ann took me up to her room, and shewed me her trinket-box. I had no idea she possessed such valuable or pretty things. But all, every shred, Ann said, was to be sold, and the money divided equally. We looked over the things, and I began to wish for some of them. Afterwards, it was settled that any of us who liked might buy in what we had a fancy for. I settled at once to have the emerald brooch. Oh! why was I not left in peace? why did something almost from the very first rise up within me, and forbid my having it? Why should I not have it, I that had so few trinkets at that time? and here was an opportunity of buying a beautiful one second-hand, though for that matter it was as good and as perfect as it lay in its little white velvet case-as the first day it was made. And besides, one might call it an heir-loom. It may have belonged to Cousin Priscilla's great-grandmother and mine, it was so ancient and gracious in its design and execution. So I must have it, and I would have it. No, you must not, shall not. Who says I must not, shall not? Other claims say it. What other claims? Then, oh! they poured upon me in a torrent. All the missions in the world, all the charities, hospitals, infirmaries, schools; all poor wretched beggars, all my own poor relations, poor parishes, Frederick's old coat, the boys' school bills, my worn house-linen, my faded curtains and carpets-each in turn, and with more or less vehemence, seemed to demand the sacrifice, and to cry, You must not, must not, must not buy it. How often in church have I said, "Very well, I will not." How often at evening parties have I said, "Very well, I will.”

'Then came, after months of legal business and delay, the letter which was to decide. "Say by return if you wish to buy the emerald brooch ; if not, Grace Carew will have it." It was at breakfast: Frederick had a letter from one of his scientific friends, and was absorbed by it. ""Frederick, won't you read Ann's letter?"

'So he read it, but his mind was pre-occupied, and he quietly folded it up without a word. Oh! if instead he had said "I should like you to But he said nothing.

have that brooch!"

"Frederick, did you notice what Ann says about the emerald brooch ?"

"I cannot say I did."

'So I pointed out the passage. He read it, and said, "Do you want a

brooch ?"

666 Well, you know I have very few."

"Then buy this one."

""But I don't like the thought of buying brooches for myself."

"But it seems such a pity, when it is selling at half its price."

""Then buy it."

"But, Frederick, I somehow don't feel as if I could."

"Then don't buy it."

'If I had not seen that his mind was with his correspondent, and not with me, I should have felt irritated against my own darling Frederick. I was silent, and he went on making notes on the cover. At last he looked up, and with such a puzzled expression, as if he ought to have understood something I was saying, and yet had missed it all. So I said, "If you think I had best not have that brooch, I will say so; Ann wants an answer at once." When I said this, I thought I knew what the martyrs must have gone through to a certain extent; for I honestly meant it, and believed his answer would be decisive. But when he said, "If it is a thing you really wish to have, I cannot imagine any reason why you should not have it," I could not help exclaiming, "Is it then really beyond you to understand wishing for something which at the same time you have scruples about possessing! how happy you must be! Do say, Frederick, have you ever in your life wished much for anything?"

'In answer he smiled and said, "I have often wished very much to find the general integration of the linear differential equation of the second order."

'Torn as I was by my longings and my qualms of conscience, I nevertheless paused to think of what he had said. My sympathies were aroused. I could not understand a word of what it meant; but so much the more did I pause and wonder over the length and breadth of subjects above me which engaged his attention. "Ah!" I said, "if I could find that general integration, or if even I knew what it meant, I don't think I should care for all the brooches in the world."

'To this he answered, smiling, "Would you like me to say that I wish you to have it, and that I give it to you?"

666

Yes, if unfortunately I had not almost asked you for it."

"Oh, but that goes for nothing, because you know I am so matter-offact and dull about such things, that it would never have come into my head to think about it. But now I must go. Tell Ann I wish you to have that brooch."

'How I remember the sort of shamed delight with which I heard these words! and the haste with which I wrote the letter and posted it myself, silencing the voice within by Frederick's permission, which permission I had, as it were, gained through my own unconcealed desires! Ah! that was five years ago!'

Just at this point of Mrs. Russel's remembrances the door opened, and Mary Tollmashe came in with a cup of tea in her hand.

'Maggie, are you awake? Do try and take a little tea; you have had nothing all day.'

"Thank you, Polly, I shall be glad of it. I begin to feel a little better. How are you getting on down-stairs?'

'Oh, very well, if only you were there!'

'Do the children look nice?'

'Oh, so nice! That dear little Ned is talking to all the ladies, with his pretty manner; and Rachel, what a darling she looks!'

'What is Herbert about?'

'Dancing like anything. Does the noise disturb you?'

'Not at all, I am over the worst. What is dear Ann doing? I was so cross to her when she came in to-day.'

'Cross, were you? Oh! she told me she had been so very unfortunate in disturbing you: she said she was the most awkward person sometimes, but I never knew one so invariably good or kind.'

'Nor I, never. Polly,' Mrs. Russel suddenly asked, 'has Rachel got on the emerald brooch ?'

'Has she? Well, really I can't remember. Stay, I don't think she has.'

'I was so bad when she came to be looked at, that I did not notice. Sweet darling! Did you know, Polly, that I gave her that brooch on the day she was seventeen?'

'It is too valuable for such a young girl; but oh! she will grow older арасе.'

Here someone came to fetch Miss Mary, and she ran down, her shining dress making a great commotion, glitter, and noise, all of which Mrs. Russel bore with unwonted patience.

And now let us too leave the dim room, and for a few moments take a peep at what is going on down-stairs, where everything is so bright and pretty.

There, in the middle of the good-sized room, are several couples dancing the Lancers. Rachel and her cousin Rupert Carew are partners. They have danced together twice before.

'Isn't it slow of Uncle Philip to prohibit round dances? These square dances are such a bore.'

'Why, then, don't you profess that you don't know how to dance them?'

'Because it would be still worse to have to sit and talk with the old women.'

'You should not call them old women.'

'Why not?'

'Because they are old ladies.'

'Well, and what are old ladies but old women?'

'But it is more polite to say old ladies.'

'Well, for your sake I will call them old ladies.'

'But you should do it for the sake of propriety, not for my sake.'

'But I don't care for propriety, and I do care for you.'

'You silly fellow!'

'Why am I silly? I thought I said that very nicely.'

'Oh, because you looked such a goose when you said it.'

'Do you remember the geese at Goppleciswick? how they waddled all down the village road!'

'Do you remember our rides on the uneven turf at the sides?'

'And the hole in the wall where we hid our names?'

'And the walk on the beach, where I lost my little gold ring?'

'And the hunt for it among the shingles, and how I found it at last? I hope you don't forget that.'

'Again, Rupert, you are verging on being a goose.'

At this point Aunt Polly came past.

'Rachel, Mamma was asking if you had on your emerald brooch. I see you have not.'

'Aunt Polly, I could not find it. I thought Mamma had put it by, and it did not seem worth asking her for it.'

'Mamma has not got it,' replied Aunt Polly. But Rachel was out of hearing before half the words were said.

Now let us take a moment's glance at little Ned. He is standing, with a rather anxious face, near one of Rupert's old women, a very nice pleasant-looking lady, safe under thirty-five. After watching him for a little while, she said,

'Are you wanting anything?'

Ned looked round at her, and said, 'Only to know what o'clock it is, Ma'am.'

'I am sorry I can't tell you, for I have not got on my watch. Why do you want to know?'

6

Because Mamma told me to go to bed at half-past ten.'

'Which is your mamma?'

'She is not here. She is up-stairs with a head-ache.'

'Oh! then are you one of the Russels?'

'Yes, Ma'am, I am Edward Russel.'

< Are you at Eton?'

'Yes, Ma'am.'

'Do

you know a boy called Clive?'

'Yes, very well; he is at my tutor's.'

'He is my son. He has often told me about you.'

Ned blushed as much as if Clive himself had been present. Then reverting to the subject of the time, he said confidentially, 'I have asked Herbert about ten times what o'clock it is, and I am afraid he will be angry if I ask him again.'

'Which is Herbert?'

'That one.'

Mrs. Clive looked, and saw the brightest face of a young man of twenty or so, who was talking as fast and as foolishly as Rupert and Rachel, and who seemed quite as good friends with his partner. 'He does not look as if he could be very angry,' said she, smiling.